The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 1

A tribute to the great Victorian Age of Erotica, where orifices were plundered and bottoms were whacked. I now present the following account for your prurient pleasure. Please note at 3,500 words it is fairly long but I didn’t want to split it in two parts. I am the original author posted elsewhere 3/8/08

“The Bumhampton Chronicles”

There was an old man in the cottage at the end of the lane on every day at 2:30 in the afternoon took his curly-coated black terrier for a walk. Quartz gravel crunched softly beneath his booted feet. Dressed in a corduroy jacket with worn leather patches, rain or shine the gentle thud of his cane echoes between the hedgerows.

He goes to the pub for a pint and then the post office to mail a letter. After, he crosses the road and reads the real estate listings. He buys a loaf of bread at the grocers and then returns home where he opens a tin of sardines and pours a glass of red wine. If you ask the villagers, who amongst them is eccentric they will point at the old man in the cottage at the end of the lane.

Look at him shuffling along. Sad isn’t it? To think of whom he once was. You mean you don’t know who that is? That, my friends was his Lordship. Yes, a real Lord: with a title and everything! The Venerable Lord Caneshard the Omnipresent of Lower Bumhampton. A silly title you must agree, but it suited him. Now look at him; talking with his dog, posting a letter everyday with another true episode of his memoirs. Problem is, no one believes him the poor sod. They all think he’s gone around the bend. I’ll tell you a secret though. Every word is true.

Don’t roll your eyes at me, I’m telling you this because I know the truth. Who am I? My name is Slapumcheeks; but my friends call me Ruby. I should know about His Lordship, because I was on the receiving end many times of his particular method of motivation. You see Lord Caneshard strongly believed that young ladies of a certain class needed regular exercise and discipline in order not to fall in with the wrong crowd. That’s right, spanking, caning, whipping, strapping; my poor sore bottom was thoroughly chastised on many an occasion. I’ll never forget the first time I laid eyes on Lord Caneshard ………

“Your Lordship?”
“Yes, what is it?”
“Your nine o’clock appointment is here sir.”
“Thank you, Miss Frothinglips. Show her in.”

I walked into a large, illuminated study, shelves upon shelves of books lining both sidewalls. I must have looked a fright, gawking like a provincial rube, but I’d never seen so many books before in my life. I could read, after a fashion, but I was feeling out of place in this luxurious manor. His Lordship had stood up when I entered the room, and I started when I realized he was staring at me. I blushed and dropped a fumbling curtsy.

“Your Lordship.”

He nodded at me, and motioned towards a leather wingback to the left of his magnificent desk. I sat down, and nervously clasped my hands in my lap.

“I believe you have something for me?”

I reached into by reticule and pulled out a sealed letter from my previous employer. I made to get up, but he bade me stay seated and came around his desk to receive the missive. Perching on one corner, he cracked the seal and proceeded to read the contents. I covertly studied him as he perused my life’s work. He was short, maybe 5′ 6′, with reddish hair and a mustache. His clothes were of the finest cut and gems sparkled in his waistband. He finished reading, and setting down the papers, reached down and lifted my chin in his calloused hand.

“How old are you child?”
“I’m 18 and three quarters sir.”
“You have very fine credentials, Mrs. Allechat speaks quite glowingly of your morals and ethics.”
“I try sir.”
“Yes, well we shall see about that. I must say though, there is no mention of instances of discipline listed. Were you not punished ever?”

I do realize that in these enlightened times corporal punishment is frowned upon. However, in our time, a spanking was considered normal and nothing to froth on about. I explained to His Lordship, that I was occasionally smacked, but never more than once a month. He frowned at that, and muttered that perhaps I was not suited for this position after all. I swallowed hard, and asked in a meek voice what would I be expected to endure.

“All my girls are thrashed at least once a week, and with new girls, I always break them in with daily, if not twice daily discipline.”

The shock must have shown on my face. I certainly felt light headed. Never in my wildest dreams, could I have envisioned that at 18 and three quarters years of age, I would fall into the clutches of a upright man such as this. I was ecstatic, but I managed to remain calm.

“My apologies Your Lordship, I did not understand the requirements of the position. Perhaps, it would be best if I left.”
“Nonsense girl. It is my duty as the Lord of the Manor to provide both discipline and a healthy, happy work environment.”
“Besides, where else were you planning to go?”

He was right of course. As an orphan, my prospects were bleak; this was the 10th interview I had been to, but this was this first job that I was interested in enough to commit my bottom too. I did not want to wind up out on the streets selling my virtue for pennies.

“Very well, sir. Is there anything else I need to be aware of?”
“There is a rigorous and cleansing examination before you are officially hired. Need to make sure you are flexible to do the proper job. Stand up please.”

I stood up in front of the chair.

“Stand up straight girl! I expect all my girls to be willing and able to whatever it takes to satisfy his Lordship. No milquetoasts on my watch! Hrumph!!! You are nicely built, sweet face; let me see the rear view. Ah!!!! Excellent form. I say, good show.”

*smack* *smack* The quick spanks on my bottom caught me by surprise.

“Yes girl, your backside will get quite the workout with my strap. I am looking forward to your working for me. So, are ye interested in the post? It comes with room and board, 10 pounds a week with one day a week off plus regular and rigorous discipline. Speak up lass, now’s not the time to be shy.”

I of course, said yes; and thus began a most educational journey into the lives of masters and servants and men and woman. Would you like to hear more?

Peacock House was a trim country manor. His Lordship ruled over miles in all directions, including the little village of Lower Bumhampton. I was guided by another servant, Anna, and made my way to the rear of the manor and the servant’s quarters where I was met with the very severe and formidable Mrs. Cleanknockers. She pursed her lips and glared at me. I lowered my gaze demurely and spoke of His Lordship’s desire to have me cleansed and examined.

“Well, I determine who is allowed to stay at the manor miss, and you can be sure that when I am done with you, your very innards will squeak.”

I must interject here; I was in fact, quite naive. I was raised in the city, and thus had no congress with young men, other than the uncouth tradesman and street urchins. My mama, when she was still alive, God rest her soul, was not one to explain the bodily functions. I bathed once a week, as was normal; that is until I started employment. Truth was, at that age I was very shy and private. Had I only known…

“Stand over here Miss, against the wall.”

She measured my height, and used a scale to find my weight. Her hands roamed freely over my covered limbs, and she bent me forward and back in all directions. I was dizzy, and the pins in my black hair had come loose, causing a cascade down my back.

“Very well, you will now disrobe. If you pass muster, then all your clothes will be provided for you.”
“Are you disobeying me already miss?”
“No ma’am, but there is no screen.”
“Child, privacy is not a concern at this place. Disrobe or leave.”

What choice did I have? I must admit to tears as I undid my buttons on my floor length frock, and handed it over to her waiting arms. My chemise was next, and as I did not wear undergarments, I was soon naked and shivering as I cowered under her stern gaze.

“Stand up straight! Thrust your chest out!”

Two quick strikes, one on each bottom cheek, and I was stiff and rigid as a Guardsman at attention. Thus began the examination; Mrs. Cleanknockers ran her fingers through my hair, probing my skull. She checked my ears, my eyes; her fingers entered my mouth and gently massaged my teeth. Her roved lower, always lower until my breasts lay in her strong palms. She squeezed, like a melon, checking for soft spots, and then, and then. Oh my, I thought as she plucked and rolled my stiff nipples. Hard points, in and out, stretching: I cried out as she tormented my flesh.

“Good response. You like pain, I can tell.”
“No Ma’am, it hurts.”
“Little liar. M’Lord will soon enough cure you of that trait.”

Continuing now, she loosed my red and inflamed bosom and seized both arms and once more checked my flexibility. My hands, and nails did not pass muster, but she merely murmured ‘later’. My torso was next, then, she spun me around and pushed her thumbs hard into my shoulders and down my spine. I was just a puppet in her capable hands and I began to sense something stirring in my unmentionable areas. My lower extremities did not go unnoticed, but I was bade sit on a towel that rested on a stone counter, next to a sink and a floor drain. I tried, I tried still to be modest, but after massaging my sore feet and calves, she ran her hands up my thighs and patted them. Her intent was clear, she wished me to spread them wide.

“Please? No?”

She walked away without a word and opened a cupboard. Returning with a stiff riding crop: tap, tap, she touched my thighs once more, but I just shook my head and wept in shame. Thus began my first whipping, but by no means my last, at Peacock House. At the time, I screamed with the pain, it was so severe; what did I know, I was an innocent. In truth, she was very careful, and struck with just sufficient force, repeated blows raining down on my upper thighs. How many? I do not know, but when I looked down expecting to see blood, all there was, was a pinkish hue to my skin. I looked up through the film of my tears, and nodded. She stopped at once, and then tapped me with her hands once more. This time, I spread my legs as wide as I could while she poked and prodded my inner thighs.

“Lay back, and raise your knees to your chest; grasp them firmly with your hands, and keep them wide spread for me.”

The screeching of wooden legs on the stone floor grated on my nerves as she positioned a stool in front of my feminine opening.

“Are you still a virgin?”
“Yes,” I replied with some vigor. “I am a proper girl!”
“I shall soon find out if you are telling the truth.”

Thus now, the examination portion was drawing to a close, and the cleansing portion soon to commence. But first, I felt a stranger’s touch on me. Down there: the place of bleeding shame and pain. What possible connection could still being a virgin have to do with my monthlies? Once more, those strange feelings swirled in my tummy as several fingers rubbed me down there, up and down. I thought I heard faint squishing noises, but then all else fled as a slender digit entered my body! My back arched, and I squealed as she manipulated me and probed deeper and deeper.

“Ah, you are intact, excellent. You will be quite the prize filly for some lucky man. Move your bottom over the edge, keep pulling back. Further, further.”

By now, my knees were pressing against my chest and just when I believed that my ordeal was over, another shock. A greased finger slid abruptly up my fundament! I do not have to explain the shame I felt being treated this way, yet, yet; a part reveled in this treatment of me. I realized that Mrs. Cleanknockers was not being cruel, but that she was in fact quite efficient at her job. She then slid a second finger in my nether hole, whilst returning yet again to my womanly opening. I could feel, oh I could feel her fingers touching inside of me through both holes and my body began to rock ever so slightly. I gave myself over to the rush of new sensations and closed my eyes.

I was climbing. I was soaring as Mrs. Cleanknockers’ wicked manipulation had caused all sense of propriety to flee. My hips, my bottom, my cunny; all had betrayed me, and they all worked in consort with her fingers and thumbs. Then, all thought faded as she touched a certain spot that flared like a torch and the heat engulfed my blood. I know that I shrieked then, but even as I prayed to God for His forgiveness and mercy, my lower holes thrust harder and harder upon her hot flesh. So this is lewdness I marveled, and I sinned willingly and cast my soul into the flames of Hell.

Just like that; I would have wept, but I cared not. Something was happening, something that my body knew well, but that I did not. She rode me hard, did Lust. Lust whipped my flanks and she drove me ever onwards with biting spurs as she caused rivulets of secretions to pour from all my orifices. The ground fell away abruptly as I had a fit, and my muscles locked in rigid display. Dangling in air, I fell. I fell hard, and a sound issued from my throat. I can only describe what happened that first time, as the sound of a thousand crystal goblets shattering on a marbled ballroom floor.

My senses slowly returned and I discovered myself being cradled in Mrs. Cleanknockers arms, her cleaned hands brushing my hair.

“Your first spending?”
“I’ve never… What was that? What happened to me?”

She laughed then, a silvery tinkle, which brought to mind skylarks in spring display. Not unkindly, she kissed me lightly on my trembling lips and squeezed me tight.

“You’re a precious jewel, sweet Ruby. We will have such a time together. You will learn, and be well rewarded for your efforts.”

So saying, she eased me down off the counter and led me to a small antechamber. My cleansing was nearly at hand, but this, I knew well; though to my fevered mind, all the apparatus appeared sinister and foreboding. Hanging on steel hooks, implements of correction covered one entire wall: canes, straps, paddles and many others. If the purpose of this display was to intimidate, it succeeded, for I fairly leapt onto the padded table and assumed the prone position on my belly.

Miss Cleanknockers busied herself at the sink, mixing and filling several bags, four in all. I waited, and watched, if not serenely, at least resigned to my fate at last. Lavender and sage, the tang of mineral oil wafted across my nose as my face lay resting on the sheet. Finished with her preparations, she approached my upturned bottom cheeks and gently spread them wide exposing my quivering anus. Her forefinger once again penetrated my inner recesses and twirled, lubricating the dark and humid corridor. She reached back, and pulled the pump closer and pressed the nozzle firmly in. One thrust, slow but sure. It was enormous, much larger than anything I’d ever felt before. My hands clenched the fabric on which I knelt, as a high-pitched mewling noise issued from between taut lips.

“Are you hurt?”
“No miss, it is very large though, and so deep!”
“Not as large or deep as the real thing will be my dear.”

Fully plugged, I arched my back and presented: raising my hips ever higher, desperate to ease the fullness. She released the stop, and warm soapy water, in a relentless flood, invaded my bowels. Perhaps to modern sensibilities, this seemed obscene, but back then, regular purging were prescribed for all types of ill humors. I could not even tell you how many I had endured already in my life, but this treatment at least I thought I could pass with flying colors. And I did, if a red striped bottom indicates success.

Gentle Reader, if you have never undergone a full course of enemas then you cannot truly know the urgency with which the urge to expel strikes the laboring bowels. I had learned much control, though of still tender years, and I tried to impress Mrs. Cleanknockers with my stoicism. The first bag was emptied, and she reached under my torso and rubbed my slightly protruding stomach. At least a quarter of an hour passed as the solution churned and sloshed in my innards until at last, she brought over a large basin and directed me squat directly over while she removed the nozzle. I did my business, with the minimal of fuss; closing my senses to the sounds and smells. She wiped back there, and removed the basin to the adjacent water closet. She was gone so long I wondered perhaps she was divining my future, like a gypsy reading tea leaves. I giggled to myself as I once more clambered onto the table.

The second and third courses went much the same, the third being an herbal concoction that smelled heavenly and felt even better. She allowed me use of the WC for that expulsion and I was actually smiling when I returned. That faded as I spied the last bag. A full gallon, with a nozzle twice the girth of what had been used before and shaped with a queer bulbous head. I did not protest, but meekly followed her directions as she had me lay facing her on my side, with the top leg drawn up to my chest. To my shock and amazement, the fearsome weapon slid in with ease, and Mrs. Cleanknockers spent many minutes gliding the probe in and out of my clenching rosebud, until thrusting it home to the root. This bag was plain water with extract of peppermint, and as it gurgled in, I could feel a burning sensation moving slowly higher and higher until it reached my tummy. She took my hands and laid them on my slowly inflating stomach.

“Just think Ruby, this is what you will feel like when you are with child and ready to birth.”
“I’ll birth through my arse?”

She merrily laughed again at me, but I was truly vexed.

“I am so sorry that my innocence and ignorance amuses you. I am just a simple girl with no prospects, except to be abused for the rest of my life.”

She said nothing, but I sensed an immediate chill in the room as she monitored the last drops. I heard a crinkling noise, and then as she withdrew the flared nozzle, she replaced it with what felt like a cork that went but a short distance within, but blocked all egress of the liquid. I sat up and looked down, ashamed of my outburst, although it was all true to my nature.

“Miss Slapumcheeks, you will stand up and walk to the far wall and choose an implement of chastisement. Then return and bend over the table.”

I didn’t walk, I waddled and as I gazed upon the multitude of items hanging there, my eyes were drawn to a long, thick cane. I handed the cane to her, bent over and waited.

“You…” WHAP “are…” WHAP “not…” WHAP “ignorant…” WHAP

“You…” WHAP “are…” WHAP “simply…” WHAP “untutored…” WHAP

She drove her lesson home, with three more quick strikes on the tops of my thighs and I gasped as the welts stung my entire bottom in regular stripes that rose like puffed pastry. She spun me around to face her and inserting the tip of the cane between my legs, lightly tapped at my still wet sex.

“This virginal opening is where a man will plant his seed, and your womb is where your babe will grow. You will birth through this selfsame opening nine months later. All of this knowledge will be given to you, and much more. You, dear Ruby, will have a chance that few other girls will ever see. A chance to be an independent woman of means.”

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