Her Shameful Training

by Emily Tilton

  His hand moved down and in, again, moved quickly through the wickedly abundant moisture between her private lips, pressed two fingers against the tiny bud. Joanna closed her eyes and gave a long, wailing cry at his words and at his touch.

  “Take care, my lord,” the servant said. “I believe she will spend again on the instant if you keep that up.”

  The hand departed. Joanna whined deep in her throat, feeling her bottom move needily despite all her efforts to remain still, and to keep herself from giving him that satisfaction—for she found she had begun to learn exactly what sort of conduct, what sort of motion, answered her captor’s desires. The nobleman chuckled. “I thank you, sirrah, as ever, for your tutelage, though I have trained sufficient girls to know for myself the signs of wantonness at its acme.”

  “My lord.” Joanna did not realize, for a long moment, that the voice she heard, the one that had challenge in it, belonged to herself. Something in her, the part of her that had defied Mrs. Mund and even as she had learned the shameful, wickedly moving story of the widow’s marriage, naked over the widow’s lap, had said through her tears I am not like her, had risen on its own initiative to oppose the men who had abducted her, who intended it seemed to make her like Mrs. Mund and like this poor Miss Ginevra Farley. Joanna could but guess what had become of Miss Farley—seduced and abandoned no doubt, her body bent to the will of this cruel aristocrat, her mouth, her cunny, her bottom forced the way a cruel bridegroom, apparently, forced a bride, without even the lewd preparations Mr. Mund had used to obtain his bride’s reluctant consent.

  The eyes behind the mask widened, and the full lips parted a little. The nobleman pulled his head back, and tilted his chin down. For a moment Joanna expected another spank on her poor bottom, and resolved not to lose the chance to say whatever the defiant portion of her seemed ready to say even if she had to speak while he brought his firm hand down over and over on her already painful backside—even if he told his awful servant to fetch the cane, and they flogged her with it until she could not walk properly, but must take tiny, painful steps because of the terrible lesson she had learned for her disobedience.

  “Yes, Joanna?” the nobleman asked, great amusement apparent in his voice and in the mocking shape of his mouth. Well, he could feel amused, she thought, with her bent and trussed and ready for whipping and fucking. Tears sprang to her eyes, and when her voice came again it sounded choked—but she spoke nonetheless, and in a calmer tone than she supposed they would have expected from the girl they had wronged.

  “My lord, I suppose that you will... you will fuck me... and take my... my maidenhood...”

  The choked quality of her voice threatened to overwhelm it, and her, with sobs, but Joanna strove to continue before the masked man could reply, and before she had to consider how the wanton warmth between her thighs had, to her dismay, grown at the shameful words she had just spoken.

  “I suppose you will... do that... whenever you choose, as you must have done to this poor Miss Farley, before you left her to die on some—”

  “Miss Ginevra Farley,” the nobleman said in an even tone that nonetheless had menace in it, “is now Mrs. Yount, of Chicago, in the United States.”

  “Mrs. Yount?” Joanna said, her voice faltering.

  “Indeed,” her captor replied. “Mr. Yount fucked the girl at my behest, and liked her enough to propose marriage. Very possibly, a man to whom I give you for fucking will feel a similar affection, if you behave yourself and show how well we will have trained you by the time you are ready to serve other men.”

  Joanna shuddered, and her lips parted to speak again, but no sound emerged.

  Chapter Nine

  Mark remembered Miss Ginevra very well and very fondly. He had, after all, taken the girl’s anal virginity, had he not? And hadn’t he been the man to propose to Lord Stephen that the seemingly uncouth American Mr. Yount would make an excellent member of the fucking party that night in Belgravia, after the play?

  Just at the moment when it had become clear that once again his lordship, though very fond of Miss Ginevra, had not caught the spark of love, as Mark put it to himself as he considered his situation, it had all happened, too. Miss Ginevra had taken the cocks of all the stable lads the previous evening, and Mark had thought it a very pretty sight—the girl on all fours on a hay bale in the mews and the lads lining up to have a go in whichever hole they chose, so long as they didn’t spend in the cunt. Lord Stephen, as he watched, had shown his enjoyment in the sight, and he had praised Miss Ginevra’s obedience as he held her afterward in bed.

  As Mark had withdrawn from the bedchamber, though, he had sensed fully for the first time that on the one hand the girl, whose prospects had opened before her, through Lord Stephen’s seduction, like an enormous pearl discovered in an unpromising oyster, longed for a more exciting life than even his lordship could give her—and that on the other Lord Stephen despite his fondness for Miss Ginevra did not truly love her in the way Mark had even then felt certain he must needs love the submissive girl who could grace his lordship’s life as his lady and as the bride of his heart.

  For such was the pearl Lord Stephen sought, despite the extraordinary wickedness of the proceedings, when examined from the blinkered perspective of society. His lordship had never acknowledged it to Mark, or to any other personage as far as Mark knew. Nor had Mark ever had the slightest notion of broaching the topic with his master: far be it from a faithful valet and subordinate partner in these lewd pursuits to question the malice of his noble employer’s motives.

  Mark had assisted in the training of three girls before Miss Ginevra and two girls after her, all of them from the lower orders. None of those misses, though all took well to their training and received the cock with wriggling gratitude even in their bottoms, after Lord Stephen had fucked them there two or three times, had excited his lordship’s affection as much as Miss Ginevra had. Still, Mark had seen in the way his lordship spoke to them and touched them, from the very first moment, when they awoke, naked, in the bed in the little chamber in the tower that Lord Stephen had bidden Mark furnish with such Spartan elegance, that Lord Stephen Gaithwait lived and fucked in hope of finding a young lady he might call his own.

  Had Mark made reference, a few moments since, to any other of the girls Lord Stephen had trained to his prick’s pleasures, and Miss Joanna asked about that filly’s fate with the obvious supposition that his lordship had commanded Mark to make away with the girl in some oubliette draining to the sewers of the metropolis, Miss Joanna would have heard a tale no less proper—though perhaps less satisfactory.

  Misses Anne, Letty, and Annabelle, country girls from large families and one of them in actual fact a dairymaid, though Mark couldn’t now remember which, had all found husbands in the vicinity of Gaithwait Castle. Those men, invited to sample his lordship’s new girl a few weeks after her arrival as his fucking piece, had to a one expressed their undying gratitude for the opportunity of having a bride who might be told to kneel before her husband’s chair of an evening and to suck his prick until his hand upon her cheek warned her that the seed would come soon, and she must swallow it all, while his other hand, upon her head, enforced that degrading attendance.

  Misses Gemma and Fanny, one a farm girl and the other an innkeeper daughter met with upon the road and removed in all haste to the tower room, had elected when given their choice by his lordship, to remove to London and seek their fortune there with assistance from his lordship’s purse. They plied a trade frowned deeply upon by the matrons of London society but pleasurable to them and to their clients: from courtesans each had passed into the secure keeping of a gentleman, her shopping and her promenades in the pleasure gardens well subsidized. Lord Stephen had instructed Mark to inquire as to their prosperity from time to time, and to ensure that they become landladies of a more or less respectable character when the proper time should arrive.

  All of them had learned the lessons of his lordship’s tower bedchamber, after the
ir naked awakening, and all of them had pleased Lord Stephen’s—and Mark’s own—cocks well, once their maidenheads had been taken. In each case, and especially in that of Miss Ginevra, Mark had seen that his lordship had it in mind, at the start of the filly’s training, to keep her for more than a month or two as a submissive fucking piece that might be shared with friends and servants. Yet in the end his lordship had passed the girl along to another man, or men, who could do her better justice as a wife or mistress, and Mark had seen the girls understand this not as a casting off but as a gesture meant to procure their happiness as well as Lord Stephen’s.

  “Would you like that, Joanna?” his lordship asked now, his voice still soft and bearing a new accession of faint mockery. “To be carried off by a man who fucks your pretty cunt as a favor to me, because I wish to watch you in the throes of helpless desire for any hard cock that can drive into the naughty pussy I opened for man’s pleasure?”

  Mark knew his master much too well to miss, behind Lord Stephen’s teasing words, the restless need his lordship felt to train Miss Joanna Middleton in earnest, his hardness in her soft cunny, her softer mouth, her tight bottom, as soon as ever he might. He wondered if he heard also something else, something that had brought his lordship to compare the girl’s naughtiness to that of Miss Ginevra Farley.

  Miss Ginevra had intrigued his lordship, after all, a deal more than any of the other fillies. It seemed to Mark that perhaps Joanna had begun to develop a similar, if not a stronger, hold upon Lord Stephen’s heart.

  Joanna’s brow crumpled as she listened to his lordship’s humiliating words, meant, Mark knew, to try her amorous response to the sort of degradation both Lord Stephen and Mark himself found so essential to their proper enjoyment of fucking a girl. Neither Mark nor his lordship had any need to probe the girl’s sweet young cunny now: the expression upon Miss Joanna Middleton’s face told them that indeed she already longed, very much in spite of herself and her ideas of honor, to undergo fucking by several men at once.

  The question yet to be answered, however, lay in whether something in her response—a response so clearly shaped by Mrs. Mund’s unwelcome and untoward ministrations to the girl’s burgeoning sexual needs, as harsh a course as those disciplinary attentions had taken—would make her training different to those master and man had hitherto undertaken. What would Joanna’s special naughtiness mean, in the end?

  “My lord... please...” the girl said, “if I am naughty... that is to say... if you believe me so, at any rate...”

  In Joanna’s face, Mark saw the same conflict he knew from the faces of the other young women he and Lord Stephen had brought to the tower chamber for a sort of education the girls had never expected. Something different appeared there also, though—and now Mark thought he began to understand the element of Miss Joanna Middleton’s character that had intrigued his lordship.

  “Yes, girl?” Lord Stephen said, the easy rhythm of his speech halting very slightly over the second word. Mark wondered whether his lordship had almost used a term of endearment in place of girl: my darling, or even my love. “Have you something to say to me? I assure you it will not keep me from deflowering you, whatever it is. I mean to fuck you at my leisure, even if I should happen to postpone that happy time for a short while yet.”

  “My lord,” Joanna said then, her words becoming suddenly fluent as if Lord Stephen’s casual promise of the inexorable sacrifice of her maidenhead upon the altar of his lust had brought her some new resolution, “if you believe me so naughty, should you not return me to my friends, there to pay the penalty of my wickedness?”

  Lord Stephen turned to look at Mark, and though most of his lordship’s face lay hidden in the mask Mark could tell from the twist of his lordship’s lips that his brows had risen a fair way toward his scalp. Lord Stephen turned back to the naked, bound girl on the bed and replied with gentle mockery.

  “Have you any friends, Joanna? Do you suppose that Mrs. Mund will have you back after you have run away with a nobleman, as it will certainly seem to her you have done?”

  The look of defiance in the girl’s face took Mark by surprise: it was not that none of Lord Stephen’s girls had played the offended miss, when confronted with the certain knowledge that his lordship would soon make women of them—even the farm girls. Rather, Joanna astonished by her scornful resistance now—in the face of his lordship’s entirely reasonable discovery to her of the compromised position into which he had felt no scruple at putting her.

  “I would not return to Weatherstone for anything in the world, my lord. If you should tell me I might myself be mistress of that house, after its mistress’ demise, I would not spend another day as her companion.”

  Scorn, yes: scorn and bitterness.

  “Who, then?” Lord Stephen asked.

  “There are in Wiltshire...” Joanna’s voice trailed away, and Mark read on the girl’s face the reason: she did, it would seem, have friends in that district, but upon hearing from Mrs. Mund that she had dishonored herself and all her connections in the arms of a seducer, they would, the girl feared, no longer own her as worthy of their protection.

  “You see how you are circumstanced, my dear,” his lordship said. Mark’s own brows rose to hear the affectionate expression, the persuasive tone. “But a far more important objection to your notion of my returning you to anyone for correction lies in my own firm purpose to discipline you myself, and to enjoy the pleasure to be had in teaching you the true way of a man with a maid.”

  Mark watched with great satisfaction as Lord Stephen accompanied these words with a return of his right hand to the delicious pout of Joanna’s private lips, peeping out between her trim thighs, where the red from her stern punishments had now nearly faded away. Joanna bit her lip, and the helpless bouncing of her hips in lewd response to his lordship’s touch showed again that whether through Mrs. Mund’s offices or by her very nature, Miss Joanna Middleton had an undeniably naughty cunny.

  “So tell me, Joanna,” Lord Stephen said in a lower voice, so soft that Mark could scarcely hear it, “what you have heard, and what you imagine, concerning that which a man has between his thighs, where you have this soft, sweet openness?”

  His fingers moved slowly but steadily in the place of which he spoke. Joanna’s face grew red as a beet and her nose curled, twitched. She let out a sob of suppressed need.

  “She... she said... she...” Each of the girl’s words came on a panted breath, half a whine and half a moan.

  “Yes, my dear?” Lord Stephen bent down to murmur into her ear.

  “She said... it’s... it’s so hard, and long, and big... oh, please, my lord... don’t make me...”

  “Don’t make you do what, girl?” Mark couldn’t actually hear his lordship’s words, now, but he knew precisely what his master always said at this point in a filly’s training.

  “Don’t make me suck it. Please.”

  “Of course you shall suck my prick, Joanna. Indeed, you shall do it right now.”

  Chapter Ten

  The servant came from his corner to turn her naked body a bit, so that she looked up at the nobleman as he rose from the bed and began to unfasten the buttons and laces of his breeches.

  Why had she made that plea about sucking his... thing? Something in what Mrs. Mund had said, about how it had been for the widow, as a young bride, the most degrading thing of all, had caused Joanna’s mind to travel there, in dread—but also, she could not help feeling, in some other emotion.

  Not... desire. No, certainly not that, for how could a girl desire to do such a thing, of a sort she had never done and had never even imagined before her cruel employer had forced the thought into her head. But in the moment the widow had narrated to Joanna the ordeal of that lascivious wedding night, perhaps simply out of a will to defy everything about Mrs. Mund and to set herself apart from the woman forever, or perhaps indeed out of some base, lewd element of her character stamped there by her illegitimate birth, Joanna had thought, What if a
girl wanted to suck a man’s prick? What if she took some satisfaction in doing freely what your wretched bridegroom forced upon you?

  Then, as she had lain across Mrs. Mund’s lap naked, with her bottom on fire from the hairbrush, she had felt the urgent warmth between her thighs, so that now, as she saw revealed above her the thing with which the widow had threatened her, the jutting male organ of a masked nobleman who meant to ravish Joanna of her maidenhead, she felt it again. To her chagrin, she felt her mouth begin to water, even as the sheer complexity of the region, its hairiness and the strange wrinkly pouch hanging below, made her recoil.

  She drew her head back as much as she could, restrained as she still was with her wrists strapped behind her naked thighs. The motion did not spare her the musky scent that she realized could only emanate from the place his lordship had uncovered when his cock had sprung free to menace her. It smelled so strong in her nose, and so different, so much earthier than any fragrance she had known, that Joanna couldn’t suppress a little whimper just at that strange aroma, as if it were the odor of her captor’s mastery.

  “Keep your face where I put it, girl,” the servant said, his voice becoming much rougher than it had sounded a moment before when he had addressed his master. “The strap is just over there on the dresser. His lordship’s hands may be occupied while you suck, keeping you in place, but I’m free to whip you as much as you need, to do your duty.”

  Joanna couldn’t push down her little cry of fear, or keep herself from looking in the direction of the man in the brown coat. Of the two of them, she thought him the crueler, and she wondered how he had put his master up to the terrible things it seemed they had done together. The news she had heard of that Mrs. Yount, born Miss Farley, came to her mind and she wondered for a moment whether master or man had decided the girl should be given to the American, and what had befallen the other girls his lordship had ‘trained,’ as it seemed they called this terrible process of breaking a young woman to their amorous use.