Hall of Infamy (11 page)

‘You filthy swine!' she cried, the hateful figure of the Revered Dawes, a cane gripped in his hand, somehow the only thing she could think of as the first shock-waves of her climax started to engulf her. Her cries became completely incoherent as she thrashed wildly in the sheet's moist latex embrace.

Emma could not sleep, though she was very tired. It was well that she was not claustrophobic, for her bed was in a sort of cupboard in the corridor off the kitchen. Just long enough to lie flat in, with a couple of feet of height and slightly more width, it was much like being locked into a chest. She comforted herself that there were air-holes in the wooden door which let fingers of yellow gaslight into her little prison. At least she was comfortable. The sheets and cotton nightdress felt luxurious after the coarse reformatory bedding, and the mattress, though thin, was a real improvement on bare bridewell boards. It was neither discomfort nor confinement that was keeping her awake.

The truth was that she missed the company, if not the conditions, of the reformatory. Night in her dormitory had been full of sounds: the moans of girls whose bottoms had been welted that day, trying to find a comfortable position; the clank of manacles, for each girl was tethered nightly to her bed by an anklet and stout iron chain; the low murmur of friends risking a furtive gossip, and the gasps of those daring girls who would not, or could not, obey the strict reformatory rules regarding self-abuse. Above all, there had been the breathing of her fellow inmates and the sense that her ordeal was being shared.

Here, Emma felt alone. Mrs Pritchard seemed as cold as she was imperious. Cook, who had set her to work at once, was a big jolly woman who wielded a wooden spoon with vigour. Emma slipped her hand over her bottom, feeling to see if the tenderness had abated yet. The skin still felt a little sore. Cook had a strong arm and her wooden spoon had been very big and extremely hard. The first time she had ordered Emma to hoist her skirts, it had just been a few sharp cracks. The second time, it had been a few more, and the new girl had had to hop about for several minutes, clutching her hot cheeks, before returning to scouring pans.

The third time Cook took the spoon to her had been terrible. Emma had missed a minuscule mark on one of Cook's copper pans and the big woman was furious. Grabbing the hapless kitchen-maid by her earlobe she had hauled her around the big table and sat down on her chair, forcing Emma over her knee in the same well-practised movement. Emma's skirt had been lifted and her new cotton drawers pulled brusquely apart, almost before she knew what was happening.

The wooden spoon came down and down again in quick succession. Emma had squealed and squirmed in the large woman's grip, all to no avail. Once she got her hand back protectively, but her knuckles had been instantly rapped.

The paddling continued until Emma shrieked herself hoarse. Her bottom was sore, and she had kicked and bucked increasingly desperately. All in vain. Cook's arm had been relentless, and her imprisoning grip tremendously strong.

Finally, sobbing and gasping for breath whilst desperately clutching her hot buttocks, Emma had been thrust off that capacious lap.

‘Get on with your work,' Cook had ordered curtly. Blinking tears from her eyes, Emma watched the woman place the big spoon back on its hook. Then she had hurried back to her pile of washing-up.

Another day of that tomorrow, she thought and sighed, wondering what else the day would bring. What had happened to poor Polly? Emma thought, a little sadly. When would she see her friend again?

There was another muffled bump. Lucy strained her ears, lying so still as she listened that she even ceased to breathe for a few seconds. Whatever the sound had been, it was not followed by those so familiar footsteps. She sighed. Innumerable mysterious noises haunted the long nights at Hope Hall, and they might have been designed to drive a girl to distraction.

Not that there was much she could do but lie still and listen. Lucy was in no state to get to sleep. She writhed slowly in bed, in her plain little attic room, trying not to moan aloud, trying to assuage the maddening tingling between her legs. Not for the first time, she cursed the cruelty of the master who had ordered her wrists cuffed and secured to a stout leather collar and her ankles secured, well apart, to the foot of the bed. The collar was chained to the head of her iron bedstead and there was no way to move more than an inch or two in any one direction. The only pressure she could get against her clitoris was from the insubstantial weight of the blanket. This was rough enough to prickle her bare skin, but not heavy enough to use to attain relief.

Lucy whimpered. She wore a short cotton nightdress, but this had gradually ridden up as she writhed in the little bed. It was diabolical. If she stayed quite still her shift would not ride up, and she would not have to endure the prickling of the rough horse-blanket against her swollen, shaven mons. However, she found this quite impossible to achieve, and every time she was put into this situation the same thing happened. Her own involuntary movements caused the garment to work its way up until the hem was ruched around her waist. The tickle of the rough blanket against her tenderest tissues would then drive her further into a state of frenzied desperation.

There was another noise and she froze again. Yes, surely that was a footfall on the stair? A heavy tread. It must be him, coming to take pity on her, surely?

It had been late when Lucy had been summoned to serve brandy in Lord Alex's private study. Lady Alicia was elsewhere; no doubt finding new ways to vex her little blonde maid in her boudoir. Usually, Lucy would consider this to be a favourable situation. If she was alone with Lord Alex, even if she had to endure a whipping, there was more chance that he would screw her afterward and thus she would attain some measure of relief before being pinioned for the night. A good chance but, unfortunately, no guarantee.

That night, he had read for a long while, sipping brandy and smoking a cigar as she stood to one side, silently awaiting her master's pleasure. The Marquis had been perusing the very latest work, delivered by the author himself, the Reverend Dawes. This volume was a collection of improving anecdotes, entitled
Bridled Lust
–
The Suppression of Vice in Nubility, From Chastity Belts to Chastisement
. From time to time, Lord Alex had jocularly read out passages that took his fancy, or informed the maid of what he considered an especially interesting fact.

‘I say, listen to this, Lucy my pet! “When Dr Fergus MacCuip was appointed governor of the penal colony on the island of Latigazo, he was shocked to find the female prisoners greatly addicted to self abuse.”'

He had paused and turned to look directly at Lucy, who had dropped her gaze demurely. ‘Rather like you, eh, you little monkey?' Lord Alex laughed and Lucy had been unable to stop the blush spreading across her cheeks.

‘“He was at a loss as how to control this vice, as he found that whipping the culprits only seemed to make them more determined to masturbate.” Ha, we know all about that particular phenomenon, do we not, Miss Nimble Fingers? Perhaps he should have had them trussed like you at night, eh, girl? That would have stopped the vixens' tricks, I'll warrant!'

Lord Alex had taken another sip of brandy before returning to his passage. ‘“Until one day he treated a cook who had inadvertently rubbed her eye after preparing a dish with the island's famed diablo peppers, a fearsome local variety of the
habenero
, widely respected for its blistering ferocity. Even though the girl had washed her hands before touching her eye, it had swollen painfully. This gave Dr MacCuip his great idea. That night, he required that the girls in his charge chop up peppers. Then they were sent to bed. A few minutes later, the howls of agony from the first culprit rent the tropical night. Then the next girl sang out, and the next. Dr MacCuip sat and listened with satisfaction to the symphony of shrieks as he laid his plans for making chilli sauce production a mainstay of the penal colony's economy.”'

Again Lord Alex had paused and taken a pull at his cigar. ‘“The product was a great success. It was called Firefinger Sauce, and to this day features a dusky maid with watering eyes on the label!”'

There could be only one eventual result of Lord Alex reading such material. Eventually he had closed the book with a snap so decided that it had caused Lucy to start. There had been a long pause, long enough for her to wonder, with mounting panic, what he planned to do with her.

‘It's late, so I think I will just give you a spanking, sweetheart. Pull up those skirts and get over my knee.'

Lucy found the short skirts of the ‘tutu' which she sometimes had to wear most shamefully revealing, yet the full skirts and petticoats of her full uniform had drawbacks of their own. Pulling up the voluminous material far enough to expose her bottom was not easy. Failure to do so adequately was certain to earn extra slaps. Somehow she had bent, billowing skirts and all, over her master's lap, but the tutting told her that she had not succeeded in baring her bottom to his satisfaction.

Crack
!

His hard hand stung her right thigh.

‘
Ooh
!'

‘Be silent, girl. I told you to lift your skirts.' There was a deal of rustling silk as he struggled with the copious material. ‘These long skirts are a bother. As are all these petticoats. Still, your bottom does look peachy like that, against the folds of white cotton. You really must stop clenching it, though. You know that by now.'

There had been a warning growl in his voice and Lucy had somehow managed to relax her bottom-cheeks. Then she had been spanked. Lord Alex was a big man, extremely strong for all his indolent airs, and his hand was very, very hard. Lucy had tried to stay silent, as she was supposed to when her master spanked her, but all too soon found that the cries of pain were being forced through her tightly gritted teeth. Again and again his hand had come down, cracking across her bottom-cheeks, and then the backs of her thighs, where these were bare above the tops of her silk stockings.

Lord Alex had gruffly ordered her to be quiet, but her bottom stung like fury and little yips and gasps of pain spilled out with every smack as the pain built up and up and up… Perhaps he had been feeling merciful – more likely the reading had aroused him to the point where his own need had become urgent. Whatever the reason, for once, a short spanking was all Lord Alex had required her to endure.

‘All right, get on your knees. Frig me, girl, quickly now.'

As fast as she could manage, the skirts slowing her down considerably, Lucy had sunk to her knees at his left side. A little hesitantly, but deftly nonetheless, she unbuttoned her master's breeches and took out his long thing. The sight of it, as always, made her feel a little dizzy. He had not ordered her to suck it on this occasion, so she had not. Instead, the maid leant forward and pumped a dainty fist up and down as she delicately teased his balls with her free hand.

‘Oh, God, yes, that's it. You're getting better at this, you cheeky little bitch,' he had murmured between grunts of pleasure. ‘Practice makes perfect, eh? You saucy baggage!'

Lucy's heart had skipped a beat at his words. She had been whipped enough times in the past for not getting this job right. Still she hardly dared hope it, but it seemed she might give satisfaction this time. She licked her lips anxiously and concentrated on the task in hand with renewed attention.

‘Oh, God, yes!'

It had begun twitching in her hand and she could have sworn that the blue veins marbling the shaft were throbbing. Lucy had felt a surge of panic flood her. He had not given her any instructions for this stage. If he spurted and made a mess she might well earn a whipping, yet it was not her place to decide whether to catch his spending in her mouth, her hands or, as Lord Alex sometimes preferred, over her breasts. What was she supposed to do with it this time?

‘All right, girl, take it in your mouth.'

Her question answered, Lucy had placed the glans between her lips in the very nick of time, for she felt the hot spurt hit the back of her throat a split second later.

Once she would have choked – but no longer. Lucy had been trained to swallow. Dutifully she accepted the fluid, keeping her head bowed and trying to ignore the burning of her bottom and the throbbing in her loins.

He had not taken her and she had known, only too well, what that was going to mean.

The footsteps were coming closer. Lucy took a breath and then froze again, trying not to set off any creaking of the bedstead. Surely it was he, coming to have mercy?

Lord Alex had picked up his book again as Mrs Pritchard had taken her to be manacled in bed. It was not impossible that his reading might have got her master aroused again. The image of Lord Alex on top of her, crushing her, his cock impaling her and taking her to blessed release, flooded the girl's fevered mind. She tried her best to ignore it. If he did not come, the picture would drive her completely to distraction.

Lucy gave a low, frustrated moan.

The footsteps had stopped but, to Lucy's horror, they had not stopped outside her door. From the sound of it those keys were rattling in the lock of Kitty's door, which was situated next to her own. No! She could not bear it! Listening to the little slut cry with pleasure as Lord Alex took her would be unendurable, though it was a torture she had had to endure more than once before.