Hall of Infamy (14 page)

Dick hung the harness with a lot of similar tack and went out of sight, leaving her kneeling naked in the straw. It occurred to her that, for the first time since she had arrived at the stables yesterday evening, she was neither chained nor bound. She could see the invitingly open double doors of the stable-block a tantalisingly few feet away, and the mad thought entered her mind, just for a moment, that she could make a run for it.

The idea was absurd. Where would she run to, naked and friendless? How far could she run, in any case? Lord Alex had had her harnessed to his sulky and made her race around the estate all morning, flogging her enthusiastically every time she had flagged. Blossom had been made to run until she could barely stand, let alone flee.

There was something else that kept her trembling, naked in her stall, more potent than exhaustion and more powerful than fear. Blossom had not liked her name being changed, yet she had accepted it. It was galling to be treated like an animal, yet it was strangely seductive.

Lord Alex had proved that he could be a brutal master as he had flogged her to ever greater efforts, yet he had taught her that he was her master. Something strange had stolen into her soul out in the park. Blossom knew now that she belonged to Lord Alex. It was not the place of property to run away.

So the open door and the freedom from restraint held no appeal; it made her feel unsafe and uncomfortable. The urge to escape was deeply unappealing, yet it tugged away at her. She turned her face the other way. The stall was open with three sides formed of rough-hewn planks. It was too small, she realised, to hold any but human ponies. This fact increased the feeling of enclosure, and she turned right around until her back was to the open side, until her heart stopped hammering.

‘Good girl.' Dick had returned with a gleaming steel bucket full of water. ‘No, not like that.' He caught her hands and pulled them back, then gathered up her long mane of brown hair.

Blossom understood. She bent and put her face into the water, drinking directly from the bucket. The water was indescribably delicious, the coldest, sweetest, most soothing drink she had ever had in her life. All too soon, the hand in her hair pulled her head back and out of the bucket.

‘Whoa! That's enough, girl. That's enough – time for your rub-down, now!'

If the water had been bliss, what followed was more like torture. Dick produced a rubber curry-comb, a brush that looked like a hedgehog made of stiff rubber spines. He proceeded to scour every inch of Blossom's body with it.

‘Easy, now – stop wriggling, you bad girl. Hold still or it will be the worse for you.'

‘Oh, ouch, please, ooh!'

‘No talking!'

The currying turned into a wrestling match as the rubber spikes abraded the soft flesh of Blossom's breasts.

‘Looks like you have a handful there, boy!' A deep male voice boomed around the stable.

‘Aye, Mr Blackstock. She's a big girl and she's wriggling like a salmon, but the master said I was to curry her proper!'

‘Here, lad, I'll hold her while you scrub.'

‘Ooh… ow… mercy.'

‘Stop talking or I will put the bit on you, girl!'

Blossom fought against Mr Blackstock's iron grip as the curry-comb began to scour the tender flesh of her inner thighs. Dick scrubbed, Blossom wriggled and kicked, and Mr Blackstock held her down with consummate ease. Eventually she somehow recovered control over herself again, and ceased struggling and crying, gritting her teeth as the rubber comb bit into her calves.

Blossom's whole body was an angry scarlet now, the colour of a well-smacked bottom, and her skin felt as if it had been rubbed raw. When Mr Blackstock finally released her, she collapsed, sobbing brokenly into the straw. She wiped the tears from her face and tried to get her breath back. The two men were standing over her naked body, watching her in silence, and awareness of them grew as the pain of the currying faded to a not unpleasant glow.

‘Damned pretty filly, if you like them big and leggy.' There was a thickness in Dick's voice and, though she kept her eyes downcast, she could see his hand stroking his groin.

‘Not a bad-looking piece, I'll give you that. We'll have to have some entertainment later, when you've cleaned her up.'

‘Are we allowed?'

Mr Blackstock gave a harsh barking laugh that made Blossom flinch. ‘By God, yes, boy, as long as we don't interfere with the training. After all, this job has to have some perks. Don't worry, that business with Davy was just her ladyship's little joke. If she fancies giving you a dose, she'll think up another reason. You see, lad, when her ladyship takes a fancy to your arse… Let's just say she generally gets a little of what she fancies!'

Blossom peeked up. Dick's usually florid face had gone pale. Mr Blackstock laughed again.

‘I wouldn't worry about it too much. It looks to me like she's more interested in young Davy.'

‘That's it, Clara, good long limbs – they'll make a birch that will fetch you properly, my sweet.'

Amelia tried to ignore Jamie's relaxed and amused voice, and concentrate on her doleful task. It was not easy.

‘Betsy, what on earth is this? Great heavens, girl, you should know how to cut a Hope Hall rod by now! This little twig is only good for one thing. Do you know what that is?'

‘A – a bosom birch, sir.'

‘That's right. A little bitty titty-teaser. Now, I will have no waste. Strip those leaves off and get those titties out, and we shall demonstrate to the girls why it is advisable to cut their switches good and long.'

Amelia glanced down at her trug in alarm, trying to gauge if any of her leafy boughs might be adjudged too small, and trying to quell the sensation of near-panic that gripped her vitals. She decided against the branch that she was going to cut and reached out to take another, more substantial one.

‘I say, Jamie, well met. What a glorious day!'

The voice of the newcomer made her hand freeze for a second, and Amelia was not able to stop her outstretched arm from trembling slightly.

‘Glorious indeed, Reverend. Ah, you have trugs with you, I see. I suspect that you are on the same mission as we.'

Amelia swallowed bitter bile as the two men chuckled behind her.

‘It really is remarkable. However many dozen birches I put up each winter, I always seem to get through them and need to come and cut more by the end of spring.' He sighed theatrically. ‘The wickedness of the world, Jamie, makes constant demands on my store of rods.'

Amelia laid the cut branch in the trug, which was on the ground, conscious that in bending she must display her bottom to the watching men. However, she need not have worried.

‘I must own that your nursery-maid is possessed of an extraordinarily well-developed pair of breasts,' the Reverend said crisply. ‘However, one wonders if she has some reason, other than sheer exhibitionism, for displaying them so wantonly?'

‘Indeed so, Reverend. She has been cutting light, for which there can be but one remedy. Amelia, Clara, leave your tasks and come over here.'

Amelia turned at last to find what she had half-expected and much dreaded. The Reverend Dawes's glittering gaze immediately locked onto her eyes. It was only for a moment, but for that moment she was sure that her heart had altogether stopped. It was only with a real effort of will that she could obey Jamie's instruction and walk towards that terrible gimlet gaze.

Fortunately for Amelia's progress, the prospect of Betsy's bared breasts drew the Reverend's attention away. The nursery-maid was blushing crimson. The top of her apron had been let down, the buttons of her uniform undone and the top two clasps of her corset unfastened. Her breasts had done the rest, pushing forward and out of the constraint of her clothes. Betsy kept her head bowed as she proffered the bundle of birch twigs, freshly stripped of their leaves, in a visibly trembling hand.

‘Old Banks, the woodsman, has kept these coppiced for forty years to safeguard the Hall's supply of rods. I'll not have his work wasted by cowardly trollops who seek to save their skins by cutting twigs before they are grown to size!' Jamie declared.

‘Quite right. Faith, Rose, watch and learn and note well the size of limbs required, unless you wish to receive the same.'

The Reverend's presence had so compelled Amelia's attention that she had scarcely been aware that he had not arrived alone. Now she ventured a glance at his companions. A lovely girl with long blonde hair and a demure expression stood next to a robust-looking young woman with a shock of red curls. Both wore smart black maids' uniforms. Neither girl replied, but both kept their eyes downcast, and Amelia saw the redhead swallow glumly.

‘All right, Betsy.' Jamie took the proffered twigs at last. ‘Cup them with your hands and lift them up for me. Thank you.'

The nursery-maid paled. She cupped her breasts and pushed up from below. The woodland seemed to have gone very quiet, as if even the birds in the trees had stopped to watch. Amelia stared at the white expanse of flesh. Betsy's breasts were flawless, the snowy rounds only interrupted by the deep rose of her nipples. Whether her breasts were shivering, or the quivering of her supporting hands transferred the motion, they trembled in the dappled sunlight as Jamie raised the rod.

Swithk
!

The birch twigs whispered through the fresh air and bounced across the proffered breasts. Betsy's face contorted with pain. She jammed her eyes closed and shook her upper body vigorously, bending almost double as she did so.

‘Back into position, Betsy. There's a good girl.'

‘Ooh, ah, s-s-sorry, sir.'

By the time the nursery-maid managed to regain the ordained position, a tracery of fine red lines had bloomed on the milky flesh of her breasts. The rosy nipples seemed to have grown, too, pushing out more prominently than before.

Swithk
!

A high-pitched gasp of pain escaped from Betsy's lips.

‘I think that fetched her,' the Reverend Dawes said conversationally. He casually took out his cigar case and opened it. Betsy was bent double again, her antics providing evidence for the truth of his observation. She shook like a wet dog and gave a series of little grunts of pain. It was a full minute before she could stand and proffer her breasts again. Her nipples were jutting out like pink thimbles now, and the crimson tracery was so vivid that her breasts looked as though they were constrained in a film of crimson lace. The welts were fine, the skin remained unbroken, but the nursery-maid's birched bosom looked sore. Amelia's own breasts tingled in sympathy as she stared. She watched a tear trickle down Betsy's cheek.

Swithk
!

‘Ooh!' Betsy doubled up once more.

Jamie peered disdainfully at the bundle of twigs, half of which were now broken. ‘Good Lord, you must have titties like iron, Betsy.' He threw the makeshift birch rod down, shaking his head. The young man shrugged in the direction of the Reverend Dawes. ‘Breasts like old boot-leather. I doubt she felt a thing.'

The object of this observation clutched her breasts, hopping from foot to foot and shaking her head from side to side as she hissed with pain.

‘Adjust your dress now. Make yourself respectable,' Jamie ordered dryly. ‘Come along, you wanton girl, we do not have all day.'

It was not difficult to understand the reason for the delay. First Betsy had to regain control of her body. The tears were coursing freely down her face and the tracery of tiny welts bloomed angrily on her breasts. These she was kneading, as if she could somehow massage away the pain. When, at length, Betsy regained control, she had to stuff her breasts back into the tight grip of her corset, not something easily or painlessly accomplished. The maid winced and grimaced as she struggled with her stays, until Jamie gave a sigh and helped her force the garment closed.

‘Aiee…!'

‘For heaven's sake, be quiet, girl. And button yourself up.'

Betsy obeyed, but she did so slowly and with considerable wincing, and for the remainder of the afternoon, Amelia noticed, the least movement of the nursery-maid's arms would cause her face to crease with pain again.

Kitty hurried through the hall, a fistful of silk in either hand, as she hoisted up her billowing skirts to keep the hem of her uniform from sweeping the floor. The black silk of the gown, together with the six starched petticoats which flounced out her skirts so widely that she might have almost have had crinoline beneath, produced a veritable symphony of rustling as she bustled along.

Mrs Pritchard had gone to town after luncheon and thus it was her duty, as senior upstairs servant in the housekeeper's absence, to greet the visitor whose carriage she had seen approaching from the blue drawing room. The honour of this office was new to the maid, and it made her heart swell with pride, but it also made her somewhat apprehensive. She wished, once again, that the bodice of her uniform was not so perilously low-cut. As she looked down, she could see her breasts jiggle in front of her, pushed up by her corset and barely contained by the wisp of lace above the garment's supporting quarter-cups.

Even more, she wished that Mrs Pritchard had not insisted she wear the leather collar and cuffs again. The visible tokens of her servitude seemed so inappropriate for one in such a position of responsibility.

These feelings only increased tenfold as Kitty turned into the grand entrance hall and saw the figure standing there. His look was frankly villainous. Not a big man, five foot eight at most and wiry in build, he was unshaven and as tanned as a gypsy fruit-picker. He wore a stained white suit with frayed collar and cuffs and had not even bothered to respectfully remove his battered Panama hat. Kitty rustled right up to him, only to confront green eyes that twinkled at her villainously.

‘The tradesman's entrance is at the back, through the courtyard,' Kitty said primly, trying to draw herself to her full height without simultaneously thrusting out her breasts. She silently cursed the collar that was bound to undermine her effort to assert authority.

The man just looked at her for a moment. Casually, he put his hands in his trouser pockets. This action pushed his jacket open a little, just enough for Kitty to glimpse the little whip thrust casually into his waistband.

‘Is it, sweetheart, is it?' he said at last, smiling and flashing a gold tooth that made him look even more like a pirate. He turned and looked around the impressive entrance hall, showing no sign of being prepared to leave.

Kitty prevaricated for a moment, in a real quandary. Why today? she wondered fretfully. Mrs Pritchard would have known how to deal with this grubby beggar. If she did not get rid of him, she would certainly be in trouble. There was no option but to try again.

‘I'm afraid I must ask you to leave,' she said, aware that her voice was sounding distinctly shrill as it echoed around the marble entrance hall.

The man cocked his head enquiringly and studied her, perfectly unperturbed. ‘Oh, must you now, my sweet?' he mocked.

Kitty felt the blood rise to her cheeks as his gaze dropped from her face to her breasts.

‘Haven't seen you here before.' He kept staring at Kitty's breasts, and licked his lips hungrily. ‘I'm bloody sure I would have remembered a nice ripe pair like that.'

He stepped forward and Kitty tried to step back, but the voluminous skirts slowed her, and his hand moved fast. Kitty gave a startled shriek as he grabbed her left nipple through the flimsy lace of its constraint. He pinched it between thumb and forefinger.

‘Ow! Ouch! Let go, you're… Ow!'

Still smiling, the man gave her nipple a vicious twist and pulled down, forcing her to sink to her knees. Kitty found her face next to the whip. It was made of yellow-brown braided leather, worn in places and, from the looks of it, much used. The man retained his painful grip on her nipple but casually withdrew the whip with his free hand. Kitty found her chin lifted by a loop of the thing, the braided texture coarse against the tender skin of her throat. He tilted her head back until she was looking up into his laughing eyes.

‘Now then, you saucy little trollop,' he said in quietly menacing tones, ‘why don't we inform that bitch Alicia and her old bugger of a husband that they have a visitor, eh?'

‘Hold it straight, now, Betsy. No, higher than that and for heaven's sake keep your hand still. You know you'll just get extras if you flinch, you silly girl!'

Perspiring as much from fear as from the warmth of the day, Betsy tried to keep her palm steady. She stood in the centre of the nursery parlour in nothing but her corset and the new black silk stockings. She was trembling as she waited for her master to bring down the tawse again. Betsy closed her eyes and silently prayed.

There was a decided clink and an anxious sob from the side. Betsy opened her eyes to find her master's amused gaze upon her. He gave her a wink.

‘Don't go away,' Jamie said.

Betsy hated the belt on the hands; worse, in fact, than almost anything else. She gave a sigh of relief, grateful for the respite, however brief.

The cousins also wore nothing but their usual uniform of white silk smocks and stockings. Both had their hands pinioned behind their backs, in the now-familiar fashion. Both had been silently straining to achieve the task that Jamie had previously ordained.

When, a little earlier, that young man had sentenced Betsy to the belt, he had also announced that the cousins would not be allowed to watch the disciplining of the nursery-maid. In order to prevent peeking, he had made use of a simple but effective expedient. Producing two golden guineas, Jamie had held one against the wall, level with Amelia's eyes. The girl had then been made to stand on tiptoe, with feet wide apart, and hold the coin against the wall by pressing it with her nose, something she could only achieve by straining visibly. Clara had then been made to follow suit.

‘Good girls, that's it. Drop the coins and I'll stripe those pretty bottoms!' Jamie had growled, giving Amelia's bare behind a friendly pat. He had then instructed Betsy to place silver platters on the floor between the cousins' straining legs. The sight of the two girls, bare bottoms twitching in anticipation, calf and thigh muscles taut and trembling with the effort, was something Betsy only wished she had the leisure to enjoy. Whether Clara's shapely slenderness or Amelia's more generous curves and long legs were the more appealing, she would have been hard put to choose. However, Betsy's own travails were too pressing for her to gain any real enjoyment from the cousins' plight. At least, so she had thought, before she heard that sharp metallic clink.

Furtively, she looked at the platter between Clara's legs. There was nothing there, and the blonde girl was still obviously straining. However, from Amelia's silver tray came an accusatory gleam of gold.

‘Pick it up,' Jamie said firmly.

‘I… but—' Amelia turned, looked at Jamie, then at the tray and the coin upon it, and briefly up at the tawse swinging in his hand. Betsy watched her lick her full lips. Now Amelia had turned, the shapely contours of her breasts could clearly be discerned through the thin silk of the smock. Betsy swallowed, wishing she had a pair of nipple clamps with which to worry the teats which pushed so impudently against the fabric. That, and an hour or three to play with the haughty Miss Amelia on her own. Well, she thought wryly, even a humble nursery-maid could dream!

The object of her reverie swallowed nervously and got down – a little awkwardly, for she could not use her arms for balance – to her knees. Master Jamie moved around behind her, and Amelia signalled that she was only too well aware of this by letting out a little whimper of fear.

Betsy knew, from bitter past experience, that it is no easy task to pick a coin up with one's teeth when one's hands are tightly pinioned, wrist to opposing elbow, behind one's back. That Amelia found the task difficult was obvious. Her bottom, the nursery-maid had to admit, was a real beauty. The sweet cheeks were twitching, the muscles clenching convulsively in anticipation of the tawse. To get her head down, Amelia had to stick her bottom out in counterbalance, but it was clear that she hardly dare attempt the final thrust.

There was a horrid dry whuffling sound as the leather tails disturbed the still air, followed by a vicious-sounding snap, as two leather tawse tails cracked across the inviting bottom. Amelia emitted a pained squeak, and Betsy watched the girl's pinioned fingers flex helplessly in their bonds.

‘Come along, Amelia. I said pick it up.'

‘Oh, ooh, ooh, ow, ow…'

‘Good God,' Jamie said, ‘at this rate, we'll be here all day.' He grabbed a handful of auburn ringlets and hauled the gasping girl roughly back to her feet. Then he thrust her up against the wall.

‘Feet apart, now – wider, wider. All right, stand still.' He stood back and raised the tawse and, for a moment, the whole of Hatherby seemed to hold its breath.

Crack
!
Crack
!
Crack
!

Three times in quick succession the heavy tawse impacted on Amelia's bottom.

Crack
!
Crack
!

Twice it snapped ferociously across the backs of her thighs. The leather tails hissed through the air, Amelia squealed, and Betsy felt her own bottom flinch involuntarily in sympathy.

After the fifth stroke, Jamie allowed the girl a minute to jump about and squeal. Prevented by her bonds from rubbing the wide stripes that dissected her bottom, her hands fluttered futilely. Amelia hopped from foot to foot as if engaged in some demented dance, furiously tossing about her shock of auburn ringlets.

A few minutes later, Jamie knelt, smiling, and retrieved the coin.

‘Ow! Yow! Hoo, ha, that – ooh, oh that… st-st-stings!' It was several more minutes before the girl could be compelled to cease jiggling and jumping from foot to foot. Amelia gasped and gulped, as the welts ripened to a fiery red. Betsy winced in sympathy as she watched her, all too aware that the tawse that had caused such agitation would be snapping away at her own palm very soon.

Too soon, for the nursery-maid, Amelia recovered her composure. Sniffling, the girl resumed her position, pressing the coin to the wall once more with her nose. Amelia's welted bottom and thighs quivered visibly beneath the hem of her gown, as she stretched upward and her muscles strained at their task again.

Jamie turned back to the nursery-maid, tawse swinging slowly in his hand. ‘Well now, Betsy. I do apologise for that interruption. Your hand seems to have dropped a little – keep it up, now, and quite still.'

Betsy supported her right wrist in her left hand, holding her palm up and both arms out straight in front of her. To do this she had to press her upper arms in against her breasts. Her arms squeezed her breasts together, forcing them up in a way that made her terribly self-conscious. Not for the first time, she wished her breasts were not so large.

The tawse was even harder to ignore, however. Betsy licked her lips and watched the thick tails swing. Jamie raised it once again, and she held her breath and closed her eyes tight, praying for deliverance as she awaited the inevitable impact.

There was a timid knock at the door. Betsy did not dare to breathe. A pained whimper came from the direction of Amelia, a strained grunt from Clara, and then a resigned sigh from Jamie. Cautiously, Betsy opened one eye. She watched Jamie lower the tawse and turn towards the door. Betsy breathed again.

‘Come in!'

A pretty face in a maid's cap peeked anxiously around the parlour door. Betsy recognised the new kitchen-maid, Emma, blinking nervously into the room. The girl looked at Amelia and Clara; her eyes widened with surprise and then she looked away. She stared at Betsy with wide eyes. Blushing, she dropped her gaze to the floor.

‘Well girl, what is it?' Jamie demanded.

‘Please, sir.' Emma's voice was soft and hesitant; her fingers kneaded at her apron. ‘I… I've been sent.'

Only another hundred yards or so to go, Lucy told herself as she fought to stop her heel turning over again. She managed to right herself just in time, but only avoided a worse disaster by the silk of her stockings for, as she fought to regain her balance, the tray swayed, causing glasses and decanter to lurch perilously. Chains tinkled, glass skeetered on silver and clinked together, and leather dug painfully into tender flesh, as the maid fought to stay upright and safeguard the contents of the tray.

There was a gnarled wisteria trunk entwined around this corner of the hall. The flowers were long gone but a pair of blue-tits flew busily about the leaves. Lucy watched them for a few seconds; they seemed so free and merry as they danced through the air, playing tag under the warm afternoon sun. If only she dare take a moment to recover. No – Lucy knew her mission to fetch refreshments had already taken too long. If she knew her master and mistress, they would be getting impatient, and know them she did, only too well. There was nothing for it. She had to struggle on.

The trouble was that these high stiletto heels were not designed for gravel pathways. At least that was one of her troubles. Unfortunately she had others, too. Lucy had been stripped down to her long black corset and stockings for her master's amusement after luncheon. But the removal of her uniform had only been the start.

‘You have been getting slack and sloppy, girl,' Lady Alicia had told her pleasantly. ‘Alex suggested taking you to the west wing—' Lucy had stiffened at the mention of that terrible old tower ‘—but I have persuaded him to exercise restraint.'