His Bride's Shameful Training

by Emily Tilton

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Additional Books in the Victorian Correction Series

  More Stormy Night Books by Emily Tilton

  Emily Tilton Links

  His Bride’s Shameful Training

  By

  Emily Tilton

  Copyright © 2018 by Stormy Night Publications and Emily Tilton

  Copyright © 2018 by Stormy Night Publications and Emily Tilton

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.

  www.StormyNightPublications.com

  Tilton, Emily

  His Bride’s Shameful Training

  Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson

  Images by Period Images and Shutterstock/PinkyWinky

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.

  Chapter One

  Miss Leticia Stewart, just eighteen in the spring of 1879 and soon to make her debut, complete with presentation to Her Majesty the queen, had very little idea even months later how she got into such terrible trouble. One thing, however, made itself perfectly clear from the beginning: Celia Deaver, the chambermaid who did for Leticia as she hoped one day a real ladies’ maid would, had taken a hand in bringing it about, the spiteful thing.

  How else could Leticia explain her mama’s knowing about the naughty journal? And of course Mama must tell Leticia’s ‘guardian’ Sir Henry. Leticia supposed she could blame Mama for doing that, but that was simply a result of how Mama coped with the trouble attendant on having a nearly grown daughter: she told Sir Henry everything, to ease her mind and in hope, always, of Sir Henry finally making his intentions plain. He had never said anything conclusive since coming into their ambit soon after Leticia’s eighteenth birthday, but Mama’s hopes, it seemed, sprang eternal.

  Celia Deaver, however, should have felt unending gratitude that Leticia had asked for her. Indeed, the soon-to-be debutante had begged the widowed Mrs. Stewart to elevate the girl from the scullery to maids’ duties, and then to bring the little flaxen-haired girl to town with them to serve the statuesque, brunette Leticia over whose beauty all the matrons exclaimed as her particular servant.

  “I didn’t!” Celia exclaimed when Leticia accused her of the crime, after Mama had sent her to bed without her tea and with the news that Sir Henry would take the matter under advisement, and would consult with a physician of his acquaintance who specialized in such matters.

  “You did!” Leticia practically screamed—would have screamed if she didn’t feel the need to keep from getting into even more trouble. Sir Henry had never spoken in anger to her, but the tall, dark-haired baronet sometimes wore an expression upon his face that made Leticia almost fearful, when he regarded the girl over whose coming out Mrs. Stewart had set him as a sort of watchdog—even though no formal legal guardianship existed. Sir Henry’s features seemed to say on those occasions that though Leticia might not misbehave in any technical fashion, he found her manner less than appropriate for a young lady to be presented at court.

  More, that demeanor of the baronet’s when around Leticia seemed to promise that one day, when the proper time had arrived, Sir Henry would do something about it. The thought made Leticia’s face get hot and sent a shiver down her spine, though of course she knew Sir Henry would never take any drastic measure.

  This consultation with a physician, though, vexed her most extremely, for she had no idea where it might lead. She found doctors stupid sorts of people, always trying to tell you what to eat and when to go to bed. A doctor had promised that Papa would get better, too, and then he had died in India. Leticia hadn’t known him, really, so the loss seemed more an idea than an emotion, but that idea suggested that she shouldn’t have to listen to anything a physician might say, especially when it came to something so very private, and, well, so very naughty.

  For how could Leticia deny its naughtiness, when the journal itself, addressed to a Mr. Barnes but delivered to Leticia’s hands by the postman, Jenkins the butler being absent, contained a depiction of similar naughtiness caught out and punished? Leticia had only read a few pages of one story, but the image of a young lady like herself whipped in school for drawing a picture of a naked woman, caned upon her bare bottom until she screamed and screamed, had burned itself into her memory in a terribly distressing fashion.

  Surely Sir Henry would never do anything like that. One heard stories of discipline meted out to other girls, but a baronet would not do such a thing—nor would a physician. Leticia tried to quiet her breathing with such reflections as she spoke to Celia in a fury she tried to keep as quiet as she possibly could.

  “I swear it, miss! I didn’t!” The girl had tears in her eyes, now.

  “How did Mama get the journal, then?” Leticia demanded, her face getting hot again as she remembered the terrible sight of the paper in her mother’s hand in the parlor, as she came in with a face full of wrath to confront her lovely daughter. “I put it at the bottom of this drawer!” She pointed to the lowest of the three drawers of her vanity table.

  “I don’t know, miss! I promise! I didn’t even know it was there!”

  But how could Leticia believe her? Hadn’t she caught Mr. Thrawn’s eye straying to the country girl’s pretty face and shapely bottom the previous day when he had come to call on Leticia, and Celia had laid the fire in the parlor? Everyone knew that men liked to have their way with a girl’s pretty maid, whatever that meant—for Leticia had only the vaguest idea of what it meant for a man to have his way.

  Looking at Celia, she suddenly wished both that the journal had never come to her and that she had read further in it, for she knew beyond a doubt that if she had turned a few more pages she would have learned a great deal about how men had their way. She bit her lip in vexation, a little sob coming from her chest.

  “I know it was you!” she exclaimed again. “You saw me put it in the drawer. I know you did! If… if I am…” Leticia hesitated, her belly seeming to fill with butterflies. “If I am…” her voice fell to a whisper, “punished… I promise I will make certain you are punished too!”

  Celia’s face crumpled, and she looked down, her own sob echoing Leticia’s.

  “You may go,” said Leticia coldly.

  “Yes, miss,” Celia choked out, and turned to leave the room.

  Leticia turned back to her mirror and saw that her face had grown very red, but that the heightened color certainly added to her beauty. As she heard Celia close the door behind her, Leticia closed her eyes and, to her dismay, the image of the girl whipped in school floated before her inne
r vision again. The feeling, like the butterflies in her midriff but further down, the strange faintness she had experienced when she read about the girl’s skirts being raised and her drawers lowered so that all her schoolmates could see the bare bottom their mistress meant to whip, then did whip so very sternly, returned so strongly that it made Leticia gasp.

  Surely Sir Henry would never…

  Leticia opened her eyes and found, in the mirror, that she had bitten her bottom lip. She found also that the sight of her face with that expression, as if Sir Henry had told her that she, Leticia, must have her bottom bared for the cane, made the feeling even worse.

  What was happening to her? Leticia looked about her bedchamber, trying to distract herself from the strange ideas to which it seemed her own reflection could somehow now give rise. Her bed stood a yard away. Should she get into bed? She had meant to read in her armchair, in the corner by the window, now that Celia had helped her get undressed and Leticia sat at the vanity table in only her thin night rail.

  She had an issue of The Young Ladies’ Journal on her little reading table that she had meant to peruse. She had meant also to brush her hair.

  If she got into bed, however, and lay on her side, Leticia could pull up her night rail just enough, under the bedclothes, that she might be able to… well, perhaps to discover something. And though Mama often said that a young lady must not manifest too much curiosity about matters that did not concern her, how could this not concern her, being a feeling that seemed to well up in the young lady’s own body?

  And Sir Henry, by contrast, often encouraged Leticia’s inquisitive nature, and allowed her to ask him even about debates in the House of Commons and rumors of war in the colonies.

  Her eyes fixed on the bed with its ruffled counterpane, so that she could keep from looking back into the mirror and seeing her irresolution and her guilt at the idea that had just come into her mind, Leticia chewed on the inside of her cheek. If it happened under the bedclothes, the thing she meant to do because the girl in the naughty journal that only men should read had done it, could it be truly naughty? After all, when the schoolmistress had bared her bottom and caned her, it had been for drawing the wicked picture, and not for what the girl said had inspired the picture.

  Leticia’s breath began to grow a little labored: two parts of her seemed to have begun a war.

  The part of her that wanted to sit and read about the royal family said that Mama had made herself entirely clear when she had entered the parlor carrying the filthy magazine: reading such things, and thinking about such things, brought ruin upon any girl. It would bring a particularly terrible sort of ruin upon a girl who stood in such a precarious position, as the heiress of a colonial fortune won by a decidedly middle-class civil servant. The men who would take an interest in a girl who read wicked stories intended only for men would rob Leticia of her fortune and leave her in the street, to seek her living in the dens of iniquity that stood ever open to such young ladies whose virtue had flown away at the thought of shameful bodily delight.

  “Wicked girls who think on such things—who give into low desires unworthy of their families and the friends who have labored so diligently on their behalf,” Mama had said, standing over Leticia with her eyes blazing fury in her still-beautiful, if now artfully maintained, oval face, “never prosper, Leticia Stewart. Never prosper.”

  Leticia, with tears in her eyes, had looked up at her in red-faced confusion, unable to speak a word.

  Mrs. Miles Stewart had continued, seeming slightly mollified by her daughter’s silence in the face of the reprimand, “You do not know the ways of men, child, and I hope you never will. And I speak even of good men like Sir Henry—they have their ways, with young women, as nature made them. I shall not speak further of the other sort—those who would want a girl who knows such wicked secrets as it seems you learned today. They never prosper, Leticia. That I promise you.”

  The precise mechanism of the downfall the naughty magazine would bring about, if read again or meditated upon, remained lamentably unclear to Leticia, despite the gravity of the situation admitting of no doubt whatsoever. That indistinctness, alas, seemed to serve the seductive purposes of the other side of the battle inside the soon-to-be debutante. For at the very same time Leticia felt desperate to know exactly how the men were interested in girls who read shameful journals and felt that surely what one did in one’s own bed, by oneself, could not harm one.

  She felt a crease come onto her forehead as she closed her eyes again: now it seemed she couldn’t even look at her bed without blushing. The girl in the journal had somehow known, just as Leticia did, that to touch herself between her thighs was wrong. Though she had read the story only once, the words seemed burned into Leticia’s brain, since they had seemed to name her own struggle.

  Why did it make me want to do it all the more, to imagine that if someone discovered me frigging my little cunny, I might be punished? I thought about it all the next morning in school, and I could not help myself: I drew a picture on my slate of Miss Treadle, the schoolmistress, with her legs open, doing what I had done in bed the night before.

  Leticia opened her eyes and darted from her chair to the bed. In a moment she had climbed in and under the bedclothes. She felt sure—part of her felt sure—that she meant only to go to sleep.

  But another part of her, it seemed, had charge of her left hand, which crept down to the hem of her night rail, and began little by little to pull it upward.

  Chapter Two

  Sir Henry Vexin stood observing his lovely young ‘ward’ through the peephole he had caused to be let into the wall that divided the next bedchamber, a guest room kept in general by Mrs. Stewart for Sir Henry’s frequent visits to the Stewarts’ London townhouse, from Leticia’s. He gently cursed the benighted customs of society that continued to permit young ladies the use of bedclothes: he resolved for the thousandth time that when he at last formed the forward-thinking household in which he intended to live once he had married Leticia, no woman over the age of eighteen and under the age of thirty should be allowed to sleep under covers—least of all his young bride.

  For now, nevertheless, he certainly did not mind watching the bedclothes move ever so slightly just over the place where Sir Henry now had not the slightest doubt his charmer had begun to explore the strange new delights to be found in her maiden cunny. Once he had her in his fond clutches, in the happy situation he had devised for her connubial bliss and his masterful sexual satisfaction, he would require her to sleep naked, and to touch herself between her thighs only when he wished his bride to show her obedience to him, her lord and master.

  Then of course, before his sweet girl spent, he would order her to take her naughty hand away, and roger her in every tender place suited to the entry of his prick, above all in her young bottom and her sweet mouth. Sir Henry had no desire for a large family, having already three illegitimate sons, one of whom he would one day adopt as his heir. He would use Leticia’s sweet cunny every night, but he would finish in the tightness of her anus, just as Dr. Reginald Brown, the noted physician and an acknowledged expert in these matters, recommended to those he called natural men.

  The ruffled counterpane moved only a little in the dim light of Leticia’s bedchamber, but the girl could not keep herself from sighing and whimpering and even moaning as she taught herself to frig her little cunt, just as the girl in the naughty first story of the Journal of the Refined Gentleman had done the night before her first caning. The time had arrived for the next phase of Sir Henry’s wicked plan, at least as the matrons of the world would see it. He rang for Celia, and she arrived in her shift, clearly ready for bed.

  Perfect, the baronet thought.

  “Celia,” he said when she arrived at his chamber door. “Pray go and look in at Miss Leticia. I believe she may be in some distress. Go in quietly in case she is only having a bad dream.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the charming country girl. Celia Deaver played an important role in t
he current version of Sir Henry’s plan, though he supposed her part might be taken by any pretty young maid. He had to admit to himself, though, that he would feel some regret were Celia not to be the fucking piece he intended to serve as Leticia’s ladies’ maid. The very thought of his wedding night, when he would fuck both his bride and her maid and instruct them equally in the ways of matrimony according to his intentions—which would of course be as law to them—made his cock swell hugely beneath his dressing gown.

  A wicked man with a wicked plan, Sir Henry generally termed himself both when looking in his shaving glass and when addressing such men of his acquaintance as had become conversant with the work of Dr. Brown. He had once termed himself thus to Dr. Brown himself, when they had first met to consult on Sir Henry’s desired marital arrangements, but the sandy-haired Scottish physician had demurred.

  “I prefer,” he had said, his R’s burred and his vowels broad, “to take every measure I may in conducting my battle against our unenlightened times. I will not call myself wicked—nor you, Sir Henry, nor any other natural man who does not force a girl to do aught that is truly against her will. I understand why a natural man would take pleasure in calling himself as you have just done, for natural men cannot but enjoy flouting the strictures of a false morality that seeks to chain them, impotent to realize their masculine rights. But I cannot endorse it.”

  Sir Henry, as he waited for Celia to make her entrance in Leticia’s bedchamber, wondered again, as he often did, how the good doctor could couch such stimulating thoughts in a language so intellectual that his interlocutor often did not even realize what the Scot truly meant until later, when salacious thoughts came almost unbidden into his head. Dr. Brown had meant that Sir Henry should not think himself wicked for wishing to cane and to fuck Miss Leticia Stewart’s pert, lovely bottom—that he should have no compunction in bringing it about that the outwardly modest, innocent, proper young lady cry out under his pounding cock as he took her anal virginity after whipping her for touching her cunt.