Spank Me Hard! … Please?

Once again, it is time for a recap of The Bumhampton Chronicles. This post is the complete Chapter 7 of 3,000 words for easier reading and to refresh your memory before I launch into Chapter 8 in 100-word drabbles. If you wish to read from the beginning, then click this link to the Bumhampton Page. The story so far has reached 21,500 words. Since I posted the complete Chapter 6, I’ve had 47 new followers. Thank you very much both new and old for your continued patronage with likes and comments. If you are unfamiliar with some of the other choices on this blog, there are other stories you may enjoy. Another serial that I am posting every Tuesday, are 1,000 word episodes of Kismet of Submission: click to access individual links. I also have a new short story every Wicked Wednesday that works spanking into a word prompt. Another page is complete with links to all my best stories, poetry and essays. Long form essays about a variety of topics are posted nearly every Monday, and you can scroll back through them by clicking the essay category here. And lastly, at my other blog, I post on the first of every month, a spanking newsletter with fiction and commentary.

Gentle Reader: My head was topsy-turvy: Of course, since I was trussed as a plucked holiday fowl for carving, the rushing sensation was likely blood draining from my extremities. You would be excused for thinking that—sans an apple in my mouth—my nude form resembled a basted porcine instead of a goose, but my mind was razor sharp. So, I stammered a bit and insulted Mr. Jones-Smyth by questioning his sincerity. “You what? I mean… how… why? Are you sure? I thought you bought me… to use and be trained as a whore?” He demonstrated his displeasure quite succinctly.

I discovered that afternoon he was an accomplished whip. The tufted end snapped my bare buttocks with stinging kisses. Cracking with sharp explosive power, the leather tip danced a painful random path all around while I apologized for my stupidity. I screeched, as for the finale, he laid a searing line of fire down the center of my crack, the final whipping placed as a direct bulls-eye upon my pooched bunghole. I momentarily lost my breath at the cut—it quickly turned to a numb ache. As best I good I rotated my hips and waggled my tail for more.

Mr. Jones-Smyth seized my chin forcing my dry eyes to meet his no-nonsense glare. “Ruby, whether you will or won’t play the whore, you are not such a creature in my esteem. My offer is legitimate and comes with generous settlements for both you and our children. I will not tolerate a poor attitude towards self and will swiftly punish you when you err. Obedience brings pleasure: nor will I neglect your desire for pain. I await your answer.” I’d undergone a sea change since arriving at Peacock House. “Yes, I will be your wife—gladly will I obey you.”

His powerful kiss was filled with promise. I felt a cool band of metal slipped over my left ring finger, assuming it was a token of our engagement and not some trick. I could not in fact see my hands from my restrained posture. “You may call me, Sir, in public; my Christian name is Chester. I give you leave to address me as such in private moments.” As I celebrated my swift ascension from desperate orphan to a wealthy wife-to-be, my future husband was announcing the news to Mrs. Cleanknockers and Miss Frothinglips. A shadow lay upon their smiles.

Congratulations were given. Although, there was a sense: a mere hint—my new social standing had been raised uncomfortably high. Certainly not in the position to question my good fortune, I still felt something chilly in the room. It occurred to me, I knew nothing of my intended’s background. Trade was still verboten for the idle rich, but not for third plus sons. As was my wont, I could not turn off my speculations and spun wilder and wilder fantasies. I was jolted from my reverie when Mr. Jones-Smyth, Sir, stroked my exposed backside as if soothing a fractious horse.

“As you can see, Ruby earned a punishment with her insistence that she is a whore for enjoying sexual congress, despite the fact she is yet a virgin. I am entrusting in you, Mrs. Cleanknockers, that you will break her from her distressing lack of self-confidence. Modesty is all well and good, but she must learn the skills that I require in our marriage. I wish, in honor of our betrothal, to witness a demonstration of your disciplinary powers. Let it be long, and harsh, but not cruel.” I scowled as the three of them poked and prodded my rump.

There is a reason that stubbornness is not listed as a virtue. Many a night since then, have I slept on my stomach; Chester with his arm across my shoulders. That was later. For now, Sir continued his pompous lecture. “In order to become the wife I desire, and require, Ruby must be trained as a sensual and vibrant creature that attracts both men and women with her sweet wares.” I watched as Mrs. Cleanknockers selected a stout leather strap from the wall. “Kiss it, Ruby, and ask me for your discipline.” Pursing my lips I reverently kissed the implement.

I actually prefer the strap, not because it’s more or less painful than a cane or wooden paddle, but because the aroma of tanned leather suffused with sweat and tears is intoxicating. My aching puss seeps whenever a whiff wafts near. Awkward in polite society but then again, most of our circle know me quite intimately. SMACK! The first swipe echoed like a shotgun blast from a blind. SMACK! The second drove the held breath from my lungs. Mrs. Cleanknockers was in no hurry; ever the professional, she seemed determined to wring every last wicked thought from my naughty bottom.

Taking a spanking takes practice. This was my first serious thrashing, and by the time she had laid ten searing stripes upon my hindquarters, I was grateful to be securely tied. Having very limited movement I was forced to focus on the ever increasing burn spreading like blistering, bubbling batter on a hot griddle. I fancied I could hear the sizzle, but my arse was not cast iron. Remembering now, Louisa in this very position, wanting to replace her, needing to be flogged and broken. From the outset of my adventure at Peacock House, I knew something special awaited me.

Taking a spanking is crazy. It’s not the pain you recall later, it’s the humiliation: The delicious, helpless vulnerability in giving up your very soul to someone else’s keeping. Craving each hard belt across your flaming backside. Panting, gasping, crying out at each branding strike. Hating the pain yet begging silently, for another, and then another no matter the protests and teary pleas to the contrary. Each blow simultaneously tearing down your arrogance and self-doubt and building up your esteem and pride, knowing your acquiescence is pleasing to your chastiser. Mrs. Cleanknockers kept whipping me hard. Time ceased to matter.

Pride may be a sin, but for the submissive personality, voluntarily raising your scorched bottom in exchange for honest praise, is a feeling nearly indescribable akin to the greatest joy possible. Awareness narrowed to the sharp snap of leather loudly impacting flesh. Regular explosions, my body tensed and relaxed with the crisp rhythm. The murmurs of voices vaguely heard, but was unable to differentiate the individuals. The tide was running out, sweeping me swiftly away from reality, the only constant, my thumping heart; sinking, sinking into the pain, the wonderful punishment soaking deep into me needy core. I tasted salt.

There was something missing. The absence of sound made my ears ring. I floated in a sea of sensation, more alive than I’d ever felt before. My mind became aware the strapping had ceased. A sudden in welling rush of feeling left me sprawled on the sands of my emotions. I could not help a heartfelt cry and flowing tears as the cutting pain ceased and turned to a deep and sore throbbing ache. Fingers stroked my hot bottom, pulling and squeezing as I breathed with shuddering gasps. Warm thumbs wiped my cool wet cheeks. Lips pressed a tender kiss.

“Well done, Ruby, you have pleased me greatly.” I seized Mr. Jones-Smyth’s words as a life raft. “Thank you, Sir. Am I forgiven?” He smiled and kissed me again. “Yes, my dear, you are forgiven.” I slumped as best I could, and flexed my cuffed wrists. My relief was short lived. “However, I wish to test your limits further. I’m told Mrs. Cleanknockers is an expert wielder of the cane.” It was the most confounding duality. Stark fear and deepest craving combined in my mind. A challenge then, a gauntlet tossed in my face. Pride rose like a burnt phoenix.

“As you wish, Sir.” Had I been free of my shackles, I would have raised my chin haughtily and imitated an upper-class accent and issued a command. Luckily for me, I squelched my inner voice quite firmly and adopted a soulful entreaty. “Mrs. Cleanknockers, if you would be so kind as to demonstrate your superior skill with the cane upon my deserving backside?” I could not resist a goad. “My fiancé has expressed doubts as to your competence.” Above my head I sensed messages whizzing between them. “A baker’s dozen then, sir?” At Mrs. Cleanknockers’ words, the stasis was broken.

Another kiss. Mr. Jones-Smyth kissed me as well; then slid the cane handle first, down my naked back. Miss Frothinglips—forgotten ‘til now—deftly retrieved my betrothed’s semi-hard cock from his trousers. Under her clever fingers, it rose in salute. A stool under his feet, and the rampant snake was brushed over my cheek. The sharp CRACK of rattan was paired with instant pain drawn in a line across the most bulbous part of my rearward anatomy. My opened mouth exclamation; swiftly silenced with the hot head of a swollen prick. I did not hesitate, but suckled as if teething.

“Again,” came his voice, and again I wanted to cry out. The strokes were merciless: Swift, with a twist at impact, so that the tip stabbed. The supple flesh rippled in my mouth, my plaintive mews swallowed by aggressive thrusts. No sooner did the pain ebb and turn to soreness, did she whip in the next blow slightly lower, not quite overlapping. My mind’s eye conjured the lines, red, puffy, bisected the entire length by a corrugated weal slowly turning the color of an aubergine. I huffed like a steam locomotive through my nose, his seeping salty shaft sunk deeper.

I was not, could not count the strokes, only ride my leather pommel, lashed fore and aft by harsh taskmasters. Soaring on the slick surface, I slobbered his sausage and shook my hips like a can-can dancer. Truly I was wanton: I loved every bit of it. I protested when he withdrew from my mouth. “No! I want it all!” Like a petulant child denied her dolly, I flapped my tongue and panted for his cock to return. “There is someplace else I wish to enter, Ruby, and your present enflamed state will ease my passage.” We were now alone.
I hissed on an inhalation when Mr. Jones-Smyth ran his stubby thumbnail the length of my cane welts one at a time. I swelled with pride at his appreciative remarks. “You look magnificent, Ruby, with purple grid imprinted on scarlet arse. A man would have to be carved from marble not to be enflamed by your succulent thatch.” I beamed. “And are you such a man, Sir?” In response, I felt his satin charger nuzzle my quivering garden of delight. Like fresh dew on rose petals, my cherry unfurled to greet the rampant desire of stiffened rod. My barrier sundered.

My first time plugged. Oh the joy! The brief sting barely felt, overwhelmed by both the heat pouring off my bruised bottom, and the waves of pulsing untried muscles yielding to the inexorable power of masculine determination. Deeper he plunged; my body opening to his hot cock, my wetness allowing the tight glide home. The nose bumped against my womb. I exulted, ‘Virgin no more!’ How I wished I could see myself mounted; but tied in place over the leather pommel—now slick with my essence—all I could do was clench internally and allow him to fuck me hard.

And he did. Pulling back, my interior flesh clung to his hard shaft as if entreating to never leave. His hands gripped my hips, thumbs rubbing weals, his coarse hairs slamming into my upper thighs; the sensation of him sliding in and out was exquisite. Loud slaps grew wetter, the sound reminded me of doing laundry: His rapid pounding a smith hammering molten iron on an anvil. Our groans intermingled as our bodies were entwined as one. I had no comparison at the time, but even then, when he of a sudden ceased moving, stiffened, and moaned, I wanted more.

Jets of warm fluid bathed my pussy. Mr. Jones-Smyth slumped over my back, trembling like an ill-used horse, huffing and wheezing. It was nice. I hadn’t reached a pinnacle, I wasn’t sure if it was possible. When he withdrew with a slurp, the cool air soothed my chafed tissues. Runny liquid traced like snails down my legs. A hoarse farewell: ‘I will call upon you tomorrow, Ruby’ then silence. It was Mrs. Cleanknockers and Louisa who cleansed me, undid my bondage and assisted me until I could stand without swaying. Brisk questions, halting answers: I was left alone to clean.

The sparkle caught my eye. Green stone, gold loop, the unfamiliar presence of my engagement ring snagged in the rags. I held my left hand out straight and admired the token of his affection. Tiny rainbows danced in the gaslight. My romantic heart was at war with my practical nature. I wanted to know why Mr. Jones-Smyth, Chester, had dashed off as if seeking the retiring room. Surely I was not that repulsive. Perhaps he was also a virgin and shamed of his quick release. I gazed into the gem like a carnival fortuneteller; the unblinking eye had no answer.

The Gun Room had ceased to be intimidating. The menacing shackles and many implements designed only to inflict pain, were no longer items to be feared; but embraced. I shook off the vague and troubling pricks of discomfort and applied rigorous attention to polishing the brass. My uniform felt comfortable, the exposure now normal. I pretended I had an audience. Bending from the waist, bare buttocks and wet slit mesmerized my admirers. I simpered and fluttered my eyelashes. Feeling daring, I ran the feather duster handle between my soaked folds then licked off my cream. I dried the floor; again.

After dinner, and before I went to my studies in the schoolroom with Mr. Steedstiff, there was one other stop I’d been ordered to make. Knocking on the door, Miss Frothinglips opened it and bade me enter the Gun Room once more. My eyes shot open: Four footmen, tall, broad-shouldered, and devilishly handsome, stood at attention. Well, their cocks stood at attention. I was surprised. The variety of penises on display was very enlightening. Miss Frothinglips’ explanation even more so. “Before I make ready for this evening’s ball, Ruby, I wish you to observe how the male staff are handled.”

“For those that have not accrued further demerits following the prior day’s punishment, they are milked thusly.” Putting actions to words, Miss Frothinglips stroked three cocks in turn with gloved hand, until they ejaculated into a linen kerchief. They seemed even quicker to spend than Mr. Jones-Smyth had inside me. Perhaps all men come quickly. My mused thoughts were set aside when the first three footmen buttoned their trousers and departed. “What of Tony then?” I said, pointing at the remaining swollen cock. Her reply was cool and haughty. “A month without discipline, and the male may tup my arse.”

A roaring filled my ears. Tony’s prick visibly hardened. Miss Frothinglips knelt on the overstuffed armchair and tossed her skirts over her back. I noted she was without drawers. Between her bared cheeks, her corrugated orifice gleamed with sticky salve. Without touching her, other than his throbbing cock, nor speaking, with a tremendous thrust of his hips, in an instant, his buttoned jacket smacked her bottom firmly. She did not utter a word. Not a breath. Not a whimper. I was astounded at her composure. Tony did not waste time, but viciously sawed in and out like a demented carpenter.

I crept closer and watched with glazed eyes the hard buggery. His prick glistened with lubricant. Hands locked behind his back, he used every bulging muscle outlined beneath his tight trousers to vigorously plow Miss Frothinglips’ distended anus. My mouth watered. I licked my lips. I wanted his cock in my mouth. I wanted my tongue shoved inside her ass. I got neither. Seeing how Tony looked as his face distorted, tendons engorged on his neck as he came inside her; I knew how Mr. Jones-Smyth must have appeared. It wasn’t flattering. Not at all how a writhing female climaxed.

Dismissed with a curt hand gesture, Miss Frothinglips waited until he left to lower her clothing. I pouted when the red and puffy gapes were lost to my sight. “A lady, Ruby, never allows males the upper hand. He exists solely for servicing and once drained, will be fairly docile for a nonce. Never acknowledge he has pleased you. True pleasure is to be found among the discerning, discriminating females of your class.” Puzzlement must have shown for she continued. “Do not fret, Ruby. We women know instinctively that we require both stern discipline and regular discharges of feminine humors.”

As I climbed the stairs to Mr. Steedstiff’s domain, her words chased through my mind like a hound after his tail. Every day brought new mysteries. Each step rekindled the soreness between my thighs. I focused on my lessons. Remedial in scope, I did not complain, only concentrated on learning quickly and well. There were only two of us present; Amy was a new scullery maid who didn’t even know her letters. I paid no mind to their interactions, other than marveling at his patience, and his lordship’s willingness to teach his employees. Her light spanking afterwards seemed a reward.

After Mr. Steedstiff’s tutoring—no discipline given me—I washed up and I allowed myself to relive my defloration and the sodomy I’d witnessed. I had concerns—perhaps too strong a word—maybe confusion would be a better term for what had happened. The moon was hidden behind clouds, rain splattered the single window, Louisa snuggled to my bosom and we talked quietly while fingers lazily probed. Any lingering soreness vanished under her skilled touch. My orgasm was swift in erupting. She took several more before I begged for mercy. I wanted to reciprocate, but sleep dragged me under first.