Spank Me Hard! … Please?

Before I start posting Chapter 9 [Which I have already written all 30 parts] I am reposting the entire 3,000 word Chapter 8 for both your pleasure and ease of reading. If you are reading The Bumhampton Chronicles for the first time, you can always click here for the page with links to each prior chapter. It is a lot easier to read 3,000 words at a time, then scrolling through 30 individual 100-word drabbles. Thanks to all my readers and their enthusiastic comments to Ruby Slapumcheeks’ adventures at Peacock House.

Also wanted to thank the 32 people who signed up to follow this blog during the month of August, 2017. I wanted to remind everyone who reads this blog through a feed, that on the actual home screen of my blog, there are a number of pages at the top with links to all sorts of story categories from past years. Seeing as Spank Me Hard… Please? now has over 400 active posts and almost 1,900 comments, there is plenty of reading material going back to 2009.

Gentle Reader: I am certain you commiserate with me, when upon waking, Louisa curled into my side as kittens in a sunbeam, all that had passed yesterday rushed over my body like a mill pond race. The froth of my thoughts churned away, the excitement I felt knowing I was his, must have been heard throughout the house. Giddily I twirled the ring around my finger. Out of bed I sprang like a phaeton bowling along the Post Road behind matching blacks. The faint tendrils of dawn’s earliest caresses peeked through the pane. I shook Louisa. “It’s a glorious day!”

I was whacked with her pillow for my pains. Speaking of pains, aside from an internal twinge, little trace remained of my defloration. I hummed as completed my toilette: such a dainty word to dance politely around the evacuation of bowel and emptying of bladder. Such was the life of a housemaid in 1865 before indoor plumbing took cholera and dysentery away. Not that the medical field gave credence to scientific evidence; miasma and sullen lower orders were to blame. Mrs. Cleanknockers believed that filth was a mortal enemy. Saturday evenings were communal bath times. Females and males separated, naturally.

Humming happily, I skipped to breakfast, my toes tapping a brisk jig across the runner in servant’s hall leading to the dining area off the kitchen. Curbing my enthusiasm, I genially greeted my fellow maids. Tony—of anal fame—shot me a quick wink when the under-butler turned his back. Other than Louisa, who sat next to me, I had no other friends among the staff. It was not a complaint, simply an observation that my training allowed little time to socialize. The oatmeal was filling the bacon crisp and all present bowed their heads for grace. I was content.

There may have been envious glances cast my way, but hunger was the great leveler. His lordship did not stint, even if the true delicacies were reserved for dining in Hall. None of us belonged in that exalted company, the rigid castes of British society may have been bent at Peacock House, but the liberal application of the rod kept everyone in their place. Truly, it was a pity. Every soul dwelling in that place was a prisoner of convention, from the youngest boot boy, all the way to the Master himself. Sex and discipline burst forth, blatantly, yet elegantly.

Such was my tumbled thoughts when I reported to his study. I was still on probation, subject to regular whippings, but after my virginity vanished, I was only planning my wedding, not trying to upset the social order. “Ruby! What the devil are you about?” I blinked in confusion. “Sir?” His lordship slapped a paper on his desk, apparently annoyed with something I’d done. “This states you allowed Mr. Jones-Smyth to pluck your bud yesterday! I did not give you permission to seduce him!” I was dumbfounded. “Sir. Mrs. Cleanknockers will vouchsafe I was tied to the horse and caned.”

“I could not, and did not have means to resist my fiancé in exercising his soon-to-be conjugal rights. I thought that was the entire point of the exercise, that men require a female to be subjugated and spanked before sexual congress takes place. Am I incorrect, Sir? I have done everything asked of me, and do not understand your upset.” His fulsome mustache quivered and his eyes bulged. With visible effort, he controlled his flexing hands and leaned forward on bunched fists. “Rest assured, Ruby, I shall get to the bottom of the situation. In the meantime, you may clean.”

I curtsied, and reflexively removed my uniform. My courses were due any day now; I made a mental note to ask for linens. “Sir? If I may, do you wish to give my daily spanking now?” Pen flying over ledger, he did not look up when he spoke. “I am rather in a lather at the moment, I do not wish you to suffer you the consequences.” I patted my full tummy and discretely burped. “If I may be so bold, Sir, if there is the slightest chance I have caused your temperament to be disagreeable, then punishment is due.”

His stern countenance made me tremble. “Very well, Ruby. Over the desk.” The smooth oak felt so sensuous under my aroused bosom. Tight nipples aching to be squeezed pressed into the grain, thighs flexing as I felt the instant moisture pool on my quim. Fingertips gripped the walnut trim on the far side, toes rose en pointe, bottom presented to his will. Yesterday’s soreness roared to life with the hard blows of leather wrapped maple striking my proffered flesh. I yelped once, settling into a pattern of rapid puffs, breathing through the delicious pain. Take me! I’m a wanton slut!

Rough palms caressed my hot cheeks. I pressed back into his touch, waggling my naughty hips; spreading my thighs with silent entreaty. His boots kicked my ankles even wider. I dipped my hips and groaned as his thick fingers probed my now open channel. I adjusted my grip on the far edge of the desk. His heavy cock pressed past my puckered portal into my pulsating pouch: thumbs resting either side of my ridged spine, his fingers wrapped under my somersaulting stomach. He began to move out then back in with majestic sweeps like an Oxford crew on the Thames.

He muttered, evidentially after checking the time, “Good, twenty minutes until he arrives.” I strained my head around. “Twenty minutes, Sir?” Asked with quite the astonished tone. “Is that even possible?” For the first time ever I witnessed a genuine smile of amusement overtake his normally taciturn features. He even chuckled quietly as he gently plumbed the depths of my silken purse. “I take it young Chester was rather quick off the mark?” I snorted and replied tartly, “It must have been less than a minute before he filled me to the brim.” His mirth vanished like an English summer.

His scowl returned. Smack, smack, smack, smack: His pelvis impacted my rear with ever increasing velocity and power—evidence of his dissatisfaction. “He took no precautions against planting a babe in your belly?” I gasped as the force of his thrusts began rocking my body to and fro across the varnished desktop. “I don’t know! I had no choice!” His snarl lit the fuse of my lust. “Oh, Sir! Fuck me harder!” Wet slaps. Pulse racing. This was no amateur traveling host playing for provincials for pennies. This was a master at work. I melted beneath his prowess and virility.

I put my head down, no longer able—nay, not capable of maintaining my posture. “Was not there someone watching?” I pushed back when he bottomed out and held still fully rooted. “No, we were alone. He proposed to me and I accepted. He took me from behind, as you are doing.” He growled lowly and withdrew with a soft slurp. Thinking it was done, I willed my shaky arms to press up. Instead, I was effortlessly lifted, turned and plopped back down. I hissed when my spanked bottom hit the edge of the desk. “Lean back, on your elbows.”

I obeyed. He splayed my legs wide. I watched as his stiff, shiny prick was sucked back into my greedy pink maw. His left hand clasped my upper buttock, right arm snaked around my lower back and, once more, like a watermill hammering grain, he… well, hammered my hot cunt. My eyes slipped to half-mast, my mouth, slack and dried by panting breath, could not contain the upwelling of nervous energy springing from my very center. I exploded like a Covent Garden firework. Internal muscles—untried as they were—clenched and rippled around the marvelous satin poker, poking me deep.

Sweat fell from his lordship’s brow, sizzling as it struck my taut tummy. Another wave rose from the cool depths. A leviathan: I stopped breathing as it hit. My hips lifted instinctively, anything to get the phallus tighter to my womb. I shook, hands drummed the blotter, feet flailed; I screamed—and still he fucked on, fast, slow, short, long: his cock was the center of my universe. Nothing else was real. The tiny portion that was left of my sanity marveled at his stamina and skill, pondering if he needed a wife. It—my sanity—fled for higher ground.

The tidal bore smashed through the dike when his left thumb stroked my precious pearl. The undertow of my third consecutive orgasm swept my consciousness away. I vaguely remember swooning, and shoulders pinning my knees to my chest. Then, hot fluid splattering my skin. The room spun as we waltzed. Velvet tickled my thighs. There was a damp cloth draped across my breasts. The ticking clock sounded overly loud. At one of the floor to ceiling windows, the warm morning light was partially eclipsed by a short man, hands behind his back, staring out at the brick enclosed herb garden.

I lifted the cloth to my nose and sniffed. A sharp tang of the sea melded with my heavy musk. Woozily blinking my sluggish eyelids, I recalled what Louisa had said about no bastards from his lordship. I gazed down at the light glaze roped around my still erect nipples. My thighs clenched: I’d missed him marking me. Wiping myself with trembling fingers, I lurched upright; grabbing a chair, it made a slight screech as it slid backwards. On still wobbly legs, I crossed the study and stood near him. Naked, I peered out at the trim geometric botanical beds.

I was no Eve, but I knew now why so many people pursued sex with such reckless abandon. “Thank you, Sir. I’ll begin my tasks now.” There was only silence. Daringly, I placed my palm on his sharp elbow; I felt the slightest of tremors. “Sir, I am yours, whenever and wherever you choose. You were magnificent. I have never felt better. Please do not cast me out for being forward.” At last a stern response, “Ruby, you are contracted to me for a year, regardless of your betrothal. Only a fool would cast you aside. I am no fool.”

Being Friday, his Lordship’s appointment was with the estate manager, whom I had yet to meet. His bulging countenance appeared carp-like as he gawped at my nudity. I flirted—of course—and was scolded. When the poor man was unable to concentrate on the figures, captivated instead by mine flitting through his peripheral vision, I was ordered back to the desk. “Since you seem intent on wreaking havoc with every male who crosses your path, Ruby, you force me to put you in your place.” Roughly, I was bent over the desk, red bottom directly in front of the manager.

As his Lordship strode across the study to the punishment closet, I sneaked a peak and saw his manager tugging at his collar and mopping his perspiring brow. I, being of low morals and wicked disposition, unsubtly gave him a wide-angle view of my soaked snatch. “Ruby!” The whistling hiss was all the warning I needed to brace myself. WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! Three stingers seared my bare buttocks. I didn’t flinch, only thrust upwards on tiptoes. My challenge was accepted. WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! The fatty tissue underneath my bulbs caught the wrath. WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! My upper thighs burned next.

WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! Fire lanced in branded lines that danced roughshod over my puckish attitude. His Lordship seized my waist and hoisted me one-handed off the floor. His dominant hand beat me, spanking hard and fast along the welted lanes paved by the rattan cane. My feet paddled in mid-air, unable to duck the blows raining down on my hot flesh. I bit my knuckles and allowed tears to stain the blotter. I wanted to be good, truly I did, but some mischievous imp drove me to frequent feckless folly. Then again, I wanted this thorough thrashing.

“Now, Mr. Edwards, do you think you can concentrate on the estate ledgers, or do you need relief first?” He continued spanking me as he spoke. “I… I am sure, Sir, that… umm… I can, we can, continue… Sir.” His Lordship let me thump to the floor, my legs shook and had his hand not cupped my pubis and steadied me, I surely would have fell. He stroked me, two fingers entered my puss; his thumb forced my arsehole to dilate. “Ruby, you will fellate Mr. Edwards as recompense for your lewd exhibition.” I asked in puzzlement, “Fellate him, Sir?”

“Is there trout for luncheon?” SMACK! “Suck… his… cock!” SMACK! “Now!” I slithered off the desk, and on my knees, waddled the short distance to Mr. Edwards. He made no verbal objection to my burrowing hands as I fished out his tumescence. I couldn’t help crooning, “Come to mama,” as I gulped down his rigid length. Still with little practical experience, I’m afraid I was rather sloppy: nor did it help matters when the groaning man exploded in my mouth within a few minutes. His hands were bare; I felt empathy realizing he had no wife to sexually service him.

My ass was throbbing. The cane welts were raised and so very tender. Discretion was needed. I fetched a bucket of soapy water, and scrubbed the baseboards out of direct sight. The men’s conversations combined with the sloshing suds, lulled me in an altered state. With my bottom high, I slid the coarse brush forward and back, wringing out the dirty water with rags. The luncheon gong caught me by surprise. It took five minutes or so to finish the section I was cleaning, and several more to dump the filthy residue on the kitchen midden. I donned my uniform.

I returned to the study and curtsied to both men, receiving smirking stares at my now clothed person. “Thank you for disciplining me, Sir, Mister. Is there naught else you require of me at this time?” At a brusque nod, Mr. Edwards hastily arose and gathered his precious books. “That will be all, Ruby. Mr. Edwards, you may provide escort and partake of luncheon.” We made our escape in fine order, but at a loud knock, there arrived His Lordship’s meal on covered silver platter accompanied by Miss Frothinglips, Mrs. Cleanknockers and Mr. Jones-Smyth. “So! Perhaps an explanation is due?”

His Lordship’s voice was caustic and uncompromising. It was their turn to be called on the carpet. The firm thud and clunk of the door being locked cut off the lecture in mid-song. I shuddered. Somehow I knew I’d wind up paying for whatever punishment was dished out to the trio of my betters. I can’t say I was all that worried. It took extraordinary willpower on my part to not push Mr. Edwards into the Gun Room and have my way with him. By the time we reached the dining area, the sharp pain from the caning had faded.

Still, I winced when I sat on the rough wooden bench. Louisa asked me in a whisper what was wrong. I replied in the same fashion that cramps from my pending cycle were increasing. Conversation wasn’t forbidden during meals, but most of us concentrated on assuaging our hunger. The entire staff couldn’t fit all at one go, so we were split into two half hour shifts. Unless needed for an urgent task, the upstairs/downstairs served as a natural demarcation. When we’d scraped the bowls and plates clean, Louisa pulled me aside and directed me to the storage cupboard of supplies.

I decided not to take chances and stepped into the sanitary belt. Pulling it up between my thighs, Louisa exclaimed as my bottom hove into view. “Ruby! What did you do to deserve such harsh treatment?” I ruefully rubbed. “The usual sass I’m afraid. Don’t worry, my love, you can apply some salve tonight. Your sticky fingers will feel so nice up my sore bum.” We stole some kisses with sucking tongues before we reluctantly parted with outstretched fingers being the last to slip away. A maid’s work is never done. Polishing and waxing the Gun Room floor awaited me.

It was tedious but the lemony fumes compensated. Engrossed in my chores, I shrieked in surprise when I turned around to see Mrs. Cleanknockers standing with her arms folded, back to the door. “I’m sorry, ma’am! You startled me.” I bobbed and nervously nibbled my lip when I sensed she was angry. “It seems I owe you an apology, Ruby, for what transpired yesterday.” Yes, she was angry. Whether solely at me, it did not matter. “Ma’am. Permission to speak freely?” She nodded minutely. I crossed the floor, kneeling at her feet. “I am your humble slave, ma’am. No apologies.”

Head down, I heard her snort. “Humble? You? Ruby, you are anything but humble. You are vexing and incapable of knowing when not to stir up trouble. What am I to do with you?” I peered up through glistening eyes. “Spank me and fuck me?” For an instant, I thought I’d gone too far. Mrs. Cleanknockers’ shoulders began to quiver and she cupped her mouth with both hands. Bright bubbling laughter slipped through her fingers like a meadow stream in springtime. She gracefully knelt down and, still chuckling, raised my lips to her mouth, kissing me with a fierce intensity.

“Sweet, precious, Ruby, you bring such lightness to Peacock House. Promise me you will never bridle your wit not your lust.” Of such easy promises made in passion, do become heavy chains in the fullness of time. I had every good intention of obeying. The future would come soon enough and smash all our preconceptions. In the interval, there was one specific thing I wanted from Mrs. Cleanknockers. “Ma’am? There is something I want from you, nay, not an apology, for no matter what his Lordship may decree, you did nothing wrong. I am yet a virgin in one place.”

Rather than read each individual drabble, you can go to this page which has links to all the complete previous chapters. For easier reading, once I have posted all 30 drabbles, I repost the entire chapter in 3,000 words.

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As I wrap up this chapter of The Bumhampton Chronicles, the calendar turns its leaves to September. When I lived up north, or–Up North–this month marked the beginning of fall with the snow and ice not that far behind. This also marks another monthly Spanking Newsletter at my other blog, Byron Cane Spanking and Erotic Fiction, where you will find a rather lengthy story. I hope you enjoy it, and click the follow button to be updated in October.