Their Master's Pleasure (23 page)

‘Can you indeed, Miss Elizabeth?' Michael said, in a quiet, dangerous tone. ‘I wonder. It seems to me that you have missed the whole point of the exercise. Clearly it needs to be repeated, to allow you to reflect further on these matters. Rawlings?'

‘Sir?' the coachman said, stepping forward.

‘Run this young lady to the gate and back and do not spare the whip.'

‘Yes, sir.'

Elizabeth did not move, but simply looked at me. ‘Is it your wish that I should do this, uncle?' she said stiffly.

‘It is,' I said. ‘There are times when one should speak out, Elizabeth, and times when it is wiser to curb one's tongue. This is a hard lesson, but I think a necessary one.'

She regarded me for some seconds more, then nodded. Her final response was cold as ice. ‘So be it.'

She started down the steps, but Michael had one final cruel trick to play. ‘Rawlings,' he said, ‘bind Miss Elizabeth's wrists in front of her. The clearer the target for your whip, the sooner she may come to see the error of her ways. I would hate to have to send her off to the gate a
third
time.'

Once Elizabeth had set off down that arduous track once more - with Rawlings' whip, I couldn't help but notice, already drawing tormented gasps from her lips - Michael ordered the others inside. ‘Let us hope no one else will be sharing the fate of Miss Elizabeth,' he said, ‘who even now is suffering greatly in her search for enlightenment. I trust all of
you
feel the benefit of your recent exertions?'

There were vigorous nods from those present, with one exception - Irene Hammond gave no sign one way or the other. Michael obviously noticed this too, for he addressed her directly. ‘Mrs Hammond,' he said, ‘can it be you entertain similar doubts? I find that hard to believe in one whose intelligence cannot be in doubt. Tell me, do you not feel a distinct lightening of the spirit as a result of your toil?'

She did not answer immediately, but cast an anxious glance in my direction. I couldn't have helped her even if I'd wished to, however, for I had no idea what game Michael was playing.

Finally she spoke up. ‘I believe I do, sir,' she said, in a quiet, uneasy voice.

Michael nodded slowly, sighing. ‘I feared as much. Madam, I say you are a liar, for you cannot possibly be feeling any benefit so early in your treatment. What you are truly feeling is sore of foot and more than a little resentful - am I correct?'

The governess did not answer him, but her guilty look and lowered glance spoke plainly enough.

‘Lying will not be tolerated, do you hear? You will now pay for your dishonesty: two dozen from your master with a further two dozen from myself - and I can promise you we won't hold back. Might you have a cane to hand, Mr Montague?'

‘Canes are never a problem in this house, Sir Michael,' I assured him.

I dismissed the others, who scampered off gratefully to their various sanctuaries, then told Mrs Hammond to lead the way to the study, where she would be taught the error of her ways.

 

 

 

‘We'll be needing a frame,' Michael said. ‘Rawlings can build it; he's a handy sort of fellow and he knows what's wanted.'

‘What sort of frame?' I asked.

It was the morning after the race. Over the breakfast table Michael described what he had in mind - a strong wooden affair, not unlike a large door frame, but without the door. He stressed the need for robustness and that it should be firmly fixed to the floor.

‘We might want to dangle that cook of yours from it by her tits, old man,' he said. ‘Can you picture that?'

I could, just about, and it was an astonishing image. I did wonder aloud where we might put such a cumbersome structure, however. I was thinking of the stables, but Michael had other ideas. ‘Let's take a look at these cellars of yours.'

We took candles, for there was no lighting down there. A long passageway ran east-west, with rooms off to both sides, some larger, some smaller. It soon became clear this place was well suited to our needs, being dry and surprisingly spacious, though there was a fair amount of clutter that would need to be shifted before we could make use if it.

‘I confess, James, I'm extremely jealous,' he said. ‘With a bit of work this place could be turned into a proper dungeon, torture chamber, cells and all.'

The room directly beneath the hall had a reasonably high, vaulted roof and Michael said this would be ideal for housing the frame. Across the passage was a larger room, though not so high. Michael named this the rack room and said if we couldn't manage a proper rack (I assumed he was jesting) we could at least put a table in there.

Under the east wing was a very long, narrowish chamber, with oak roof beams. Michael rubbed his hands gleefully when he saw it, saying there was space enough to install a line for every female in the place, along with the wives and daughters of all my tenants if I so desired. He said he would get Rawlings to fit at least ten before starting on the frame. When I asked him what a ‘line' was he merely chuckled and told me to wait and see.

The very first task, however, was to have the whole place cleared of rubbish and swept clean. Molly, Mary, Rose and Willy were started on this, with Rawlings supervising the work. Once that was underway Michael and I were free to amuse ourselves, so we decided to pay an unannounced visit to the kitchen. Winifred Smith was most surprised to see us there, but surprise turned swiftly to alarm when she was instructed to take off her clothes.

‘Oh sir,' she warbled, even as she unbuttoned her dress with trembling hands, ‘I... I have luncheon to prepare and no Rose here to... to help me.'

‘You will have to do that later,' I declared. ‘Sir Michael has generously offered to start you on your individual instruction and that is far more important. Do you not agree, Sir Michael?'

‘I do indeed, Mr Montague. The needs of the body are insignificant compared to those of the soul. Tell me, Mrs Smith, have you ever experienced a spooning?'

‘A spooning, sir?' she said anxiously. ‘Why, n-no sir, I don't believe I have.'

‘That is soon remedied. Mr Montague, we shall need a bench, if one is to hand. If not, a chair will do at a pinch.'

We searched around and found the very thing in the pantry - a narrow, sturdily built wooden bench set against the wall, used as a step to reach jars and other items stored on the top shelf. We carried it out and placed it in the middle of the floor, then Mrs Smith, who had just divested herself of the last of her garments, was instructed to lay face down upon it. Still uttering faint and ineffectual protestations about the need to bake fresh bread, she did so.

Michael then proceeded to arrange her plump round limbs to his satisfaction, bringing her knees and elbows out and down, her hands forward and her feet back, so that she reminded me somewhat of a rather corpulent white frog embracing a log. Satisfied at last, Michael took several shortish lengths of rope from his pocket and tied her down. He fastened her wrists and ankles to the bench's sturdy legs, then passed a longer piece of rope around her waist and underneath the bench, restricting her movements even further. With all the preparations now complete, he stood back and perused our victim.

She was a tempting sight, I have to say. Her large round buttocks, elevated to some slight degree by her pose, quivered in anticipation of what might be in store for them. Her pendulous breasts hung down on each side of the bench, reaching almost to the floor.

Michael nodded in satisfaction. ‘Now we need spoons!'

We were, of course, in the best place possible for such items, for the choice was virtually limitless. We proceeded to arm ourselves with the largest wooden spoons we could find.

‘I'll take the right side, Mr Montague, with your permission,' he said, ‘while you take the left.'

We positioned ourselves one on either side and went down on one knee. Stools would have been more comfortable, but we were both eager to make a start. Without further ado, we each commenced beating our allocated buttock with the back of the spoon.

A spoon as a spanking implement is quite unique. All the force is directed at one point, yet the contact area, especially with utensils as big as these, is surprisingly large. Wheals are never raised in consequence, but the skin instead changes colour. Pink soon gives way to red and red to purple. Indeed, the bruising from such a beating can be quite spectacular. If the same spot is targeted throughout it tends to a circular form, almost like a red and purple flower in bloom. This is the reason, I assume, it is sometimes referred to in flogging circles as ‘rosy bum'.

As men are competitive by nature, it soon turned into a contest to see who could produce the most artistic adornment for the cook's rear end. When finally we stopped, some fifteen minutes later, I have to say I thought my own rendition the more enchanting, with subtle and quite beautiful nuances of tone. Modesty prevented me from claiming a well-deserved victory, however, and we agreed on a draw.

Winifred Smith, as you may imagine, had remained neither silent nor still during this period. Her wails of dismay grew steadily louder as the beating progressed and she tugged at her bonds frantically, as though her troubles would all be over if she could but free herself. When we stopped she continued to sob for some time, partly in misery and partly in relief.

‘Time for a change, I think,' Michael declared. ‘Do you see any other orbs that merit our attention, Mr Montague?'

‘Indeed I do, sir,' I replied. ‘Should we now find stools to sit upon, or are you quite comfortable?'

‘Tolerably so, thank you,' he said, ‘though I think a change of knee is in order.'

We shuffled forward and settled ourselves once more, then raised our spoons and began to beat her breasts. Since these are more tender than buttocks she was soon wailing louder than ever and pleading with us into the bargain.

‘Oh, please stop, sirs, I beg. It hurts... it hurts so much!'

‘It must be painful, I know,' Michael said, in an off-hand tone. ‘Almost unbearable, in fact. But there is nothing to be done about that - you will simply have to bear it, for some considerable time yet. This is for your own good, madam, never forget that. Pain will purge you of sin, trust me.'

It was clearly not the answer she was seeking and she continued to beseech us most pitifully. Michael's only response was to strike harder, compounding her difficulties. He was not a sympathetic fellow by nature and she would have been well advised to keep silent. Not an easy thing to do, of course, when someone is pummelling your bubbies as though seeking to beat them flat as pancakes.

We did stop eventually and again examined each other's handiwork. I regretted - not for the first time - that my artistic skills were so woefully inadequate, as the image of Winifred Smith on her bench, bosom and buttocks resplendent with exquisite ‘blooms', would make a wonderful painting. Watercolour would best capture those lovely purple tones, I thought; and what about
Nude with Roses
for a title?

Michael stood up and rubbed his knees, then gave me a sly wink. I took it he wished to play some final trick on the woman.

‘Mr Montague,' he said, ‘is there a heavy strap to hand? I think we should give her forty or fifty hard swipes to finish - what do you say?'

I guessed that Michael had something very different in mind, in fact, and that this was merely a ploy on his part. Before I could answer our victim sang out once more, imploring us to show mercy.

‘Well,' Michael said doubtfully, ‘perhaps we could find some other way to bring the session to a close. Would you be agreeable to a double-dibbling, by any chance?'

She did not understand, of course, and he was obliged to explain the term referred to a sexual act, namely penetration from both ends simultaneously.

‘Anything, sir!' she cried, clearly desperate to avoid the promised beating.

And so we proceeded. As host, I again offered Michael a choice and he picked her mouth. He knelt down - grimacing in the process, I noticed, for his knees were already sore and stone tiles are notoriously unforgiving - and took out his cock. Soon Mrs Smith was sucking for all she was worth, no doubt thinking if she pleased him she would be spared a strapping.

As for myself, I have never been overly keen on public ‘performance'. Though I do not regard myself as a prude, I think the sexual act is essentially a private thing, best enjoyed by two people alone. Mrs Smith had been promised a double-dibbling, however, and I felt obliged to honour the agreement. I therefore reversed my hold on the spoon with the intention of using the handle as opposed to my cock. I decided to tackle her anus rather than her slit, as I thought that tighter sphincter might derive more benefit from the probing, a spoon handle being particularly slender. A quick trip to the pantry yielded up a smear of butter by way of lubrication and all was then ready.

As I rested my left hand lightly on her hip, Winifred Smith tilted her hips back, elevating her buttocks just as high as her bonds allowed. She was expecting my cock in her slit, of course, so it must have come as something of a shock when I touched the tip of the spoon handle to her anus and pushed it slowly into her. ‘Oooo!' she warbled in consternation. ‘Ooooh... aaahhhh!'