His Bride's Shameful Training

by Emily Tilton

  On that aspect of Sir Henry’s plan—as on the vast majority of the schemes he had unfolded to Dr. Brown upon that first meeting—he and the doctor agreed. Nor did the parts of his design as to which the physician had expressed reservations constitute, the good doctor assured him, any true bar to obtaining his medical expertise, always assuming the emolument be prompt and generous.

  The more questionable aspects of the plan, after all, did not call for any compulsion to be exercised on either Leticia or her maid.

  “As long as you understand that I will stand in your way, Sir Henry,” the doctor had finished, “should you try to exert force upon any young lady in order to enjoy coitus with her, we shall do well together. As I say, your ideas concerning the docking of these girls’ pleasure intrigue me greatly despite their appearance of running counter to my general philosophy. I pledge to help you monitor their training as your sexual outlets as much to help them reach the erotic bliss that is every natural girl’s right as to ensure your rightful pleasure as a natural man.”

  The moment about to unfold could, Sir Henry supposed, transpire in several different ways, but he felt certain that any of them would serve his purpose: all that mattered was Celia’s impending discovery of what the filthy journal had brought about.

  “Miss?” Celia called softly. Sir Henry praised himself inwardly for providing himself with several other small apertures in the wall between him and the object of his dominant desires, these—unlike the peephole through which he gazed—being covered with the wallpaper on either side so as to make them invisible though they let through the sounds in Leticia’s chamber to her unofficial guardian nearly as well as if he had stood there next to her.

  Celia had called so very softly the first time that Leticia’s passionate moans of illicit self-pleasure must have obscured the sound: the counterpane still moved, more urgently if anything, and the naughty girl gave a sob of arousal so moving that Sir Henry wanted to rush into the chamber himself and reassure his girl that the delight her sweet cunny gave had nothing amiss in it, no matter what he intended to put her through.

  The baronet, however, had resolved never to lose sight, in his handling of his intended bride’s erotic training, of a certain duty he had convinced himself lay upon him. Though Dr. Brown himself expressed a certain skepticism as to the method, he agreed with Sir Henry about the need to teach Leticia—and Celia, too, as the occasion arose—to experience the fullness of pleasure to which a girl’s cunt might give rise, when a natural man decided to possess her according to his right of the phallus.

  His innocent Leticia had only just now discovered what happened when wicked fingers found burning clitoris, sensate cunt petals, and the wet, naughty depths of a young woman’s vagina. To interrupt in her lewd pursuits would now constitute only the beginning of the ‘docking’ he intended her cunny to receive, all for the sake of allowing her to welcome the overwhelming pleasure she would find in serving Sir Henry’s cock when the proper time arrived. Other natural men could content themselves with girls who had been taught to regard pleasure as a right: Sir Henry wanted to take sexual charge of a young lady who would see it as a privilege granted her by her lord and master.

  “Miss, what are you doing?” Celia asked, closer to the bed and louder now.

  The motion of the bedclothes stopped abruptly, and Leticia scrambled beneath them, in obvious and utter confusion. She tried to rise to a sitting position but, perhaps fearing that the motion of the covers would allow her maid to see that she had raised her night rail above her waist to allow access to her soaking, dark-haired cunny, she froze in the middle of the action.

  Sir Henry could not have been more pleased with the girl’s presence of mind, then, as she seemed to hit upon a plan that showed her intelligence despite its being doomed to failure.

  “Celia?” she said in a theatrically mock-drowsy voice. “Is that you? I… I think I had… I was dreaming.”

  The baronet waited now upon tenterhooks, for Celia’s response would undoubtedly form the foundation for the next stage of his training of the two girls.

  “Oh, miss,” the maid said in a sympathetic whisper, “I know what you was doing. It’s alright, no matter what they say.”

  Leticia gave a little gasp at this unexpected declaration from the country girl. Sir Henry felt a grin spread across his face. He had strongly suspected that Celia would retreat, and that he would have to exert his influence and even his purse to force the maid to tell Mrs. Graves the housekeeper what she had observed. To have Celia sympathize with her miss’s self-pleasure went beyond anything he could have imagined. He would need to handle matters with delicacy, but a great deal of pleasure would, he felt sure, accrue to his account as a result of this development.

  “I… I don’t know what you mean, Celia. I… Leave me at once! I was… I had a dream.”

  For a moment Sir Henry thought his new hopes had just received a dashing, but Celia it seemed had more brazenness than he had expected. She spoke in a tone that the baronet thought positively coy.

  “Don’t be frightened, miss. When I turned eighteen my friend Nell taught me how to do it, and I do it myself nearly every night. It helps me get to sleep, when I make myself spend. Mrs. Graves catches me and whips me sometimes, but it is worth the pain, I promise.”

  “You… you wicked girl!” Leticia exclaimed in a whisper, trying desperately, it seemed, to find a way to deny that of which Celia clearly had no doubt. “I don’t know what you mean!”

  Now Celia’s voice took on a teasing quality, and Sir Henry realized that the maid must have understood in an instant the power her discovery had given her over Miss Leticia. Bold, clever girl, he thought with positive admiration. I had thought I must persuade you to use that power.

  “Hush, miss,” she said, crossing the remaining distance to the bed. “Why don’t I have a look at your little cunny and see whether it knows what I mean? Or your naughty fingers? Should I have a sniff at them and see if I can tell where they’ve been?”

  Then, to the baronet’s delight, the maid simply raised Leticia’s bedclothes and threw them back to show that the girl had indeed raised her night rail almost to her lovely small breasts. Sir Henry had a delicious glimpse of his untried maiden’s lightly furred cunt as she hastened to put her nightclothes to rights with a little cry of dismay.

  Bold as brass itself, Celia climbed right into bed with her young mistress. “Nell kissed me down there,” she said softly, apparently mollified to have discovered such easy evidence of Leticia’s naughtiness. “And she made me kiss her, too, even though it tasted very funny. I shall make you kiss my cunny, though, miss, right now—or I shall tell Mrs. Graves, and Sir Henry, what I found you doing.”

  Sir Henry chuckled in deep appreciation, shaking his head in wonder at his good fortune. Celia reached down and began to raise the hem of her shift.

  “Go ahead, miss. It’s you as had the wicked journal. Now you must learn to do the things you read about. Get on down the bed and I will teach you to kiss my cunt.”

  Chapter Three

  Celia didn’t truly know how she had found the boldness to do what she had just done, or whether it would continue so long as to allow her actually to do it: to make her mistress pleasure her so shamefully. The way Miss Leticia had spoken to her earlier, though, accusing her of revealing the presence of the wicked magazine, had made Celia’s blood boil in her veins.

  How could Miss Leticia suspect her, the girl who had, before this evening, felt such devotion to her young mistress? Celia had felt certain her life had finally come right—that Miss Leticia would keep her on, and all the hardship of the life upon the farm in Devon, for which alone her uncle had cruelly declared Celia fit, would vanish forever. ‘Uncle’ Paul Hoskins did not stand in any actual blood relation to Celia Deaver, but the girl had been made to call him uncle from the day he had taken her in at age eighteen.

  For the orphan girl, the day Miss Leticia had fallen from her hunter and come to the farmhouse to ask
for assistance in finding her way to the village, stood in memory as a sort of miracle. Blushing, Celia had brought the beautiful young lady in the fine pink coat a cup of water. She had never learned, really, why Miss Leticia Stewart had asked whether she might wish to go into service, and the sheer wonder of it—the look upon her uncle’s face, in particular, and upon her friend Nell’s, who stayed with them, when the fine young lady requested that Celia be sent to Hartvane, the Stewarts’ manor house—clung still to the recollection.

  From that moment until this strange, terrible evening, Celia had lived in a dream as Mrs. Graves, the housekeeper at Hartvane, took the country girl under her wing and taught her first the duties of a scullery girl and then of a chambermaid. Her tasks might not require less time than her chores upon the farm had done, but they smelled better—with the exception, Celia supposed, of the chamber pots—and above all she had before her the prospect of so much more: of Miss Leticia marrying someone grand, and Celia being a ladies’ maid—the sort of servant who turned her nose up at a chambermaid as a chambermaid did at a scullery girl.

  The world of the Stewarts simply had a wider view than Celia had ever imagined she might know, living on the farm with her uncle—and even with Nell, about whom she never thought without a blush. Until the wicked journal had arrived, all had seemed so likely to come right for Celia that Miss Leticia’s terrible accusation had struck the country girl with crushing force. Surely, Celia had thought, if her mistress held such anger, she would send her chambermaid back to the farm in disgrace, and her uncle would sneer and tell Celia that he had told her so.

  Nor had Celia even seen the magazine, before Mrs. Stewart brought it into the parlor with that look of fury upon her face! Celia felt vast pride in her quick progress in reading under the tutelage of Mrs. Graves, so she could have read it, she supposed, if she had even known it existed. But she hadn’t!

  Only, when Mrs. Stewart had told Celia to deliver the journal to Mrs. Graves to consign to the fire, Celia had opened the cover in curiosity. Her face had grown hot in an instant when she had seen some of the words Nell had taught her—words she hadn’t even known you could put into letters. She had wondered for a moment, wildly, whether Mrs. Graves even knew that the letters she had taught the country girl could be made to say the terrible word Nell had whispered, which Celia herself had just whispered to Miss Leticia.

  I touched my cunt, the story said, and She bared my bottom, and I frigged my wet little cunny for hours that night.

  It had brought back to her mind those nights with Nell in the bed they shared in the farmhouse, and it had made Celia feel faint. She had tried, in service with the Stewarts, to put well behind her both the shame and the pleasure of what her friend had taught her. She hadn’t needed to ask Mrs. Graves whether a girl in service was allowed to touch herself down there: something about the woman’s manner, let alone the manner of her mistress the widow Stewart, seemed to say that farm girls did such rude things but chambermaids never stooped to such earthy practices.

  Even Nell had made it clear to Celia that she must never tell her uncle that the girls frigged and kissed in bed at night.

  “If you tell,” Nell had said, “I’ll say you started it.”

  Celia hadn’t even managed to say that she could very do well the same, and be more likely to be believed since Nell was the elder of them. She had thought it, for a moment, but then she had remembered that her uncle sometimes looked at Nell as if he might have designs on her—his eyes somehow displaying both affection and a hunger that made Celia’s tummy feel funny. No, if Nell said Celia had begun their wicked games, her uncle would thrash her the more if Celia claimed it had happened another way.

  Nell had first taught Celia to play with her cunny after a thrashing, in fact. Uncle had taken the punishment strap to her backside over the stool in the kitchen that he used for the girls’ corrections, as he called them. He had savagely whipped Celia’s little bottom for letting the milch cow kick over the bucket that morning, and then sent her to bed without tea—much as, she reflected now, Miss Leticia had been sent, though without the thrashing.

  Nell had slipped into bed with the still weeping Celia and whispered, “I know something to make it feel better.”

  Her friend hadn’t made Celia do anything that night. On the next night, though, Celia was made kiss the cunt that, Nell then confessed, Uncle had opened with his stiff prick the previous week.

  “He told me he will marry me one day,” she had whispered. In the dark Celia had thought she could feel the heat from Nell’s cheeks even as she seemed to feel another kind of warmth creeping from her whipped bottom toward the front. When Nell had spoken of such things, it had seemed to make Celia’s own cunny begin to glow in a way that she somehow knew must be wicked.

  Even if she had felt a strange fascination to know what it would feel like to have a man put his thing there, the way a stallion did when a mare came into heat, she had known that on men and women those places were not to be talked about: a girl got punished for talking rudely even about the mating of animals. Now Nell had whispered that a girl had a cunt and a man had a prick, and it had made Celia, too, blush all over.

  “Uncle says most men call it a prick, but I must learn to call it his cock instead,” Nell had said, even as she guided Celia’s hand down between her legs, to feel how open the fucking had made her friend’s cunny. “He fucks me every afternoon while you are mucking out the stalls. He shoots his seed in my mouth, or on my belly, so that I will not have a baby before the time is right.”

  “Does it hurt?” Celia had asked, then, sure that it must be terribly painful to have a cock in you, thrusting hard.

  “Not anymore,” Nell had sighed. “Oh, move your fingers, Celia. That’s it: oh, it’s so lovely. Are you frigging yourself, too? It will make you feel better, just as Uncle’s cock makes me feel better when he fucks me after a whipping.”

  Tentatively Celia had put her left hand between her thighs, pulling up her shift. When she touched the place she knew now to call her cunny, she had felt such mingled delight and yearning for more that she had almost wished her horrid uncle would fuck her, too, the way he fucked Nell. She had cried out, her voice reminding her of how she had sobbed over the punishment stool. How could pain and pleasure lie so close together, she had wondered desperately.

  “That’s it,” Nell had said softly. “There you go. Now keep frigging your cunny while you kiss mine. Uncle did that the other day, and it felt so good.”

  “Please, no,” Celia had pleaded, her cheeks burning. Touching Nell, and even touching herself, had seemed like the naughtiest thing imaginable already. The thought of putting her face down there, of kissing that shameful part of Nell with its wetness and its thatch of hair, the place where Uncle put his hard cock, had made her feel faint.

  But Nell had seemed so afire with a need for pleasure that her sweet friend had become harsh and imperious.

  “If you do not, Celia,” she had whispered vehemently, “I will tell Uncle that you touched your cunt and tried to make me touch it, too. I am sure he will believe me, for he loves me, and I even let him fuck my bottom yesterday when he told me the time had come to teach me a wife’s hardest duty. He will whip you again, and I will make sure you are not allowed to play with your cunny afterward.”

  Celia had given a little cry as much at this strange news about Nell’s poor bottom-hole as at the hardness in the usually kind girl’s voice. Nell had relented a bit, then. “Come now, I will tell you how it happened as you kiss me, and I will kiss you, too, when you have made me spend. But my cunny needs kissing, Celia, dear… please?”

  Then Nell had placed her hands on Celia’s shoulders and pressed, urging her down the bed, and Celia, though still in great confusion as to why, had obeyed. Nell had raised her shift all the way to her breasts, and she had rubbed her little nipples with her thumbs as she turned on her back and spread her milky thighs for Celia to crouch between them, looking down in the dim light from the half-moon
outside the window.

  Her face had burned all the more as she saw Nell’s young cunt exposed, pink folds glistening with the strange wetness that seemed to gather there when a girl thought of rude matters—of cocks and bottoms and whipping and fucking. Again Nell had used her hands to command virginal Celia: she had taken hold of Celia’s head and pulled her face toward the warm, fragrant place.

  “Kiss me,” she had begged, her cruelty forgotten. “Please, Celia. Please kiss my cunny.”

  Celia had given a tiny whimper at the way Nell’s voice made her own cunny seem to clench, and she had bent to give a little kiss at the top, where her fingers had found such pleasure between her own thighs. She had put her hand down again so that she could keep touching herself even as she kissed and licked all over Nell’s complicated privates, blushing when she realized how very close the little flower of her friend’s bottom lay to the cunt where nature decreed man should enter.

  “Uncle said that I must learn to have his cock in my bottom,” Nell had whispered. “Oh. Celia. That feels lovely. I shall spend soon.”

  Celia still had not understood precisely what Nell meant by spend, but something about the way her body seemed to respond to the terrible story of Nell’s first bottom-fucking made the pleasure her fingers gave down there grow: to spend must somehow be the acme of that feeling, she had guessed instinctually.

  “It hurt very much at first, but Uncle said that a good wife knows her husband uses that part of her for his pleasure, just as he does her cunt and her mouth.” Nell’s voice had grown breathless, her words sounding more like whimpers. Her little noises had taught Celia to keep licking just at the top, where the little bud whose name she still did not know lay hidden in its wrinkly hood. She hadn’t known why, but the thought of Uncle fucking Nell’s bottom made her fingers move more urgently between her legs: indeed at that moment, just before Nell had shown her what another girl looked like when she spent, Celia herself had reached that peak, and given a startled, muffled scream into Nell’s cunny while her own radiated such pleasure through her body that she had thought for a moment she would not be able to bear it, and must swoon.