by Emily Tilton
Thus, in recompense for the freedom of her speech with him in the lane, when he asked if she came from Weatherstone and served the widow Mund, she had come with Mark, on his command, to the house Lord Stephen had let in the village. There he had sat down upon the side of his bed and told her she must get over his knee or have it known that she had come to the bedroom of a stranger. In the maid’s eyes Mark had seen the fascination he always looked for: the need a girl could never confess for guidance from a man not so good that he did not wish to spank and to fuck her soundly—but also not so bad that he would betray her confidence.
“You are a randy little thing, Mary Wilkins,” Mark had said as he spanked her delightful young bottom. “You have been fucked, haven’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” Mary had cried. “Oh, no... please...”
“I shall fuck you myself, presently,” Mark had said, slowing the spanking, moving his hand much more gently, so that the maid’s cries changed to moans. “Here...” Mary whimpered. “And here, so that you need not fear embarrassment.”
“Oh!” Mary had said at the touch of Mark’s middle finger upon her tiny ring.
“No man has had your bottom, I think,” Mark had said softly.
“No, sir,” Mary had affirmed, “and...”
The girl had meant to say, “And neither shall you,” Mark had felt sure, but he had pushed his finger in, quite gently, and Mary’s voice had trailed off.
“Yes, Mary Wilkins,” he had said. “I shall. My hardness will open you here, to teach you your lesson.”
Mary’s body had tensed over Mark’s thigh, her back arching for a moment in a delightful mixture of protest and urgent need, and then she had relaxed again as his probing finger taught her the beginning of the lesson, moving in and out to subdue her as Mark had subdued many another country maid.
“Your Miss Middleton,” he had said as the finger moved in and out, drawing a whimper with each invasion of Mary’s most shameful place. “She gets smacked, as I hear, by the widow.”
A silence had fallen then but for Mary’s submissive little noises in response to her first anal training. Mark had allowed it to continue until he felt sure Mary’s reluctance to respond must indicate embarrassed assent to his proposition.
“Does Mrs. Mund spank the girl in front of the servants?” he had asked.
Mary’s head had threshed from side to side, her russet locks dancing charmingly over the shoulders of the black servant’s gown whose skirts Mark had turned up to show the sweetest bottom, he felt certain, in the village.
“But you have seen Miss Middleton punished, I warrant?”
Mary had hesitated, but Mark had pushed his finger deeper inside her bottom’s little flower, until she gave a cry and said, “Yes, sir. At...”
“At the keyhole?” Mark had asked, letting a little amusement come into his voice, so that Mary would see the affair as a joke to share between them.
“Yes, sir,” Mary had replied. “We... the maids, I mean... we take turns watching when Mrs. Mund calls miss to the study with the hairbrush, because we know miss is going to get paddled.”
Mark had withdrawn his finger and given Mary three hard smacks, right, left, and center, to pay her out for her naughtiness. “You like to see the girl weep, Mary?” he had asked sternly.
“No, sir! Miss is... well, she’s high-spirited, but she’s kind to the servants.”
Mark had spanked her again, three more times, until Mary had bucked and cried out with the smart, her bottom rising to meet his hand in demonstration of the need the girl felt for a man’s sexual guidance—the same need Mark would help Lord Stephen awaken in Miss Joanna Middleton. He had stopped spanking her and thrust his hand between her legs, to feel her desire flow onto his caressing fingers. Mary had let out a long, low moan.
“You like to see a girl spanked, don’t you, Mary?”
“Oh, please... please, sir...”
Mark had raised her from his lap, then, and bent her over the bed, dropping his breeches so that his rampant prick could find her ready cunt.
“You will come and tell me when Mrs. Mund is going to spank Miss Middleton, Mary. I would like to see it for myself, from that window that looks from the widow’s study out onto the back garden.”
Then he had fucked Mary Wilkins hard, in her cunny and her young bottom, making her take his seed deep in the shameful place that already longed for his masterful attention. Mary had summoned him twice, after that, before the previous day, and Mark had become well acquainted with Mrs. Mund’s ways in correcting Miss Middleton, confirming at first hand that the girl’s sweet, round hind-cheeks, so frequently the recipients of the hairbrush’s stern attention, constituted a worthy object of his master’s interest.
Now, with that same bottom well presented both for whipping and for fucking, bearing distinct red handprints from the action of his lordship’s strong right arm, Mark could not help looking forward to receiving the reward of his labors—his own training rides upon Lord Stephen’s new filly.
“No...” Joanna whispered. “No, she... she... didn’t.”
“Do you call my worthy man here a liar, Joanna?” Lord Stephen asked, his voice playful but edged with the bright steel of a nobleman’s dueling rapier.
“Oh, no,” the girl said, twisting her head this way and that as if trying to catch a glimpse of Mark.
“You will be whipped very hard, girl,” his lordship continued, “if you persist in accusing honest men of mendacity.”
Lord Stephen glanced at Mark then, and the valet could see amusement dancing in the dark eyes behind his master’s black mask, so he knew a contribution of his own would prove grateful to his lordship’s ears.
“Come now, miss. Don’t make it harder on yourself than it has to be,” he said, bending down to test the strap binding the girl’s wrists behind her trim thighs a final time, and enjoying the slightest whiff of girlish cunny that rose to his nostrils as he held his face near the maiden charms that Lord Stephen’s hand worked firmly, but also slowly and gently. “I was outside the window. I heard what the widow said.”
“Oh, no,” Joanna repeated in an even fainter voice. “You... you couldn’t.” Her hips moved just a bit, as if her cunt had begun to give in to his lordship’s dominance, helpless to resist the pleasure he forced upon her.
“But he did,” said Lord Stephen. “So allow me to ask again—though I must admonish you, for the last time before I fetch the stable strap...”
As Mark had expected she well might, Joanna gave a piercing cry of fear at this indication of her backside’s fate. Mrs. Mund had prepared this little harvest very well, though Lord Stephen would now reap it: Miss Middleton feared the stable strap above all things, and it would not matter in the slightest that Mark had no idea what the widow’s butler actually used upon the stable lads, or if he used anything at all. The valet had supplied Lord Stephen with a very creditable doubled length of stout mahogany-brown leather that would feel to Joanna a good deal worse than the hairbrush without rendering her rear unable to receive further punishment as soon as Lord Stephen cared to administer it.
“Quiet, girl,” Mark said. “Do you want his lordship to give you the cane?”
Joanna sobbed at that. “No, please. You mustn’t.”
Lord Stephen nodded to Mark, a smile playing upon the merry lips that the mask left exposed. The valet took a good deal of pride in the skill the two of them had gained together in this particular area of the broader field Lord Stephen generally called training fillies. To establish for a young woman a hierarchy of implements by means of which her masters might correct her, according to the severity of her faults, always produced beneficial results.
As indeed, the threat of the cane did now. Joanna almost certainly had never seen the sort of cane employed in only the stricter sort of establishment for the education of difficult girls, though of course used with abandon upon their masculine counterparts. Still less could the girl ever have witnessed it employed on the bare bottom of a misbe
having young lady.
Nevertheless, the word carried such a freight of fright and shame that to have it mentioned—promised, really—as her lovely round hind-cheeks’ destiny, should Joanna continue her defiance, audibly changed the girl’s ongoing calculus with respect to her present conduct. For though scarcely a moment had passed since she had said, You mustn’t, she whispered, “Yes.”
“Yes, what, Joanna?” asked Lord Stephen, his smile broadening. Mark watched with envy as his lordship’s hand took terrible liberties with the girl’s most private places, encouraging her further confession. Joanna gave a little sob of helpless pleasure.
“Yes, she... Mrs. Mund... she did... she made me take off my clothes and she spoke of... of those things. Oh, please... don’t... you mustn’t... it feels so wicked.”
Lord Stephen continued to soothe the sweet little cunt, his fingers slipping up and down the girl’s private lips a trifle more rapidly now. Joanna had an adorable thatch of golden curls that would, Mark knew, have to be taken away before very long, to teach her the kind of submission his lordship liked best to instill. Mark appreciated a smooth cunny as much as Lord Stephen did, but he also liked to see a young woman with her first, sparse secret tresses—perhaps, he reflected, because he knew he would soon have the pleasure of informing her that henceforth she would not be allowed that natural covering, and must learn to keep her cunt as her master desired to see it when he chose to enjoy her naked charms.
His lordship turned his masked face back over his shoulder toward Mark. “Fetch the strap, if you would, sir.”
“No! Please!” Joanna cried. Desperately writhing now in the efficient truss into which Mark had placed her, and succeeding only in making Lord Stephen hold her hips in place with his left hand, she tried to bargain even in her impossible position. “I’ll... tell you... all of it... all of what Mrs. Mund said, about... about...” Even now, as Mark obeyed his lordship and got the doubled leather from the top of the dresser where he had placed it weeks ago when he and Lord Stephen had set into motion the abduction of Miss Joanna Middleton, the girl could not it seemed say the terrible word, though she had convinced herself for the moment it might spare her bottom the strap.
Mark reached the stern implement of chastisement to his master, its stitched handle toward the other man, and saw Joanna, her neck craning and her cheek against the mattress, catch sight of it. She gave a wordless whimper of fear, and then she whispered, “Fucking.” She shuddered. “She... she said I would... she would make sure...”
“Hush, Joanna,” said Lord Stephen. He took his right hand from her cunt and rubbed a circle with it upon the girl’s adorable little bottom. “We will speak much more of these matters. My man has told me just what your mistress said as she spanked you over her knee. Do not fret yourself just now, though, in trying to escape your whipping, for you must have it.”
His lordship took his right hand from Joanna’s hind-cheeks and received the strap from Mark. The girl emitted a sharp cry of fear and—unmistakable, to Mark’s experienced ear—need. Lord Stephen raised the strap and, with the smile Mark best liked to see on his master’s face, brought it down hard across Miss Joanna Middleton’s lovely bare bottom.
Chapter Five
It hurt much more than the hairbrush, and Joanna could tell that she felt the more pain because her fear of this terrible nobleman had made her whole body tense the way she had so often tensed her legs against the disciplinary ministrations of Mrs. Mund, trying to hide her maidenly secrets from the widow. She had eventually realized that such tightening made the pain worse despite the modicum of salve it poured upon her modesty, but she had continued to do it, as a small act of defiance, though when Mrs. Mund had felt particular displeasure with Joanna she had frequently kept spanking her until the girl had at last given in and sobbed limply over the older woman’s lap while the punishment went on and on.
Now, with her hands bound behind her thighs and the secrets between her legs and between her bottom-cheeks entirely exposed no matter what she did with her body, every muscle in her body had drawn taut as she felt the master’s hand tighten on her hip to hold her steady for the first lash. The sheer terror of being there, naked in the power of these men, together with the way the nobleman had touched her most private places and spoken to her of the awful things to which Mrs. Mund had made reference, seemed to stretch her sinews as a bow-maker stretches a string of catgut upon a bow.
When the strap cracked across her backside, then, so that she gasped and then cried out, clenching her bottom shamefully and trying to twist away though her mind knew the impossibility of escape, it felt like a line of fire had been laid over her round little cheeks. Another one followed, and she screamed and sobbed, her body bucking against the twin restraints of the nobleman’s hand and the leather strap his servant had placed so adroitly around her wrists. Joanna’s whole bottom felt like she had sat on a stove after only a few lashes from the strap.
“Please,” she sobbed. “Please... I’ll show you...”
The man who had kidnapped her was whipping her because she hadn’t shown him those naughty places. If he would only stop, she wouldn’t put her hands there anymore. He could look at her private parts, as shameful as Mrs. Mund would find it.
“Show me what, Joanna?” the man asked. He brought the strap down across the backs of her thighs, just above where her wrists were bound together. Now Joanna’s entire rear end blazed with the agony of her terrible lesson in obedience. The stiff leather even struck the sensitive lips of her private part with its forceful blow, exposed as they were between her slim upper thighs.
“M-my... my... cunt,” she sobbed. The word felt wicked in her mouth. When the man lashed her again in the same place, punishing that very place—her little cunny, he had called it, which sounded in her mind even naughtier than cunt—it seemed like Joanna only received the reward she deserved for saying the word Mrs. Mund had told her she must never say unless her husband commanded it.
“And as you do not have one of those,” the widow had said as she spanked Joanna with the awful hairbrush, “you shall not say any of these words, or you shall receive the stable strap upon this young bottom, even if I should decide to allow you to have a prick in your cunt someday, so that I may watch you fucked as befits a wicked girl like you.”
She had not understood what Mrs. Mund meant in the slightest, but the woman’s words had filled her with shame despite the hypocrisy Joanna could see so very clearly: why should Mrs. Mund be allowed to say such things because she had once had a husband? Why should Joanna be punished for attracting gentlemen’s attention, when it seemed Mrs. Mund wished to see her companion undergo that attention in some forceful, degrading manner?
Now in this strange room to which her abductors had conveyed her, her confusion only grew when the nobleman in the mask ceased to whip her when she said the terrible word. Joanna had wished him to stop, yes, but in her mind, she realized, she had expected that he would lay the strap even more painfully across that shameful part of her when she said its vulgar name.
Instead, he moved his left hand from her hip, to stroke her there with awful gentleness, reawakening the irresistible, wicked pleasure he had visited upon Joanna’s private part before he had begun to punish her. She tried with all her might to suppress it, but she could not keep a long moan from emerging. Her face burned as she heard the sound her body made of its own accord, in response to the nobleman’s probing, caressing touch, and when he spoke he confirmed all her fears concerning what the moan would signify to him.
“I can already see your sweet cunny, Joanna, and touch it as much as I like,” he said softly. “And I can hear how wicked a girl you are in the way you respond, even when you say no words at all.”
“Oh, please... no...” she sobbed. It seemed he meant to punish her for very different things to those for which Mrs. Mund had put Joanna over her knee, but the command his fingers claimed of her, between her thighs and, it suddenly seemed, throughout her whole shuddering b
ody, frightened her much more. It seemed to her that something approached, the way a railway engine neared a tunnel, some crisis of pleasure that would carry her away entirely, and it terrified her even as she felt her body cry out for it, whatever it might be. Joanna cried out under the wicked fingers of the masked nobleman, trying to turn her blushing face down and away into the mattress, as if seeking an oblivion that would quench her thoughts and leave only sensation behind. She bounced upon her bent knees, utterly at a loss to help herself, trying lewdly to work her young cunt more firmly against the tormenting, pleasurable masculine fingers, seeking the tunnel she needed, the acme that must come soon...
He took the fingers away, and she cried out again, in a different way, a plaintive sound of need, like a puppy crying for its mother’s milk. Her cheeks burned anew to hear it, and the heat there grew as she heard the man chuckle.
“You will spend soon, Joanna,” he said. “I promise. Not yet, though.”
Another mewling sound came from her throat, and though part of her wished to deny him the satisfaction of any response, her need to know what he meant seemed to come from her body itself, an impulse she simply could not resist.
“Spend?” she whispered.
The servant spoke in a stern voice. “You will show his lordship the proper respect, girl, or feel the cane across your backside.”
“What?’ Joanna gasped, twisting her face again to try to look a plea into the eyes behind the black mask. At the same time, she felt her bottom go tight at the thought of the cane and she felt herself... her young cunny, her inwardly blushing mind whispered... flutter strangely and distractingly, as if something about the way the nobleman had touched her there had somehow changed the way her body responded to all these shameful things.
