Hall of Infamy (15 page)

This had turned out to be one of her ladyship's little jokes for, though restraints had been employed, it was the maid rather than master who was destined to be exercised in them. First a leather belly-belt, equipped with several D-rings, had been pulled tight around the narrowest part of her already tightly laced waist. Light chains were affixed to her wrists and ankle-straps, all four meeting and running through a central ring on the front of the belt. It was a diabolical device. The chains were long enough to allow a certain freedom for her feet or her hands, but not both together. Too large a step would tug her hands down, too much movement of her arms restricted her feet. She could totter on her heels, holding the tray at waist-level, only if she restricted herself to taking tiny steps. It was uncomfortable, but feasible, to walk like this so long as she did not stumble, but keeping her balance took tremendous concentration; concentration which was rendered nigh-impossible by the saddle-strap.

It was a thick rounded thong of rawhide. Fixed to her belt at the front, the leather was passed between her legs and pulled tight, before being secured to the back of her waist-strap. Standing with the thing bisecting her tender tissues was a sort of purgatory. Hobbling, as it rasped against her throbbing clitoris, was sheer hell. It is true that there had been a moment, as she shuffled off to fetch the wine, that had been briefly close to heaven. However, Lucy knew that another such eruption now would undoubtedly make her drop her burden, and the last thing she needed now was another such release.

If only the saddle-thong had not been fixed so ferociously tight. If only there were a few inches more slack in her restraining chains. If only the heels were not so narrow and high. Lucy winced as she hobbled around the final corner, trying to blink away tears of pain. She could see her master and mistress in the distance, and could imagine the impatience on their faces. Gritting her teeth, she hobbled forward grimly. Little steps, little steps, she repeated to herself silently, like a mantra, only steady, little, tiny steps.

Chink, chink, chink, went the chains. Creak, creak, answered her corset, as she tried to bend at the waist in order to allow herself more slack. The sun was warm on her nearly naked breasts. Wasps were buzzing ominously about her, and the saddle-strap was cutting her in two. Little steps, little steps, only tiny little steps.

A little further, a glance risked at her master, and Lucy saw displeasure in his face as he flexed his crop. That glance was very nearly her undoing, for she teetered on her heels precariously. Desperately, praying silently, she struggled once again to keep her balance. The glasses chinked against the bottle as the contents of the tray went sliding again. Lucy thought her heart had stopped for a moment as she scrabbled against gravity and unyielding steel chain.

Fortune smiled, for once, and somehow she held both balance and burden. With a relieved sigh, Lucy tottered off again.

She was perhaps twenty feet away, perspiring under the Fevershams' impatient gaze, when she heard the call of greeting. Lucy looked up, as did her mistress and master. Approaching the bench from the other direction came Kitty, resplendent in full uniform, and a man wearing a dingy white suit and battered Panama.

Grateful for the distraction, Lucy put her head down and focused on attaining the last few yards. She forced herself to ignore the chafing saddle-strap and concentrate on making even, tiny steps.

‘What have you done to that poor girl, you wicked pair of blackguards?' the man called out jovially.

‘I – I'm sorry ma'am, master. This man – he—'

‘Do you know this baggage wanted me to use the tradesman's entrance, Alicia? Where do you get your staff?'

Lucy tried not to let the conversation distract her as she clinked and creaked the last few feet.

‘From the reformatory, generally, which you know as well as I. Oh God, why are servants always such awful snobs?' Lady Alicia cried joyfully. ‘So, Jack, you have finally returned!'

She had made it. The saddle-strap still dug in bitterly but at least Lucy no longer had to walk. She stood as Lord and Lady Feversham exchanged joyous hugs and affectionate insults with the newcomer. Once she had recovered her breath she glanced at Kitty, who had turned very pale.

‘I'm so sorry about the maid, Jack,' Lady Alicia purred. ‘I shall thrash her for her impertinence. Unless you would rather—'

‘Oh, yes,' Jack enthused, laughing and giving the blonde maid a hungry leer. ‘I would definitely rather pay off that particular account myself!'

‘Of course. I shall send her to you at a convenient moment.' Lady Alicia said merrily, clapping her hands together in delight. ‘Well, Jack, this calls for a toast in celebration. Lucy, what are you doing, standing there like a ninny? Hurry off and fetch another glass for our guest!'

The kitchen-maid stepped uncertainly into the nursery parlour. She was small and delicately pretty with dark brown hair pinned back under her cap. The girl's daintiness made Betsy feel huge and positively ungainly by comparison.

‘Yes, girl?' Jamie demanded.

‘Cook sent me to find his lordship, sir, and ask for—' the girl blinked anxiously ‘—for a taste of the cane, sir.'

‘Well then, why are you here?'

The girl hung her head and stared, somewhat dolefully, at the floor. ‘It took ages to find his lordship, sir. You see, sir—' she peeked up at Jamie, her voice little more than a timid whisper ‘—I got lost…'

‘For God's sake, girl, I did not ask for your life story!' Jamie snapped impatiently. ‘Get to the point.'

The kitchen-maid quailed a little at this outburst. ‘Well, sir, when I found his lordship he was, he was—' a blush touched the girl's pale cheeks ‘—he was busy.' She swallowed hard as if remembering something awful. ‘He said that I should come here and ask you to… to…'

Betsy understood what had happened. It was something of a ritual for new girls, and she remembered her own introduction to the vastness and complexity of the hall only too well. Stumbling, lost from corridor to unknown stairwell, finally reaching her goal only to be sent off somewhere else in search of punishment, she had been in tears long before the first stroke had been struck. All the same, looking at this pretty little morsel, she was surprised that Lord Alex had sent her on. The master must have been occupied with something interesting, Betsy mused, to have passed up such a dainty little treat.

‘Very well, girl, I am busy too – but I expect I can find the time to thrash you. Betsy, you won't mind if your belting waits a little longer?

Betsy blinked back at him. ‘N-no, sir.'

‘Good. Then everyone is happy?'

There was a groan from Amelia and a slightly panicked gasp from Clara, which suggested that the blonde girl's coin might be starting to slip. Betsy peeked at the little kitchen-maid, who had gone very pale, and then back to her master, who threw the tawse down onto the chaise longue, where it landed with a sickening thump.

‘I asked if everyone was happy?' Jamie demanded more forcefully.

There was a ragged chorus of unconvincing, ‘Yes, sir.'

The young man smiled. ‘Jolly good,' he said with a satisfied air. ‘Betsy, get that bloody sack off her, will you? You, girl, what is your name?'

‘Emma, sir,' the girl said softly. ‘Emma Swift.'

Betsy hurried to help the girl take off her functional grey kitchen-maid's uniform. Beneath, her underclothing was all white, except for soft black woollen stockings. Her undergarments were plain but clean, and obviously new. She wore a thin cotton camisole beneath her corset, which acted as a halter for her breasts. The corset made a trim waist even trimmer. The girl blushed furiously, but did not protest as she was undressed. She kept glancing fearfully towards Amelia.

‘I see you find Miss Amelia's condition interesting, eh, girl?' Jamie had apparently noticed her fascination.

‘Ah, sorry, sir, I didn't mean—'

‘Not at all. Come over, if you are interested.'

Emma peeked up at Betsy, as if looking for help. The nursery-maid was neither willing nor able to supply it, and did not meet her gaze.

‘Come on.' The note of command in Jamie's voice was more obvious now, and Emma walked across to his side.

‘It looks a bit hot, does it not?'

Betsy could see most of the bottom in question as Emma stood to one side of Amelia, and Jamie at the other. The stripes that the tawse had left were still glowing. Jamie put his hand on Amelia's left buttock and squeezed, drawing a gasp of pain from her.

‘It feels warm, too. I tell you what, Emma, why don't you kneel down? Steady, Amelia. Drop the coin again and I'll skin you! Right, Emma, shuffle a bit closer; now you can see what you were so fascinated by. Get a good look, girl.'

His hand closed on the back of the maid's neck, forcing her face inches from Amelia's quivering bottom; he lifted the hem of Amelia's smock with his other hand.

‘Feel for yourself how hot it is. Put your face against it. Cheek to cheek, so to speak. Come on, you nosy little chit, do as I say!'

The maid did as she was told with palpable reluctance. Another pained whimper escaped Amelia as Emma laid her cheek against the surface of the girl's well-tawsed bottom. Jamie made her stay there for a minute, pressing her face against the hot bottom-flesh, obviously enjoying the tableau.

In truth, it was a pretty sight – at least Betsy found it so. Amelia stood, her whole body quivering as she strained to hold the coin against the wall, arms bound behind her. The girl's shapely legs were set off by her sheer white stockings and her curvaceous figure was barely veiled by the thin little smock. Emma knelt, the picture of imperilled innocence, in her white corset and drawers. Her flawless little cheek was just touched by a blush, almost as if the fiery glow of Amelia's bottom might be contagious. Even so, the girl's face seemed pale against the rosy surface of Amelia's bottom. Betsy could have stood and watched the scene all day. Longer, so long as it postponed her own appointment with the tawse.

Jamie appeared to find the picture pleasant, too, for he stood and contemplated the scene for several long minutes before taking a deep breath. ‘Now, Betsy, if you can persuade young Emma to stop nuzzling other girls' arses, I would like you to bend her over, palms down on the nursing chair. I suspect you know the drill.' Jamie broke the spell as he opened the big cupboard to peruse his extensive collection of canes.

Betsy, naturally, knew the drill very well. There was a line in the pattern of the carpet some two feet from the low seat of the armless nursing chair. Taking Emma's bare arm firmly, she guided the girl over. The kitchen-maid's skin was warm and silky under her hand and she could feel the girl tremble slightly as she steadied her.

‘Toes behind that line, please.'

The girl glanced sideways at Betsy's breasts. Betsy pinched Emma's arm crossly in response.

‘Ow!'

‘Come along, place your hands on the seat,' she insisted gruffly.

Emma's corset groaned a little in complaint as she bent, but it was neither so long nor so tightly laced as Betsy's, and she got down without difficulty. The nursing chair was low, and Emma's cotton-clad bottom now the highest part of her. Betsy reached out to pull the girl's drawers apart.

‘That's enough, Betsy. I'll do that.'

Trying not to show her disappointment, for she had no wish to be accused of petulance, Betsy held her tongue and stepped away.

Jamie had selected his favourite, a flexible four-foot length of kooboo, and he cut this, once, twice and three times through the air as he approached the lovely bending girl. The sound that the cane made as he swiped it made Betsy's own bare buttocks clench reflexively in response, and she gave a silent prayer of thanks that it was Emma's and not her bottom that was proffered, ready for the kiss of the rod.

Jamie handed the cane to Betsy, who held the awful thing gingerly, as if it were red-hot. Emma gave a frightened little gasp as the young man pulled her drawers open at the back, and exposed a surprisingly plump bottom for so slight a girl. He tutted, failing to get the folds of cotton to fall back to his satisfaction.

‘Emma, my dear, you won't mind if we drop these altogether?'

‘Er, no, sir – I mean, um, yes, sir – that is, I mean…' Whatever the maid, in fact, did or did not mean mattered little, for his fingers had reached round to untie the drawstrings even as she tried to give an answer.

‘Good, good,' Jamie said, apparently taking her confused mumbling for assent. In a trice, the cotton drawers fluttered down the girl's legs to fall in a drift around her ankles, and her hindquarters were completely exposed.

Emma was too petite for Betsy's idea of the proper female form; still, the buxom maid had to admit, the girl had a pretty bottom and shapely legs. The kitchen-maid's buttocks were impudently chubby, almost pure white rounds. Her pale thighs were well fleshed for their size, and her skin looked deliciously creamy, above the black lambswool of her stockings.

Jamie whistled his appreciation. ‘Small but not so skinny!' he said admiringly. ‘What a pretty little behind you have, Emma. I shall really enjoy administering this flogging.'