Hall of Infamy (5 page)

Amelia was already looking at the stage. Affixed to its back wall was a great St Andrew's cross, and at either side were ranged several dismal-looking whipping-blocks and trestles. However it was none of these that held the young woman's appalled attention, but a portly man of about fifty, sitting calmly reading a newspaper. Beside him was a simple narrow table, topped with white enamel, and placed in the centre of the stage.

‘Ah, excellent. These must be the new ones. Lovely, lovely!' The little balding man jumped up and peered at the cousins through round glasses, and rubbed his hands together delightedly. Amelia gave him her most disdainful stare, which had no apparent effect whatsoever.

‘Have you sufficient hot water, Mr Catchpole?' Mrs Pritchard asked.

‘Oh yes, thank you.' He indicated a steaming bucket. ‘Betsy just brought me some more down. Now, young ladies.' He turned to Amelia and Clara and smiled. ‘I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to take those knickers off.'

Amelia was in such a hurry to get the ordeal over with that she found she had pulled her own frilly pantaloons off before Clara, who was no doubt struggling with shyness, had got hers halfway down. Thus she felt the little man's surprisingly firm grip on her arm as he steered her to the table first.

‘Sit up here for me, dear.' Amelia took a deep breath, told herself that this was better than the barber's shop, and did as she was told. The enamel was wet, and so cold on her naked bottom that she gave a little gasp.

‘That's it. Good girl. Now I want you just to lie back for me – yes, yes, that's lovely.' She felt the silk of her smock turn wet and clammy from the water on the table, and almost wished she had taken the damned thing off. It had ridden up to her waist in any case, and she could see her own pubic curls as she anxiously raised her head. Mr Catchpole bent and took her wrists, then guided her hands until her arms were extended down two of the legs of the table.

‘That's it. Now grip the legs really, really hard.'

‘Oh, what…?' By the time Amelia felt the straps deftly pulled tight around her wrists it was too late. She gave a gasp of surprised protest. She had not seen any restraints around the table legs. With a surge of outrage, she realised that Mr Catchpole must have had them secreted in his pocket.

The barber stood up, smiling down at her. He placed a plump hand on her bare belly where the smock had ridden up and patted her consolingly.

‘There, there. I just need to make sure you do not wriggle about. I'd hate to nick such lovely—' Amelia ground her teeth as he caressed her belly longingly, ‘—lovely skin.'

Mr Catchpole bent and produced another two straps from his capacious pockets, and Amelia, realising that it was futile to fight, let him secure her ankles to the other two table legs. With her legs strapped apart and her smock pushed up, she was all too aware of her exposed sex. Mr Catchpole went over to a bag at the side of the stage and produced another strap. This he passed under the table and over her belly, tightening it until Amelia gave a little squeak. She was close to immobile now, but the barber was not finished. More straps secured her legs to those of the table, just above the knee.

‘There now.' He patted her on her bare belly again.

‘Oh, please…' Amelia squirmed as his hand moved inexorably towards her pussy. She bit her lip as he tugged the dark pubic curls professionally.

‘Ah, lovely,' he said again, patting her furred mons.

At that moment, Amelia very nearly unleashed a torrent of invective. However, he did something which stopped her uttering a word. With one surprisingly deft movement, he produced a cutthroat razor from his waistcoat pocket and opened it. It transformed him from irritating to terrifying in an instant. Amelia froze. With his free hand, Mr Catchpole continued to fondle her pubic bush, then she felt a pinprick of pain.

‘Ooh!'

‘Sorry, dearie.' He smiled down at her. ‘Just need to test the blade.' He held up the pubic hair he had plucked out and did something with the razor that Amelia couldn't see.

‘Hm. Better give it a quick hone, anyway.' He walked over to the St Andrew's cross. Following him with panic-stricken eyes, Amelia noticed for the first time a razor strop hanging from the top of one of the arms of the cross.

Fwist
,
fwist
,
fwist
. The regular rhythmic sound of the stropping razor cranked up Amelia's already stretched nerves.

‘You, dear,' the portly barber restored the razor to his pocket and crooked a finger at Clara. ‘Come here, please.'

He had the blonde girl stand close to Amelia's pelvis, and then Amelia swapped a panicked look with her cousin. Clara's rosebud lower lip was trembling, and there was real fear in her wide blue eyes.

Whistling to himself, Mr Catchpole started to lather up a shaving brush. Amelia gasped when the creamy froth was smeared over her sex. It felt most peculiar: wet, warm and sticky. ‘Oh, ah, what, what are you doing?' she asked.

‘Don't be impertinent, girl!'

‘Oh, that's all right, Mrs Pritchard,' the portly barber said soothingly. ‘I don't mind explaining to the young lady. You see dear, to get a really good shave it is necessary to engorge the pudenda. As the area swells up, it tautens the skin, and considerably improves the result.'

Amelia was unable to continue the conversation, by now being occupied in fighting helplessly against her bonds. Her pelvis tried to writhe of its own volition, in response to the circling of his shaving brush, and Amelia could hear her own voice making odd mewling sounds.

At last, the barber gave the soap and brush to Clara, and then produced his razor again. Amelia stopped squirming; she was almost too terrified to breathe.

Scritch
,
scritch
,
scritch
. He shaved her in deft strokes which were almost as rhythmic as the stropping. Amelia relaxed a fraction as her last protection against complete nudity was briskly stripped away. The feeling of the razor on her tender tissues was indescribable. Frightening, for the blade was so sharp: yet oddly comforting, too, for she could not move at all, and there was something reassuring about being completely in Mr Catchpole's professional hands. He might be a dirty old man, she told herself between whimpers, but he was not about to nick a customer. Or even, Amelia thought bitterly, considering the reality of her present status, damage a customer's goods.

As she lay back on the cold enamel, Amelia did all she could to think about something else. She looked at the empty banks of seats, grateful at least that there was no audience for her humiliation. She looked at Clara, holding the soap cup and shaving brush obediently. She could not look into Clara's eyes for long, though, because the fear in the blonde girl's face enhanced her own. Mrs Pritchard's contempt was even worse. In the end she looked at the blue sky through the glass of the

cupola, and watched the clouds scud by.

At last he paused and went to re-strop his razor. Amelia lifted her head and saw her own pussy quite shaven. It made her feel incredibly naked and exposed, having her legs strapped helplessly apart and quim devoid of hair. At least, she thought, the ordeal must be over. However, Mr Catchpole returned to his station and took the brush from Clara once again.

‘But – but it's done. Ooh!' she said as the brush stroked her again.

‘Just a little stubble to clear up, my dear,' he said, pausing to beam down at her, ‘in the region of the clitoral hood.'

The table creaked as Amelia bucked helplessly against her bonds. The cold metal touch spiralled in, as the brush had, and the world seemed to spiral along with it. Amelia heard a girl moaning and shrieking, but it seemed to be someone far away.

‘That will do, I think,' a man's voice said; she heard the snap of the razor being closed.

‘No… please… don't stop. I mean… I need…!' She heard her own voice protesting as she fought the bonds with ever-increasing frenzy.

‘Listen to the little slut!' Mrs Pritchard spat contemptuously.

Mr Catchpole chuckled, however, and said, ‘Just wait a minute now, dearie.'

A rough towel was placed on her shaven mons and, as the bound girl shrieked in response, the little man rubbed it vigorously. Then, as she squealed and squirmed, he slid a finger into her wet sex, with his other hand stroking the part that drove her wild. The little man efficiently manipulated her to and past the point of no return, all the while whistling professionally.

He was still whistling the jolly music-hall tune when Amelia's body exploded into ecstasy.

The clouds had gathered as the day progressed and, by late afternoon, passing showers had left the cobbles of the courtyard slick and wet. Twice Kitty nearly went over, as her impossibly high heels skeetered on the treacherous surface, and she only regained her balance at the last minute. The reluctance with which the blonde maid approached the stable-block was, however, by no means solely due to the difficulty involved in negotiating the terrain.

Something about Lady Alicia's manner at teatime had made her nervous, and anxiety had translated to clumsiness. Kitty's hand had trembled as she poured afternoon tea and a few drops spilt into the saucer. Naturally, her mistress had regarded this as deliberate. Kitty had quailed before Lady Alicia's wrath, as the Marchioness made it abundantly clear to the maid that she regarded the small spillage as an act of deliberate insubordination.

Standing with her head bowed, enduring the torrent of invective, Kitty had awaited the inevitable order to bend and lift her skirts. Her gaze had been transfixed by Lady Alicia's dressage-whip, which she slashed viciously through the air for emphasis while listing Kitty's failings in detail. However, the dreaded order had not come. It turned out that Lady Alicia had something worse than her riding-crop in store for the maid today.

‘Clearly, I have been too lenient with you, recently. It is time you were reminded of your place, my girl. Later this afternoon, after you have served tea, I want you to go to the stables and ask Mr Blackstock to give you a damned good belting. Wear your “tutu”. I won't have you trailing mud and dung into the house on your hems, and don't bother with drawers or knickers. You won't be needing them this evening.'

Kitty tried vainly to tug the hem of her dress down. The flouncing skirt of her “tutu” was buoyed up by half a dozen little petticoats and she could feel the breeze on her bare flesh, exposed above her stocking-tops. It really was unfair! The maid's full uniforms were old-fashioned, and their billowing skirts could be a sore trial, yet they would have been quite respectable had they not been so low-cut at the front. Cruelly, this modesty was a privilege allowed mostly inside the hall.

Kitty's heels slid again and she struggled to right herself, having to bend forward to regain her balance as she did so, and all too aware that she was treating anyone watching from the hall behind her to a good view of her naked bottom. The logic of not dragging those long-hemmed gowns through mud and worse was unassailable, yet Kitty could not see why the uniform's skirt had to be so short. Hemlines below the knee would have been both practical and modest. Above the stocking-tops looked indecent and absurd.

‘Yes, what is it, girl? What do you want?' Kitty coloured under Mr Blackstock's cold appraising gaze as he dropped it from her full breasts to her silk-sheathed legs. The head groom was balding and had a definite paunch, but his arms were powerfully muscled and his strength legendary. Blackstock wore only a much-stained leather apron on his upper body, and his arms were beaded with sweat.

The maid swallowed hard. ‘Please, sir, I… I've been sent…'

Mr Blackstock raised his gaze again to the full breasts proffered by the half-cups of her bodice, in a way that made Kitty's stomach churn with anxiety. ‘Well, I can see that, you silly little bitch!' he growled. ‘The question is, what have you been sent for?'

Kitty hung her head. ‘For a b-belting sir,' she whispered.

‘For a what? Speak up, you little trollop! What do you want?'

‘I, er, want a belting, sir,' Kitty mumbled unconvincingly.

‘A belting, eh?' he bellowed. ‘You want me to give you a leathering, do you?'

‘Y-yes, sir,' Kitty sniffled, tears welling in her eyes.

Blackstock strolled over to the trembling maid. He grasped a handful of her golden curls and forced the hapless girl's head back, forcing her to look into his glittering green gaze. Kitty felt herself impaled by his predatory stare, assailed by his stench. Kitty, used to the delicate perfumes of Lady Alicia's boudoir, felt her senses overwhelmed by the rank odours of horse-sweat, human perspiration, leather and manure.

Her bodice was low-cut, and Mr Blackstock had only to flip her nipple with his thumb to free it from the film of lace that veiled it. Taking the nub of flesh between finger and thumb, he squeezed and twisted until Kitty moaned in pain.

‘Don't you say “please” in the big house, you cheeky little bitch?' he hissed into her ear.

‘Ow, ooh, please… sir… ow…'

‘Please what?'