Her Shameful Training

by Emily Tilton

  Her Shameful Training

  By

  Emily Tilton

  Copyright © 2019 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

  Her Shameful Training

  Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson

  Image by iStock/lisegagne

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

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  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

  Additional Books in the Victorian Correction Series

  More Stormy Night Books by Emily Tilton

  Emily Tilton Links

  Chapter One

  Miss Joanna Middleton awoke in a strange bed, to the sound of a gentleman’s voice. She knew even before she opened her eyes, and despite the terror that the almost indefinable feeling of being in the wrong bed instilled, that he must be a gentleman. His voice’s entire unfamiliarity to her, and the alarm occasioned by his very masculinity notwithstanding, his accent and his manner told Joanna that at least she could rely on his breeding.

  “Arise, Joanna,” the deep voice said. “Open those lovely blue eyes, if you please.”

  She struggled desperately to cling to the idea that as a gentleman, to judge again from the sound of his voice and the way it rose and fell with the same elegant rhythm Joanna knew so well from the drawing rooms both of town and country, he must intend to restore her to her own home, as foolish as she had proven herself to leave it. Something hard and commanding in his tone, though, despite the obvious breeding to be heard there, made her heart quail. He had after all just called her by her Christian name, and he had taken an unpardonable freedom in the way he had described her eyes. Joanna did not want to open her eyes, suddenly; not in the slightest. She feared what she would see when she did.

  Then, an instant later, she realized from a slight motion of her limbs under the bedclothes that she had nothing on those limbs—not even her shift, which she remembered now she had most definitely had on when she went to bed in the frightening room at the inn in Cheshire. For a moment she thought she had recalled where she was—she had, she supposed, gone to sleep there, and now she had awoken there, and she had simply forgotten: Joanna would open her eyes, now, and she would see the room whose smallness and meanness had, as passive and unpretentious to menace as those characteristics might seem, alarmed her so much when she finally reached the tiny chamber after what had on its own already seemed such a perilous journey up to that point.

  Joanna had definitely had her shift on when she had gotten into bed. She had tried to brush her hair, as a means of calming herself and a way, as she had said to her heart, of accustoming herself to a life without a ladies’ maid. She had felt a good deal of pride in having manifested the temerity and presence of mind to carry her ivory-backed brushes away from Weatherstone. As she had attempted to perform the familiar ritual for herself, though—the ritual performed every night by her sweet little maid Sally—her hands had trembled, and even if Joanna had known how to brush her hair in the approved manner used by ladies’ maids and chambermaids (of which latter species Sally was an example) alike, she would not have had the power of concentration necessary to the task.

  She had not remembered to carry away her dressing gown, either, which made the theft—as Joanna had to admit the world would term it, since she had until her reckless flight lived entirely as a dependent of her ‘friend’ Mrs. Mund, mistress of Weatherstone—of the brushes seem ridiculous. The more she shivered as she sat at the horrid little dressing table on the horrid little chair, trying to brush her hair, the more Joanna had cursed the fit of pique that had made her fly from Weatherstone.

  She had taken the brushes, of course, because of how Mrs. Mund had just employed one of them, and not because Joanna meant to demonstrate her independence by learning to brush her own hair. Since Joanna had turned eighteen three months ago, the mistress of Weatherstone, to whom Joanna served as a companion, had reinforced her frequent criticism of her employee’s ‘free’ manner, as Mrs. Mund termed it, with extended, painful lessons over her elegant lap. There Joanna, with her skirts raised and her drawers down, had received weekly ‘correction,’ as her mistress called it, delivered through the heavy back of one of the lovely set of hairbrushes Mrs. Mund had said Joanna might use, when the girl had come to Weatherstone the previous year.

  That Mrs. Mund had made this condescending donation of the brushes with the clear intention that they would not become Joanna’s, but rather be hers while she remained in the woman’s service, had rendered the command to appear with one of them, stripped to her chemise and drawers, in Mrs. Mund’s study, all the more galling. Every time she had felt the woman’s hand raise the chemise and lower the drawers to bare her young companion’s bottom, Joanna had wanted to rise again from Mrs. Mund’s lap and slap her across the face.

  The previous night’s correction, however, had simply gone too far. Miss Joanna Middleton might be the natural daughter of an unknown gentleman, whose apparent wealth and influence could obtain for Joanna a place as the companion of an extremely well-regarded widow but could never remove the stain of the lovely fair-haired girl’s birth. She might possess a certain freedom of manner that arose from a happy childhood in the country in a landed family where distinctions of birth never received much notice. She could not, however, bear to be treated as Mrs. Mund had treated her.

  “You will take off all your clothing, Miss Middleton,” the awful woman had said. “They are saying below stairs that you are pretty, and that you will surely find a husband despite the blot upon your honor. I intend to ensure that such talk does not go to your head. You are a shameless hussy already, or I would not need to spank you every week for your deportment, but to have the servants speak of your prospects is unacceptable and requires truly firm correction. You are to learn now, miss, to be ashamed of yourself.”

  “But Mrs. Mund—” Joanna had begun, intending to point out, as who could deny, that she could bear no responsibility for what the servants said.

  “Not a word, Miss Middleton, or I shall have to turn you over to Davidson to be punished like the stable lads.”

  Joanna’s eyes had gone very wide at that. Sarah had whispered to her that the butler Davidson used a stout leather strap on the eighteen-year-olds who tended Mrs. Mund’s carriage horses.

  “Do as I have said this instant,” the widow had insisted, peering with a cruel, searching gaze into Joanna’s face as if hunting out the last shred of the girl’s resistance. Even then, with the terrible threat of a stable whipping in her ear
s, Joanna might have defied the woman, but then Mrs. Mund had used her sharpest weapon. “If you do not remove your chemise and drawers at once, Miss Middleton, I shall send you to my cousin in India directly after Davidson whips you.”

  Mrs. Mund had made this threat once a month or so since Joanna entered her employment. This cousin in India, for all Joanna knew, might not even exist, or might perhaps not have been heard from in several years, but though tigers and pythons held little terror for Joanna, the idea of being made to leave England and to part in all probability forever with her only friends, the Misses Pettigrew, with whom she had grown up in Kent, seemed too terrible to contemplate. She hardly ever got to see Miss Eliza and Miss Jane as it was, thanks to having been placed with horrible Mrs. Mund, and she had such difficulty even remembering their secret promise to find a different situation for her, one where she might indeed find a husband.

  The threat of the Indian cousin had brought home to Joanna her powerlessness so cruelly that she had burst into tears. She had thought, to her further sorrow, on the foolishness with which she had greeted Mrs. Mund’s accusation: worst of all, Joanna had seen then, had been the way her heart leapt at the information of what the servants had said about her—though that, too, she had reflected bitterly, might have been just as fictional as the cousin in India probably was. For a moment she had wondered whether perhaps even as Mrs. Mund’s companion, shut off from society, she might indeed attract a gentleman’s notice and escape her dreary fate.

  Joanna had no notion of marriage beyond its capacity to remove a girl from her present circumstances into some other, rather ill-defined—from her perspective at any rate—situation. Indeed, for the Misses Pettigrew as for most other girls who had no congenital stain upon their honor, Joanna rather found the vaunted change of state more a cause for apprehension and even pity than she had ever cared to admit. Men—even gentlemen, and in particular even those few members of the nobility whom she had had the privilege to encounter—seemed such foolish creatures, caring so much more for hunting and dining than they did for the life of the mind. Joanna had read in the works of antiquity, and even in a few of the better novels, many great passages that seemed to convey knowledge of the existence of a different sort of man—a sort that might deserve the title it seemed men claimed for themselves of superiority over the gentle sex. She had never, however, met one of these.

  On the other hand, Mrs. Mund had seemed to know the whereabouts of a sort of man who could not come from the common run of fops that constituted the full range of Joanna’s acquaintance with the sex, unless those silly types of masculinity took on, when in private with a girl, a very different sort of bearing. Seeing Joanna weep, she had said coldly, “Do you think this sort of display will save you, should you come indeed into a man’s power? Remove your chemise immediately, Miss Middleton. I intend to make you understand what it is to have the sort of pretty young body with which providence has seen fit to tempt seducers.”

  These words had sounded so strange in Joanna’s ears, and the double threat of the butler’s lash and the voyage to India had cowed her so thoroughly, that she felt helpless to resist further. With the tears still dropping from her eyes, Joanna had loosed the ribbon at the neck of her thin cotton chemise and drawn it over her head, her cheeks burning at the thought of Mrs. Mund looking at the little hillocks of her pale bosom, with their tiny pink nipples that stood tinglingly straight at the motion of the air across them.

  “The drawers, now, Miss Middleton,” the widow had said severely, as if the sight of Joanna’s maidenly beauty had inflamed her anger. Joanna had thought often before upon the injustice of her employer’s apparent resentment of her youth and physical attractions, but this moment had seemed a ghastly confirmation of her worst fears. “Let us see that naughty cunt.”

  Joanna had never heard the terrible word before, but she knew with another surge of heat to her cheeks exactly what it must mean, and that it must be the sort of word a woman like Mrs. Mund would never say unless—the widow would maintain—a hussy like Joanna had provoked her to it. Somehow despite its utter unfamiliarity, that is, Joanna knew that cunt was the most shameful way possible to refer to a girl’s private part, the tender cleft that she understood, simply from all the admonitions a young lady received concerning it, must be naughty by its very nature, if in some hitherto unknown way.

  Joanna had hesitated, then. Her hands had already reached around to her back, to loose the blue ribbon that held up her thin cotton drawers, but the embarrassing sound of the monosyllable had stopped her fingers in the act of untying the bow there.

  “Come along, girl,” Mrs. Mund had said. “I wish to see your cunt, and to teach you not to imagine that you will have a handsome gentleman to fuck it with his hard prick. Then I shall spank you until you regret nature’s giving you such a sweet little bottom, one so suited to the penis.”

  Chapter Two

  Lord Stephen Gaithwait looked down with the greatest satisfaction upon the girl he had abducted. When his faithful valet Mark had reported that Miss Joanna Middleton had received a terrible punishment, observed at the keyhole by the parlor maid Mark had seduced several weeks ago and had been fucking regularly in the interim, and that the girl had it seemed actually fled from the home of the execrable Mrs. Mund, Lord Stephen had scarcely known how to contain his excitement, or his lust.

  Joanna had captured his interest two months since, in Mrs. Mund’s drawing room in London, whither Lord Stephen had gone upon a nearly unendurable courtesy visit at the behest of his uncle the Duke of Essing, whose title and property Lord Stephen stood to inherit, the duke being himself childless. Mrs. Mund had, it seemed, organized a charitable society for the benefit of neglected standing stones, a cause in which the duke took a keen interest. That passion made a great deal of sense to Lord Stephen, because both his uncle and Mrs. Mund closely resembled the weathered, rocky objects of their munificence, but he himself took no interest in philanthropy, being an unapologetic seeker of the world’s pleasures. The visit to Mrs. Mund, though it had occupied perhaps half an hour, had seemed to last as long as Stonehenge had glowered over the Salisbury plain, but at the end of it, perhaps simply because of the strength of the contrast it afforded, a brief, enigmatic moment had captured Lord Stephen’s notice most emphatically.

  A young woman, of eighteen or so, had entered the drawing room, carrying her workbasket and so apparently unaware of Lord Stephen’s presence in the house. The girl’s blue eyes, startled, had contrasted instantly with the delicate pink that traveled from her cheeks to her neck, and her flaxen hair, put up carelessly as if she meant merely to sit by the fire and darn her stockings and had no thought of society, seemed to gleam like gold against the deep blue of her simple, though elegant, dress.

  Lord Stephen had arisen from his seat immediately to greet the newcomer, but in the same instant both the girl and Mrs. Mund had spoken in a fashion that both conveyed the girl’s dependence on the widow—as well as the widow’s apparent wish that the girl not receive visitors—and piqued Lord Stephen’s interest in her most extremely.

  “Oh, I did not know...” the girl had begun in faltering accents.

  “Miss Middleton, depart at once,” the widow had pronounced. Then, turning to Lord Stephen as Miss Middleton withdrew, Mrs. Mund had explained, “My companion. Not fit for noble company such as yourself, Lord Stephen.”

  In the acid tone with which the widow had dismissed the girl and the treacly one she had addressed to Lord Stephen, he had understood immediately that mere jealousy governed Mrs. Mund’s conduct with respect to this companion—a poor relation, Lord Stephen had at first felt certain. Indeed Mrs. Mund had a great deal of which to be jealous, though his lordship had thought the stratagem by which the woman attempted to keep Miss Middleton in check singularly ill-suited to the task.

  From that moment forward, in fact, Lord Stephen had done everything in his power to prove Mrs. Mund’s foolishness to the world. He had begun as soon as Miss Middleton had close
d the drawing-room doors behind her.

  “Miss Middleton?” his lordship had asked. “Do I know her family?”

  “No, indeed not,” the widow had replied, obviously—and to Lord Stephen’s satisfied amusement—discomfited that her companion had attracted his attention. Mrs. Mund’s voice had turned as hard and cruel as one of her standing stones, as it fell in pitch and volume to the sort of whisper used exclusively for the divulging of shameful information the speaker is certain will mortally wound a rival’s prospects. “She is the natural daughter of who knows whom.”

  Lord Stephen’s eyebrows had raised themselves at this information, as if of their own accord. “Who knows whom, Mrs. Mund?”

  The widow had pursed her lips. “Well, he is, or was, a peer, or else I should not have her in my household, of course. But as I say she is not fit for society. I contemplate sending her to India, for it seems her father has given her entirely into my keeping and I have a deal of trouble with her. I shall punish her presently for her intrusion here this afternoon, have no fear.”

  His lordship had pursued his inquiry at this point without any expectation of discovering any matter of interest: Lord Stephen had merely wished to learn as much as possible about the charming Miss Middleton, in case some opportunity of getting at her might present itself. The result of his next interrogatory, however, had made the finding of such a chance imperative.

  “Punished, Mrs. Mund?” he had asked, expecting to hear that the widow meant to forbid the girl the play, or a concert.

  Mrs. Mund had smiled in a way that suggested she considered herself a most skilled arbiter of feminine manners—one possessed of a very special ability to ensure the proper conduct of girls placed in her care.

  “I do not employ half measures, Lord Stephen, I assure you. Miss Joanna Middleton will go over my knee with her drawers down, to receive a sound spanking.”

  Joanna, then, was the girl’s name. His lordship, since that moment, had wondered whether the briefly glimpsed personal charms of Miss Joanna Middleton had made the name sound in his ears so harmoniously or if it had been, as he thought rather more likely, the terribly intriguing idea that the girl would soon have her bare bottom punished by the awful Mrs. Mund.