The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 3)

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.

You can go to this page which has links to all the complete previous chapters.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 2)

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.

You can go to this page which has links to all the complete previous chapters.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 1)

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!”

You can go to this page which has links to all the complete previous chapters.

It wasn’t called Willendorf back then

This week’s prompt for Wicked Wednesday is, Venus in Furs after the erotic novel published in 1870. I don’t recall ever reading it—if I did, it left no impact—and besides that, it wasn’t the first thing that popped in my head when I read the prompt. This was:

Venus of Willendorf

From Wikipedia: The Venus of Willendorf is an 11.1-centimetre-high (4.4 in) Venus figurine estimated to have been made between about 28,000 and 25,000 BCE.[1] It was found in 1908 by a workman named Johann Veran[2] or Josef Veram[3] during excavations conducted by archaeologists Josef Szombathy, Hugo Obermaier and Josef Bayer at a paleolithic site near Willendorf, a village in Lower Austria near the town of Krems.[4][5] It is carved from an oolitic limestone that is not local to the area, and tinted with red ochre. The figurine is now in the Naturhistorisches Museum in Vienna, Austria.

My next reaction to the prompt was Lupercalia and the ancient concept of whipping to chase away evil spirits or to ensure fertility. There were and still are many cultures and places that have some variation of spring festivals echoing much older rituals of blood and appeasement to stern gods. [See Czech Easter whipping or Dominican Mardi Gras]

So imagine if you will, the above Venus as the leader of her tribe; perhaps a medicine woman, or mate to the strongest warrior. Now, it is nearing the solstice, winter has been harsh, some have died; the oldest and youngest: the shamans seek migrating herds in the spirit world while the remaining food is portioned out for the survival of all. They have fire, a large stack of dead-fall saved for this occasion when the snow has melted off the lowlands and green shoots are pushing up through fertile soil. The flames roar into the night sky, distant green and yellow eyes glow as the predators slink away hungry. The drums beating a steady pulse of rumbling noise, the flutes whistling while dancers stamp around the crackling pine boughs. Suddenly, the eerie moaning of flat bone on a string whirled above by spinning arms heralds the arrival of Venus in furs…

She appeared—as she had for the last fifteen springs—in a billowing cloud of red ochre tossed down by acolytes from the overhanging granite that loomed out over the winter camp. It drifted like snow, whirling in the heat of the bonfire and settling as ash upon the dancers, soon turning to scarlet streaks as the sweat mingled with the sacred powder. It fell too, on the smooth limestone slab supported by mammoth feet and centered within four large tusks at the cardinal points; the tips meeting above and lashed together with leather thongs. The carved ivory glowed deep orange.

Helga raised her arms to the stars above, the heavy cave bear pelt spilling off like a dark waterfall; her head covered by the furry mask of an ursine face snarling with bared teeth. The music built to a crescendo as she prayed out loud to the gods of her people, then slowly ebbed as the frenzy eased: there was silence by the time she’d finished chanting. She walked with slow, deliberate tread towards the altar, her cloak rippling leaving behind a wake of flesh tingling power that raised hairs on bare limbs.

Blessing each tusk in turn by grasping with powdered fingers and a firm kiss, she then poured hot water over the limestone and slid her palms in an intricate pattern until the surface turned red. She turned towards her dwelling and beckoned with upraised hands. All but her, knelt on one knee and bowed heads as the two bound figures were brought forth into the wavering light. Helga knew from her teachings that in the not-too-distant past, the slab would have been drenched with blood, instead of ochre dug from the earth. These were enlightened times, compared to the savage ancestors they still revered, but did not always follow.

The young man and woman were at their peak of physical perfection. Selected the previous autumn by contests of skill and prowess, they’d been given the best of provisions and pampered through the long, cold winter months. Now it was their time to give back to the community through sacrifice in hopes of a fertile summer of plenty. Naked, they’d been oiled and shaved completely bare, then painted with elaborate tribal markings and secret tattoos that would send the shaman’s messages, when activated, directly to the spirit world. Helga was responsible for the activation. She carried out her duty via a multi-thong whip created with soft strips of leather from every type of animal killed and consumed the prior year.

Led to the altar, the man and woman were secured facing each other with wrists high at the top of curved tusks, while ankles were spread and wrapped around the base where the ivory posts sank deep into the soil. Helga tugged on each rope making sure the pair could not escape or slump to the ground. She checked each and every mark to make sure all were correct. When she finished her inspection, she once more raised her arms and chanted, this time joined by all present. The music started again when they finished. Dancers began to circle the sacrifices, each pounding the earth with a branch cut off at a wide base. The vibrations shivered through their soles. Her acolytes solemnly removed her cave bear cape and handed her the whip, the wooden handle freshly coated with red ochre. She drew back her arm—and struck on the beat.

The tribe triumphantly cried out as one as the ‘splat’ cracked in the cool night air. Helga alternated between the man and woman, each blow precise, starting at the shoulders and steadily working all the way down to the calves. Each turn around the limestone slab was slightly quicker until she was trotting, her heavy breasts wobbling, and feet kicking up puffs as she whipped past the writhing and groaning figures. The dancers too ran in a wide circle, the noise a loud roar as they witnessed the artistic designs dissolved by sweat and the remorseless whip being swung with ever increasing force upon the reddened naked backs and bottoms of the male and female. Helga stopped: the drums settled into a steady beat as the dancers slowed and then swayed in place gasping for air.

The man and woman were turned in place so that their decorated fronts now faced the whip. Helga changed the pattern. Starting with the female, she lashed the firm breasts, powder exploding in colorful poofs as the thongs impacted. Moving down, she whipped in a crisscross pattern across the abdomen, pelvis and thighs. With an upward motion, the last hard strike was between the wide stretched open thighs as the wet leather slapped against the red outlined vulva. The woman screamed as the force of the blow broke open the deer intestine capsule that had been glued in place. Blood spurted and splattered on the churned soil. Moving to the opposite side, Helga repeated her actions on the male, only this time, when the whip lashed his exposed genitals, the breaking capsule glued to his testes, gushed warm sperm in a parody of fertilization.

Their ordeal was not over yet; released from bondage, the woman was laid on her back, the damp limestone providing only slight relief to the raised welts. The man was placed on top, his flaccid penis rubbed and stroked by Helga until it became fully erect. At her command, he entered the oiled vagina with a deep thrust, the whip fell once more upon his red bottom. After twenty strokes, the entwined couple reversed and it was the woman’s turn to be lashed adding yet more red lines to her buttocks. The final position was from behind, mimicking how all the animals they observed mated. Bodies scoured, passions inflamed, nearly the entire tribe fell on each other in a massive celebratory orgy releasing the lust built by up the whipping.

Helga calmly stepped away and walked back to her abode: alone. She needed to travel deep into the spirit world to guide the tribes’ sexual energy to the proper place.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Kismet of Submission: Episode 6

They reseat themselves, her shopping bags no longer a barrier, and slide hip-to-hip. Now that the permission has been tacitly given, the sexual attraction they both feel—to varying degrees—sends the pheromones spurting like fungi spores. He folds the brochure into neat quarters, and hands it over to her, pointing out the two workshops he’s interested in attending.

We—and all those in the vicinity—are jolted by the loud unrestrained bark of laughter from Tamara. Even from our casual observation, backs against the far wall, we can see the sparkle in her eyes and the proprietary manner in which she strokes his forearm. Her fingers linger on his bare skin as her mirth gradually subsides. His expression is far harder to read. A quirk of the mouth, a pat on the back of her hand: his raised eyebrow clearly requesting a clarification. There are few things in life more entertaining than watching a mating dance; all that’s left to do is work out the timing. Smitten would vastly overstate the attraction, but every relationship has to start somewhere; with someone lowering the drawbridge.

‘Really? They’re having a workshop called “Good anal is not like drilling for oil.”’

‘You wanted to know what else turned me on. Anal does.’

‘Can I ask why?’

‘Maybe it’s connected to spanking, I don’t know. I just know that of the two choices—three actually—I prefer anal. When a woman is on all fours, reaches back and spreads her cheeks, that tight little pucker makes my cock painfully hard.’

‘Hmmmm: Let me read the rest of the choices out loud. “Dirty Grrls and Naughty Boys: double standards at work.” That one I could definitely be on the panel. Sexual harassment is endemic in the hospitality industry. “Impact Play and Ropes: Evil Twins?” What’s impact play mean?’

‘It’s when a Dom uses implements all over the body, to impart sensations. Usually with a flogger or a whip that reddens the skin but doesn’t leave lasting marks. The cane on the buttocks is more often used for punishment than impact.’

‘Then I assume that the victim is usually tied up, thus the ropes?’

‘Not a victim, Tamara, a willing—nay, eager—participant.’

‘Oooookay. Moving on then. “If you can’t deal with the blood, run back to mommy.” That sounds rather nasty. I presume it’s about periods and earth women. Not that I’m judging. “Feminism: the real ‘F’ word.” Okay. Didn’t we just have that lecture this morning? Why do women always seem to tear at each other with claws over what makes a feminist?’

‘Can’t answer that one, I’m afraid. I think it has more to do with lack of progress and the male-dominated political arena than housewives versus roller bladers. Divide and conquer has splintered more than one constituency to the benefit of the powerful.’

‘Well, I can tell you that “Finding the Erotic in the Mundane”, sounds rather boring, and “A Little more understanding: the DDlg dynamic” seems creepy.’

‘It’s not. I know several DDlg couples online, and it has nothing whatsoever to do with pedophilia, but with feeling safe and cared for by a tender, loving Dom who provides strict boundaries and stern discipline. Ultimately, it’s about trust, and opening up to those things that make you the happiest. If being a little girl to your Daddy helps you get through all the day-to-day crap, then go for it.’

‘Then I guess anal it is, along with your second choice, “Submission: not just for doormats anymore.” I don’t think I’m submissive either, Sir, it’s too scary.’

‘But that’s what makes a submissive fly. The knowledge that they’ve given their Dom permission to use them however they want. Sex and discipline without a net is mindboggling.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’

Satiated by our earlier purchases, we decide to follow them into the room for the anal presentation. There is a brief tug-of-war: Tamara prefers the back, he the front. They compromise on the middle row, on the center aisle. The demonstrators are a couple, male and female, and are busy setting up the final displays. There are about fifty chairs, and promptly at two in the afternoon, the moderators welcome the thirty odd folks who have decided to take a load off and sit for an hour.

‘Welcome to, “Good anal is not like drilling for oil”, and thank you so much for your attendance. My name is Cathy and this is Heathcliff. A little background, Heathcliff here is a Registered Nurse and I run my own company called “Happy Sex is Great Sex”. We decided to host this workshop in hopes that we can dispel some of the myths and perhaps provide some new information to those that have never tried anal before. Heathcliff, would you like to start?’

‘Thanks, Cathy. Welcome everyone. First of all, I would like to say that anal sex is not unnatural, is not a perversion and when done safely, can be pleasurable to both males and females, giving and receiving. I have here latex molds of both sexes; in medical terms, the major difference between male and female rectums, is that males of course have a prostrate gland. However, from a sensation aspect, the clitoral nervous system can also be stimulated in females through anal sex. For the most part, the anal nerve endings are clustered around the anus, and inside the rectum is primarily flexible flesh. Which is why finger play and anallingus—application of the tongue to the anus—is so pleasurable. It is highly recommended that before engaging in any anal play, at a minimum, the anus is cleansed with soap and water, and/or an enema is performed. Just to be clear, ingestion of fecal matter either through anallingus or ass-to-mouth of the penis or of a toy, is something that should be avoided, but is not likely to cause any significant discomfort. Needless to say, a condom should be used every time, including a toy. I realize that anal plugs are not designed for condoms, but I’m simply covering my ass here.’

To read all the Kismet of Submission episodes in order, please go to this page for individual links.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 7 Complete

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.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 7 (Part 30)

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.

You can go to this page which has links to all the complete previous chapters.