Damsels in Distress (19 page)

As the spanking continued, so her bottom felt ever more scalded. Mr Caversham spanked the sore flesh quite relentlessly. He was like some sort of merciless spanking machine, methodically raining down wicked smacks. Rose could not help kicking her legs and squirming on his lap. The hardness seemed to get harder as she writhed on it, but that was the least of her concerns at that moment.

‘Ouch!’ she howled, putting her hands back to protect her beaten bottom. ‘Oh please, mercy, sir!’

‘Put your hands back down,’ he warned. ‘I told you about that.’

He grabbed her wrist and continued spanking furiously. Rose howled, her bottom so sore, so furiously hot that it took her some moments to realise he had finally stopped beating her.

‘Well, Joe, I think they are warm enough for whipping,’ he decided. ‘What do you say?’

‘I reckon you could fry an egg on Sally’s bum,’ Joe chuckled. ‘Ready as they’re ever going to be, I’d say.’

Sniffling, wiping the tears away and gingerly rubbing her scorched bottom, Rose was allowed to collapse on the carpeted floor. But relief was as short-lived as it was sweet, as blinking away tears she saw him pick up the riding-crop once again.

The squire decided to flog Sally first. He asked Joe to ‘horse’ the girls, and Rose was ordered to stand close by the couple and a little behind.

‘Watch closely,’ Mr Caversham told her, ‘for you will find this very instructive.’

The injunction was unnecessary as Rose found herself transfixed by the tableau before her. Joe bent down and, following his instructions, Sally reluctantly put her hands over his broad shoulders, then he held each wrist and pulled her tight against his back. Then he stood until he was almost upright, and the blonde girl’s stockinged toes dangled above the floor. But it was not the position that gripped Rose’s attention, it was the sight of Sally’s poor spanked bottom; her plump hindquarters glowed a distinctly fiery red.

The squire seemed almost as entranced by the sight as Rose, scrutinising the punished hinds with evident relish, blatantly stroking the bulge in his trousers.

‘Damn me, but you have the knack all right, Joe,’ he said admiringly. ‘That looks a little warm, Sally, like a freshly boiled beetroot!’ Sally gasped as he patted her behind. ‘You are right, Joe, you could cook on these hot plates!’ he beamed, and pinched the cheeks in question to underline his quip.

The room had gone very quiet. Rose let out the occasional sniffle and Sally was breathing heavily. Other than that the only sound was the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece.

Rose tensed as the crop lashed down across Sally’s bottom and the blonde let out a shrill squeak and kicked her legs back in the air.

‘Keep still, girl,’ Mr Caversham ordered. ‘Kicking back like that will only earn you more extras.’ He drew the crop back and lashed her again, and Rose watched the whipping with horrified fascination. Again and again the thin crop cracked into Sally’s rear and thin welts bloomed, crisscrossing her bottom.

Nor did Mr Caversham spare the girl’s thighs. These too rapidly became welted as the riding whip lashed her legs with real fury.

Sally squealed and bucked under the strokes, but Joe held her in place with contemptuous ease. By the sixth stroke poor Sally was really sobbing, and by the twelfth her cries were rather hoarse. Rose’s heart went out to the writhing maid, but Mr Caversham was clearly made of far sterner stuff. He flogged without pity, with evident relish. Every yelp of pain, every wriggle of Sally’s nubile body, seemed only to drive him to lash more furiously.

At last, after more than twenty wicked strokes, he finally desisted, and stepped closer to examine the lived welts lining Sally’s hindquarters. The girl gasped as he ran a hand over the weals, seemingly delighting in the sight and feel of the whip marks.

‘Damn,’ he muttered at last. ‘Bloody whip’s been wrapping. Sorry about that, Joe, those marks will take some time to heal. Why don’t you let her down and have a look?’

Joe slid Sally off his back but had to hold her up as her legs proved extremely unsteady. The men then examined the sight of the ‘wrapping’; the cord trainer at the tip of the whip had wrapped around the girl’s side on some of the strokes, and the little knot had left some rather livid purple marks.

‘That’s all right, sir, they’ll fade in a week or so,’ the gamekeeper said complacently.

‘I know, but I should have noticed. Any harder and I might have cut your little baggage to ribbons. Better put some ointment on them, in any event.’

The part of Rose that was not completely consumed by shame and fear, was again infuriated as she listened to the men. They talked about Sally exactly the way they talked about a horse that had gone lame or a hound that had distemper. The squire apologised to Joe, as if he were Sally’s owner, rather than to the sobbing girl herself.

Still, she had little time for either sympathy or anger, for Sally was made to kneel on the floor and the men turned back to her.

‘Now, girl,’ Joe said, ‘you saw how it’s done.’

‘Please, I…’ Rose mumbled.

‘Either get up on the horse,’ Mr Caversham said simply, ‘or we shall whip your little friend again.’

Joe turned and Rose made herself put her hands over his shoulders. The gamekeeper bent forward and she was pulled against him, her naked breasts pressing against the satin back of his waistcoat. Her feet dangled, just as Sally’s had done before her.

‘You really do have a beautiful arse, Rose,’ the squire said from behind her, and the beautiful arse in question gave an involuntary twitch. Rose’s heart was beating furiously, and she began quivering in anticipation of the whip. She did not have long to wait. The ominous whistle sounded once again and before she even had time to tense for it, the whip lashed into her bottom. Rose gasped. It was like being stung by a line of hornets. She had never imagined in her life that anything could hurt quite so much.

‘No kicking back, unless you don’t mind extras,’ a male voice warned, but in truth the pain was so intense that Rose barely heard him. There was another vicious whistle and the whip struck home again.

Rose was soon wailing every bit as loud as Sally had done, every stroke searing agony. Lines of liquid fire laced her bottom and thighs as Mr Caversham whipped his maid quite mercilessly. She squirmed and bucked and kicked like a thing possessed in a frantic, futile effort to avoid the stinging lashes, but Joe’s grip was as unrelenting as his employer’s punishment.

‘Ooh…’ Rose gasped, as Mr Caversham gently ran a hand over her welted bottom.

‘Stand still, young lady,’ he ordered. ‘Keep those hands on your head.’

He sat on the arm of his chair and sipped his brandy, using his free hand to pat and stroke his maid’s tender, punished flesh. It was all she could do to stand upright. His hand, though merely stroking, set off wicked spasms of discomfort every time it touched a welt.

‘The ointment is in the left top drawer of the desk, Joe,’ the squire said, still caressing Rose’s striped behind.

‘Is this it, sir?’

‘That is it, Joe. Works wonders. If I were you I should take Sally up to her room, apply the ointment to those marks and, um, put her to bed.’

‘I think I might at that, sir,’ Joe declared with a grin, pulling Sally to her feet. ‘Come along, you saucy little trollop,’ he said, ‘let’s put some of this stuff where it’s sore.’

‘Well now, my pretty little Rose, it would appear to be just you and me now,’ the squire said, when the library door had closed and they were alone.

Rose stiffened. The riding-crop was still in sight, lying on the desk. She looked at it anxiously and then dropped her gaze, not daring to look at him.

‘I think we should go up to my bedroom,’ he went on.

‘Y-you think… to your…?’ she began, but could not finish, feeling her blush returning with a vengeance.

‘Yes, I do,’ he said languidly. ‘Fetch the whip; there’s a good girl. I shouldn’t think we’ll need it again tonight, but,’ he chuckled, ‘one never knows.’

With a trembling hand Rose reached out and picked the crop up. It was so thin and vicious looking; it made her stomach flutter just to touch the thing. The squire lit a cigar and then required her to lead the way to his bedroom, which she knew well enough, for she cleaned it daily.

Walking before her master, naked and carrying his whip, was something quite new, though. Rose felt his eyes on her striped bottom, and felt it flinch in response to his hungry gaze.

Mr Caversham sauntered into the room, seemingly at his ease, as if whipping and seducing chambermaids was nothing new to him. He took off his jacket and handed it to Rose, who was happy to put the whip down on a chest of drawers and hang the jacket up.

When she turned he had also taken his shirt off, and Rose averted her eyes awkwardly, for she had never seen the master in any state of undress before. He raised a hand and beckoned her closer.

‘Please, sir…’ she began.

‘Come here, unless you want another thrashing.’

Rose did as she was told, and as soon as she was within reach he grabbed her waist with one hand and shoved his other rudely between her thighs. ‘Such soft skin, little Rosy,’ he growled.

‘Oh, sir…’ she began, and then bit her lip to silence herself.

His hand inched higher and brushed her nether lips, and despite her confused emotions she felt real pleasure ripple through her at his touch. The squire’s fingers probed with practiced cunning, and she could not stop herself from moaning in response.

‘Have you ever sucked a man’s John Thomas, young lady?’ he demanded.

‘Um, no sir,’ she whispered.

‘It’s time to learn, then,’ he decided. ‘Get on your knees.’ He enforced the order by pressing on her shoulder, and then Rose watched as if hypnotised as he unbuttoned his fly, his fingers working mere inches from her face, and then the thing he withdrew made her belly churn with panic. It was huge, much bigger than she’d expected, with an angry, glossy purple head.

‘Now the thing is to breathe through your nose,’ he advised, holding his cock with one hand and the back of her head with the other, pressing to encourage her to obey him and accept his erection into her mouth.

‘Lick it first, Rose,’ he said, his voice a little strained now.

‘L-lick it?’ she stammered, eyeing the purple thing with apprehension.

‘Yes, lick it, like you would a lollipop.’

No lollipop that Rose had ever eaten tasted like it. Nor had any lollipop been warm or pulsed when she touched it with her tongue.

But tentatively she licked the shaft, until she came to his swollen glans, which he ordered her to take in her mouth, which she managed to do only by stretching her lips wide, her jaw soon aching as the bulbous tip lodged itself inside, just beyond her teeth. To her alarm it began to pulse more noticeably, then to her relief he pulled it out.

‘No,’ he mused, ‘not today. Time enough for that. Tonight it has another destination,’ and with that he pulled her up and threw her over the bed.

Rose cried out again, for she once more had her bottom exposed and all she could think about was his riding whip. However, she soon discovered that was not his intention, and instead she felt the monstrous cock-head pressing between her nether lips.

‘Oh yes, please sir,’ she heard herself gasp, even though the size of it filled her with fretfulness, then barely aware of his sniggering she felt a sharp pain as his erection impaled her and forced through her hymen.

But instantly pain and pleasure melded into one. The squire reached around to cup her breasts and inched himself deeper still. Rose gasped and bucked, wincing when his groin pressed to her welts, then moaning with pleasure as he fucked her ever deeper. Then he found and stroked her clitoris and within seconds Rose orgasmed explosively.

‘Is that better?’

‘Yes thank you, sir,’ Rose sighed.

Mr Caversham had gone to fetch the ointment from Joe, and returned chuckling, though he did not say what he’d found the others doing.

Rose lay on her front on his bed and he was smoothing the cool cream into her welts, so gently that she could barely believe he was the same brute who had put them there.

‘This will all work out very well indeed,’ he mused.

‘It will?’ Rose asked, not understanding his meaning at all.

‘Of course.’ He planted a kiss on her bottom. ‘Things will be different around here from now on – much more satisfactory altogether. I am sure it will suit us all, even Mrs Bunyan.

‘M-Mrs Bunyan?’ Rose managed, disturbed by the unexpected inclusion of the austere housekeeper in the squire’s thoughts.

‘Yes, she is a bit of a puritan, I must admit, but she does so want to flog you and Sally. I told her I’d arrange it, and that’s where she is now, purchasing some canes from a dealer we know. I’m afraid that between me and Joe and Mrs Bunyan, you and Sally are rather going to catch it!’

He chuckled heartily, and the sound of his laughter froze Rose to the very soul. ‘Still, never mind my beautiful little baggage, look on the bright side; Joe and I are going to have a
splendid
time!’

Sophie started and stopped brushing her hair as the bedroom door opened and Mrs Powell looked in.

‘Had a nice rest, my dear?’ the woman asked. She was a tweedy female in her fifties, on the bulky side of plump, and wore horn-rimmed glasses that made her even more formidable than she already was.

‘I…’

‘It’s all right, my dear, a lot of my girls find it peculiar at first. My gentlemen are rather particular in their requests, and I can see you are a little shy. Don’t worry; you’ll be fine next time.’ Mrs Powell sat down on the single bed that was, along with a small chest of drawers, the only furniture in the plain little room, and Sophie was just about to explain that there was not going to be a next time – because she was a good girl and could not do such wicked things with dirty old men – when her wrist was grabbed and she was pulled over Mrs Powell’s capacious lap. Her right wrist was released immediately but her left was ensnared as soon as she reached back to try to stop the woman pushing up her skirts, and Sophie found herself effectively pinned down and helpless with her arm forced uncomfortably across her back.

Mrs Powell then took her time to ease up Sophie’s skirts and petticoats, holding the younger woman down with ease. ‘What a lovely bottom you have, Sophie dear,’ she said. ‘I was afraid it might not be quite plump enough for my gentlemen, but I don’t think there will be any complaints about this delightful sit-upon.’

Mrs Powell chortled and Sophie blushed as she felt a hand explore her bottom over her panties, pinching and patting the resilient flesh through its tight cotton covering.

‘I think we will have these down though, don’t you?’

‘Oh no, please, Mrs Powell, please don’t,’ Sophie pleaded.

‘Tsk, tsk, don’t be a silly girl,’ the woman chided. ‘Such a pretty bottom deserves to be uncovered and admired.’

Sophie felt the blush suffuse her cheeks as Mrs Powell peeled the pink panties down beyond her stocking tops.

‘The thing is, my dear, there is a price to pay for my hospitality,’ the woman went on. ‘I do expect the girls I put up to help me with my gentlemen and ladies. If a girl does not want to do her bit…’ she sighed regrettably. ‘Well, we do have to have some discipline.’

It was only at that moment, at that word, that Sophie realised what was about to happen. She struggled harder but to absolutely no avail at all. Mrs Powell’s plump hand rested on her bare bottom, giving it a fond pat or two. Then the hand lifted and Sophie held her breath.

The crack of palm on bottom sounded loud in the little room, and Sophie wriggled in response to the intense flood of pain. Mrs Powell’s hand smacked down again and again, and soon Sophie’s bottom was on fire. She squirmed and gasped and struggled against the older woman’s unrelenting grip, her legs kicking in response to the scalding intensity of the spanking.

The tears were running freely down her face by the time the beating stopped. Her bottom and the backs of her thighs above her stocking tops, which had not been neglected, felt hot and throbbed. Sophie let out a sob of relief as Mrs Powell paused.

‘Now then, my dear, are you feeling a little more cooperative?’ the woman asked.

‘Oh yes,’ Sophie sniffled, ‘I’ll try, only please don’t spank me any more.’

‘Good girl, that is what I wanted to hear,’ the woman cooed. ‘I’m sure we will get on ever so well once you get over this silly shyness. Only, I do need to make sure that you really have bucked your ideas up.’

Sophie could not see what the woman was doing, but then she gasped as the cool back of her hairbrush was placed on the hot skin of her spanked bottom.

Mrs Powell chuckled. ‘Is that nice and cool, my pet?’ she asked. ‘Because I’m afraid it won’t be for very long.’

With that the back of the hairbrush cracked down hard on the back of Sophie’s right thigh. The hand spanking had been bad enough, but the pain was so intense now it took her breath away. Mrs Powell brought the hairbrush down even harder on the back of Sophie’s left thigh, and then began punishing the squealing girl’s bottom furiously.

Sophie struggled in vain against her captor’s iron grip. The hairbrush punished her relentlessly. Over and over again it smacked down on her ever more tender bottom and thighs. All Sophie could do was open her pretty mouth and shriek.

‘Not much further, my dear,’ Mrs Powell said as they pulled away from the traffic.

Sophie had been surprised to find that the woman drove a Daimler, the car much more luxurious and plush than anything in Sophie’s limited experience. She shifted on the leather seat a little uncomfortably, however, for her bottom was still sore from the hairbrush spanking.

After that unexpected and unjust punishment she had been in no state to resist Mrs Powell’s demands. Still sniffling, she stripped in front of the woman as the tears rolled down her face, Mrs Powell watching her like a hawk in horn-rimmed glasses as Sophie unhooked her bra and let her generous breasts swing free. The hairbrush tapped menacingly into the palm of Mrs Powell’s hand as she did undress, and Sophie wasn’t able to look away from it.

‘You have a lovely body, my dear,’ Mrs Powell said once Sophie stood, blushing furiously, utterly naked. ‘What a nice trim waist, and such lovely titties. My gentlemen will like them very much. I think we will shave your pubic hair, though. I will get Monique to do it before she bathes you.’

Sophie had met Monique only once, when she opened the door of Mrs Powell’s house the night before. She was a pretty dark-haired girl who wore a neat maid’s uniform. Monique led the way to a surprisingly large bathroom where a tub had already been drawn, and Sophie followed, her upper arm firmly gripped by Mrs Powell.

‘Shave her first, Monique. I don’t think she will give you any trouble, but ring me if she does. We can always strap her down if necessary.’ With that Mrs Powell left the two young women alone, eyeing each other uncertainly.

‘All right, get on there and lie back with your legs apart,’ Monique said, indicating a small table.

‘But, why must I be shaved?’ Sophie asked.

‘Because some of madame’s customers like us that way,’ Monique said, with a shrug. ‘Look, don’t give me any trouble. It really is best to do as she says. Mrs Powell is not so bad, on the whole, but she can be a real tartar if you cross her.’

‘I know,’ Sophie grumbled as she got on the table, wincing as her still throbbing bottom met the cold surface, ‘she spanked me with a hairbrush.’

This disclosure caused Monique to stop making lather from the shaving soap for a moment, and she regarded Sophie with astonishment. ‘A hairbrush?’ she said incredulously. ‘Believe me, you will learn that when I say our benefactress can be a bit of a tyrant, I mean she can do a lot worse than giving a few taps with a hairbrush. Compared to what she’ll do if you really annoy her, a hairbrush is like being tickled with a feather duster.’

Those ominous words came back to Sophie as the car sped on. She had been shaved by Monique, and found the process profoundly humiliating. Afterwards she was bathed, and then Monique towelled her dry and made her sit in front of a dressing table and applied pink lipstick to her mouth and a touch of mascara to her eyes. To Sophie’s astonishment a spot of rouge was even put on her nipples, then her brown hair was brushed into girlish bunches and it was time to dress.

First there was a basque in pale pink satin and white lace, with suspenders, to which sheer tan stockings were carefully smoothed up her legs and fastened. Monique’s face was so close to Sophie’s freshly shaven quim as the maid fastened the stockings that Sophie had a sudden strange desire for the kneeling girl to kiss her there. Sophie blushed furiously and looked away in confusion.

Then Monique stood and produced pink frilly panties, and a short frock with a flounced skirt to complete the outfit.

The car turned into the drive of an undistinguished suburban house, and Sophie felt her heart pounding as the vehicle pulled up. The time spent travelling had not made her feel any better about the outfit; it seemed such an odd mixture of the girlish and the tarty. And the tightness in her tummy told her that Mrs Powell would want her to do what she had refused to do before. The blood rushed to Sophie’s cheeks at the thought of stripping in front of strangers.

A man came out of the house to greet them, just as Sophie was getting out of the car. She recognised him from Mrs Powell’s house, and could feel his eyes on her legs. She wished the skirt was longer, for she was sure she treated him to the sight of bare flesh above her stockings as she swung her legs out of the car.

‘Mrs Powell, and… Sophie, isn’t it?’ he greeted them. ‘Please come in, the others are all waiting.’

‘Thank you, superintendent,’ Mrs Powell said as they followed him into the entrance hall. ‘I’ve had a little chat with Sophie and I can assure you there won’t be a repetition of her previous silliness.’

‘I do hope so,’ he said. ‘Though of course, girls do get first night nerves. However, we do have a rather distinguished group this evening and it would not be advisable to disappoint them.’

With that he opened the door to a large room. The furniture was expensive, if rather old fashioned, with a thick carpet, dark mahogany tables and sideboards and darker leather chesterfields. Not that Sophie was very aware of the furnishings, for what drew her attention was the group of people who stopped talking the moment she entered the room and, as one, stared at her.

There were six of them, not including Mrs Powell and the superintendent. Two men she recognised from the earlier shambles, two other men, and two women; one a rather severe type, the other a quite beautiful blonde in a twin set and pearls.

‘Lovely,’ the blonde lady said, looking at Sophie with twinkling eyes. ‘She really does look sweet enough to eat, Marjorie.’

‘Shall we get on with it, then?’ asked one of the men, a balding individual who seemed to be sweating rather profusely.

‘Don’t be in such a rush, George,’ a tall man with a moustache said languidly. ‘Anticipation is much of the pleasure. Look at the little morsel, how she blushes and trembles. The anticipation is turning her pretty knees to jelly, quite unlike my cock, which is turning to—’

‘Yes, yes, we all know about your cock, Julian,’ the severe looking woman – Marjorie – said sharply. ‘For once I am with George. She shied at the first fence once, so we don’t want to give her too long to think about her situation now, or she might just baulk again.’

‘I don’t think that is very likely,’ Mrs Powell said mildly. ‘But neither do I see any reason to delay. Superintendent, did you get the things I asked for.’

‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘Here on the table.’

The little gathering parted to allow Mrs Powell to steer Sophie to a large mahogany dining table, upon which was a collection of items that made the girl’s knees weaken. There was a strap made of thick, red-brown leather, split into two wicked tails. Beside this tawse was a pair of heavy handcuffs and a coil of rope, a black velvet bag, and a small black rubber ball attached to some straps.

‘Now, Sophie,’ Mrs Powell said into her ear, squeezing the girl’s arm so hard it hurt. ‘You are going to perform a little dance to entertain the company, and then you are going to take off your clothes. What happens next will depend, to a large extent, on how nicely you dance for us. And you will be sensible this time, won’t you, my dear?’

How poor Sophie managed to whisper the affirmative as she continued to stare at the horrid looking implements she did not know, but somehow she did.

‘Good, good,’ Mrs Powell said, before addressing the host once again. ‘May we have the lights and music now, please?’

‘Dr Montgomery, the lights, if you please,’ the superintendent said crisply, as he took up station next to a gramophone.

There was a little positioning of dining chairs, until sufficient for the company were arranged in a rough semicircle before the marble fireplace. Then Dr Montgomery, a rather rotund fellow, turned on a couple of lights that shone in the direction of the hearth. ‘She needs to get into position,’ the doctor said, as he fussed with the lamps.

‘Come along, Sophie,’ Mrs Powell steered her into place just in front of the fireplace, then let go of her arm and sat on a vacant chair. Everyone was seated now, except the superintendent and the doctor. The latter moved one of the lamps until it shone full in Sophie’s face, making her flinch and frown, and now she could only feel, rather than see, eight pairs of eyes on her body.

The superintendent must have started the gramophone, because the music began to play. For a moment Sophie stood miserably in the glare of the lights, trying to smooth down the short hem of the frock, then she heard Mrs Powell say sharply, ‘Dance, Sophie, dance,’ followed by a clap of her hands.

Not daring to refuse this time, Sophie started to move in time to the music, so anxious and embarrassed that her dancing must be graceless and awkward. Chuckling and audible comments from the audience did not help.

‘She is a pretty little chit, but she dances like a duckling!’

‘A bit wobbly, I’ll grant you, Julian, but she may strip with more grace.’

‘Remember, it’s the little tart’s first time, boys.’

‘True, Estelle, and she is young. There is plenty of time for her to learn.’

‘Hm, with help from your cane, eh, Desmond?’

The music changed to a slower melody, and for the first few bars she still danced miserably, trying to stop the tears she felt welling.