If you like The Bumhampton Chronicles, and its Victorian-era atmosphere, then you may be interested my novella, The Case of the Disciplined Valentine.
Gentle Reader: I would surmise by this portion of my smutty tale, you believe nothing at Peacock House would shake me. That would be an incorrect assumption. In my era, even the most cloistered girl living under the strictest spiritual discipline, did not have to be taught a female’s place was under the male. That the roles could be reversed — that was beyond my comprehension. Yet here I was, once more on my knees, preparing for debauchery unlike anything I’d previously witnessed. Of course, with my wanton nature, simply watching was never going to work. I was ready and willing.
After I pulled the straps tight between Miss Frothinglips’ thighs, up through her crack and snuggly around her waspish waist, I felt certain I was to be dismissed and, even rose unbidden to my feet to depart rather than be privy to my betters’ sinful intercourse. I should have known better: I did know better. Miss Frothinglips’ donned a figurative top hat, and commenced snapping out orders with all the crispness of a whip-wielding circus ringmaster. Albeit, one with an artificial phallus jutting aggressively above a soaking quim and bare bosom exposing hard nipples. “Ruby! Quit dawdling and prepare Sebastian.”
At my blank look, she rolled her eyes and repeated with exaggerated pronunciation and gestures as if I was the town’s witless fool, “Strip. Him. Naked. Now!” I could hear the lash in her voice, but having never before in my entire life encountered male garments still on the male, I made a right hash of things. Mr. Steedstiff resorted, through self-preservation I assume, to removing articles himself. No matter, in short order he was as naked as Adam — sans fig leaf — trumpeting a tremendous erection. A prodigious expanse of greenery would have been required for cover. I covetously stroked.
“Finally,” Miss Frothinglips huffed. “Suckle and make it wet.” I sank to my knees and used both hands to grasp his bobbing prick. Opening my mouth to engulf the wet, shiny tip peeping from its sheath, she stepped closer and yanked my head away. “Not his cock, you dolt. Mine!” She slapped my face with her leather appliance for good measure. “Spit shine my knob, Ruby, before I plunder his arse.” She poked my lips and jabbed inside with remorseless pressure. I fear to say, she used me ill then. I choked and slobbered as she thrust into my throat.
For all the often brutality of males, when given the chance, it was females who serviced me the harsher every time. No matter, I thrived on such treatment and, in any case, she was too eager to wait much longer. After a few more pokes, while I held my breath, she withdrew from my drenched mouth. Her voice dropped an octave, the cool soprano thrill deepening into a rough gutter patois. “Suck his arsehole, Ruby. Use that talented tongue to pry open his bum for my weapon of ass destruction.” I helped him bend over, fist tight round his cock.
By now, I was the billiard ball to their cues; caroming from cushions to pockets with each strike. My tongue furry with his funk, she bade me grasp her dildo and guide the way into his tight fundament. His rod softened under her assault: I became superfluous to their lust. Each spoke as if on stage, actors reciting memorized lines flung out to mesmerized audiences night after night. I did not care to record the banter. Indeed, I felt a tad sorry for Mr. Steedstiff — who winced every time Miss Frothinglips drove her thick prick home with a loud slap.
Crawling beneath him, I nursed his weeping cock to life. With his slimy and tasty organ firmly ensconced in my mouth, I practiced my throating technique. For once unencumbered by supervision, my free hand succored my pussy. The scents, the sounds, the pure uninhibited lust brought me to a rolling boil, my essence squirting copiously and continuously. Mr. Steedstiff’s cloying spend I savored before swallowing with eagerness for more. I will say this in closing: From that moment forward, I ceased to play the role of hapless victim and was drawn into the many plots being woven all around me.
After I drained Mr. Steedstiff’s family jewels and Miss Frothinglips fully satiated her carnal appetites, I was finally released from service. My reward: to take the soiled dildo away to be cleaned — by me. I left the two furtive lovers to their devices; they commenced a game of ring-around-the-rosie, each lashing whips as they frolicked starkers. There were always rumors floating around amongst the hoi polloi about the ‘Great Houses’, but to witness firsthand the ways and means of aristocratic stress relief was rather disconcerting. As I scrubbed the used dildo in hot, soapy water I pondered why that was.
It’s a myth that only the upper classes strove to maintain the separation and status quo. Each rung of the servant ladder was fiercely contested as a matter of pride and place. The ruthless rulers of the “downstairs” — such as Mrs. Cleanknockers and Alastair the Butler — were as rigid about propriety as the stuffiest dowager or crusty titled lord. I know, I know, considering the sexual hijinks at Peacock House, it’s rather ironic. Speaking of the butler, I’d yet to make his acquaintance — in a naked way — a fact soon to change, for Saturday night was bathing time for staff.
In atypical fashion, procedures were inverted. Mrs. Cleanknockers bathed first, assisted by the head footman all the way down to the scullery boy. Alastair went next, the harem of giggling maids washing him with exuberance. Once the principals were nattily attired in dressing gowns and slippers, Mrs. Cleanknockers supervised the male servants in rank order. [Not rank odor] After they were clean — a hands-on inspection by her — fresh hot water filled the copper tubs and Alastair did similar close checking of all the nude female servants to the last in line. That was I, the newest and only bleeding member.
By then, everyone had left to enjoy an early evening without chores — other than the basic needs of any large establishment. The water was cool and dirty, but Alastair didn’t shirk, scrubbing and soaping my body from head to toes. I must admit to enjoying the process, his hands rubbed all the right spots. I wasn’t at Peacock House long enough to move more than a few rungs higher in priority, so I greatly enjoyed getting the chance to suck his cock once a week while it lasted. I hadn’t planned to do so, but I wanted to thank him.
After all, fondling and probing several dozen wet, naked females would make even the most uptight vicar stand up and point. He definitely seemed surprised when, after wrapping me in a fresh dry towel, I knelt on the damp rug and smoothly parted his gown at the waist. Having slightly more experience now in the ‘sizing up’ department, his cock was a nice squat five-incher. Perfect for swallowing whole. Alastair was stiff — in stance, not only genitalia — as I swirled my tongue and bobbed to and fro; my nose buried in his clean curlies while I savored with hollowed cheeks.
I couldn’t help but compare cock sucking with cunt lapping. It really drove home — as I stretched my throat — the differences between the sexes. I can honestly state I had no preference. Each time, with each different person was a completely new experience; one that I almost always enjoyed. And I most deliciously enjoyed Alastair’s copious spunk, the thickest volume I’d yet received as tribute. Evidently he seldom cleaned his pipes. I told him I’d gladly service him after the weekly washing. “It will be our little secret.” I wiped him off, tucked it back inside and closed the sash.
“Mrs. Cleanknockers would like a word with you, Ruby, posthaste.” His cool restrained tone would have seemed abnormal in most circumstances — never mind just after holding his jetting tumescence firmly in my mouth — but an English butler never loses his composure: even when he just, ‘did it’. It’s an awesome thing to witness and well worth the price of admission. So — like the dutiful demure maid I was — I gave him a saucy wink and trotted off to see my Mistress, wondering what she had in store for me. Hopefully some cruelly inventive punishment: having my period sucked donkey’s balls.
Firing off a crisp salute, I reported my status. “Ruby Slapumcheeks, present as requested, Ma’am! Ready and willing to serve your every whim.” Mrs. Cleanknockers made a sound. It was part sigh — akin to exasperation — and part involuntary giggle [like when someone farts in church]. “Sit down, Ruby.” Her attempt at being stern was slightly compromised by her failure to fully corral her smile. I did not press the issue. What! I can be good… when someone has something I want… or need. I desperately needed to be humiliated. Like an opium eater, I craved the feelings of being dominated.
At the time, I did not closely examine my desires. All I knew was that being punished and used sexually — the more callously the better — calmed my mind and set my body afire. It took months for the conflagration to reduce to a smolder and, for the rest of my life it took but a look or a threat to spark the beast back to roaring flames. Please understand; the process was not without guilt and tragedy. After the initial euphoria inevitably wore away under the pressure of routine life and events, it was years before I recaptured the thrill.
But enough cryptic rambling, Mrs. Cleanknockers had an agenda. “I am concerned about tomorrow’s outing with Mr. Jones-Smyth.” I scowled and crossed my arms. “Do not pout, Ruby, I am responsible for your well-being. I have raised my concerns with his Lordship, but he assures me the man has been fully vetted. However…” Her voice trailed off as her gaze slid past me into some infinite vista. Troubled by her demeanor, I attempted to coax forth the reasons behind her misgivings. “Does your perturbation stem from the other day, when he took my virginity?” She winced but fleetingly. “No, Ruby.”
“I admit I was, still am, upset that he savagely ravaged you—.” Under my breath I interrupted, “I’m not.” as she continued, “without our consent.” [Meaning his Lordship, the aristocratic ‘We’ implied] “However, from the very first time, months before you arrived, something about Mr. Jones-Smyth has rubbed me raw.” I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, intrigued despite my infatuation with and instinctive determination to defend my future spouse. “You have aroused my curiosity, Ma’am, for I admit to primarily having a physical reaction to him, not an intellectual response. I hope to have that opportunity tomorrow; weather permitting.”
“I will not rescind my permission, Ruby, I assure you. Please be… both you and Louisa… careful and vigilant.” Mrs. Cleanknockers seemed genuinely distressed on our behalves and I was moved to grasp her hands with a comforting gesture. “I will. We will. I promise.” Our tableau held for a long moment as she searched my expression for sincerity. “Thank you, Ruby. I must admit to being relieved by your comprehension of my anxiety.” She withdrew her fingers and straightened up, instantly regaining the superior position in our relationship. “Now that we’ve settled the outing, there is another important topic.”
Mentally rubbing my palms, I kept my face still but curious. “We have concluded, that your training has been much too strenuous and therefore are letting you go—” I did not hear the rest of her sentence, lost in the overwhelming terror of being turned out. My loud howl was a desperate ‘NO!’ and I flung myself at her feet, weeping hysterically and begging for another chance. The fear I felt was real. The worst possible outcome for someone in service was to be dismissed without reference. Nothing penetrated my anguish until Mrs. Cleanknockers shook me hard by the shoulders.
“RUBY!” She yelled. “Cease your caterwauling at once!” It took several minutes, but eventually I stopped wailing and was able to gulp back my tears. My wet face was efficiently blotted and I blew my nose into her sturdy linen handkerchief. I don’t believe she quite understood my distress until she looked me in the eye. “Did you think I meant you were being turned out?” Her voice was one of astonishment. Mutely I nodded. “Oh, Ruby.” Her arms opened wide with compassion. “Come here, you poor thing.” I crawled upon her ample lap, burying my face at her breast.
As she patted and stroked my back, her explanation picked up where I had lost the thread. “What you apparently did not hear was that we are letting you go slower in your training. Ordinarily, most new servants take at least a month to reach your level of engagement, but from the first, your enthusiasm and cheekiness have spurred us to be too harsh in our discipline.” I did not agree, but how was I to make my desires clear? Certainly Miss Frothinglips and Mr. Steedstiff had no qualms about venting their lust upon my tongue. That was a pun.
“Mrs. Cleanknockers? May I speak truly?” I sat up, slid to the floor and gazed imploringly at my mistress. “Do not think I am seeking to rise above my station, but I cannot but let you understand, that I do not believe the discipline I’ve so deservedly earned, has been too harsh. On the contrary, I’ve come to realize it’s what’s been missing in my life. I have gratefully shed my past like an over-patched coat and wish — no, need — to be taken deeper in submission to you, his Lordship and whomever else is directed to further my libidinous education.”
Her reaction to my impassioned speech was thoughtful regard. “You are unique, Ruby. Never have I met such a forthright creature as you. It is refreshing and yet, at the same time, quite vexing.” I grinned. “Then spank me.” Her returning smile was regretful. “Sadly, I must wait.” I pouted. “It’s not fair. A hand spanking shouldn’t be against the rules just because it’s that time of the month.” Her smile turned harder. “You do make an excellent argument. The Empire could use you in Parliament.” I giggled at the thought of me asking ‘The Question’ of the Prime Minister.
“I’d cause an apoplexy epidemic were that to happen! Besides, the Queen will never countenance woman’s suffrage.” I continued to press for an answer. “Does that mean you’ll take me over your knee and spank my vexing bottom hard?” She glanced at the clock on her mantle. Her lips pursed. “Perhaps… Come with me, Ruby.” She threw on a heavier wrap and exchanged slippers for shoes. Unlocking the Gun Room, she lit the nearest lamp. I scurried behind her, pulse racing in anticipation. What she took out of a drawer I’d yet to explore, was not a paddle or cane.
“What is that?” Mrs. Cleanknockers held up the object in question. “This is what I like to call, ‘The Bosom Buster’.” Placing it my hands while she turned and rummaged in the drawer once more, I examined the fiendish device. Constructed of two thin planks of wood, both ends of the narrow boards were secured with dual brass grommets and long threaded screws with winged heads. Curious, I turned one of the flanges; the boards squeezed closer at that end. Realization dawned. I flushed. I gushed. “What a wonderful idea. Clamping the titties like a washing wringer! I love it!”
“Then you’ll like these even better.” From Mrs. Cleanknockers’ fingers dangled what looked like thumbscrews from Her Majesty’s Royal Palace and Fortress of the Tower of London. “Oooooh,” I cooed. “Are those for my nips?” Her grin this time would have sent strong warriors fleeing for their lives. Silly men. Pain was pleasure. What need of the vote, when we had breasts to punish? “You’ve been a very, very naughty maid, Ruby. I’m afraid your demerits have given me no choice but to discipline you most severely.” I shivered, not in fear — not wholly — but needing to feel her domination.
With those few words, spoken firmly with a touch of regret, she sent my mind spiraling into a place that yearned for chastisement. Others through the years have asked me to quantify why it is I love submission so much. I cannot tell you. I don’t think a submissive really can explain the joy and pleasure found in surrendering to someone who takes what they want of your body, giving you peace in exchange. For me, and others of my ilk, [We have a private club and name] the quiet mind is a result of, not a preface of discipline.
When Mrs. Cleanknockers ordered me onto the padded table, crouching as a bovine, udders swinging freely, teats erect; my anxious lowing was not feigned. The vise slowly closed, one twist of her thumb and forefinger inexorably squeezing my breasts like fresh dough. Her running commentary, scolding and alluring, alternated between scathing putdowns and complementary observations. When she attached the serrated clamps to my engorged nipples, I screamed. It’s that lightning flash of pain — the searing nervous heat that parboils away the scar tissue of life. It wasn’t enough. I wanted to be whipped. I wanted to be fucked. I wanted.
Louisa soothed my bruised bosom as we lay in our cots, quietly talking about the upcoming ramble with Mr. Jones-Smyth. To her — and only her — I freely expressed my fears. “I’m not good enough for him,” I fretted. “What have I to offer someone like that? I’m nobody from nowhere, without an education, a smart mouth and a promiscuous soul. He could do so much better.” She wrestled me over, pinning my hands with little effort. “Ruby, that’s your flow talking. Mr. Jones-Smyth seems like a very pleasant fellow, if a bit awkward. I’m sure he’ll be up to scratch.”
If this is your first exposure to Ruby’s adventures, 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.
Spank Me Hard! ... Please? 