Schooled for Service

by Lady Alice McCloud

  Again Thrift exchanged a look with Elizabeth, whose returning glance now bore something close to worship. Keeping her chin held firmly up, she stepped to the end of her bed as instructed, now determined that if she was to be punished she would show them how a Lady should accept her fate, and praying it wouldn’t be so painful that she lost control. Across from her, Lucy also obeyed, rising from prayer to stand with her head hung and her hands folded in her lap. Elizabeth also stood.

  ‘Bums and tits out, I said!’ Kirsty ordered. ‘Come now, all three of you!’

  Lucy obeyed immediately, with no more than a soft whimper as she undid her chemise and pulled it open to expose her little round breasts and the pink nipples at their crowns. Elizabeth followed suit, pulling up her chemise over tiny, pert breasts as Lucy let her drawers drop to the floor to bare her sleek belly, the puff of golden curls that hid her quim, and the pale, soft cheeks of her bottom. Reluctantly, Thrift opened her own chemise and unbuttoned her drawers, to show herself front and rear. For all her chagrin her nipples had immediately grown erect and her quim already felt in need of her touch, reactions she struggled to fight down. Elizabeth, after considerable hesitation, had also let her drawers drop, and all three stood bare, bottoms, breasts and bellies nude in the warm light of the setting sun. Kirsty gave a chuckle of satisfaction and stepped out into the space between the beds, the strap ready in her hand.

  ‘Get down across your bed end, if you would be so kind, your Ladyship,’ she said, mocking Thrift, only for her tone to change abruptly, to gleeful cruelty, ‘I’m going to give you a proper whipping, I am, and wipe that smug look off your face for good!’

  ‘I said a spanking!’ Thrift protested.

  ‘And a spanking you’ll get, be sure of it!’ Kirsty answered her. ‘Over the bed end, now, or I’ll have Sally-Anne hold you.’

  Sally-Anne stepped forward, grinning, and Thrift turned at once, presenting them her bottom and already fighting back tears of consternation. Kirsty reached her, and took hold of one plump bottom cheek, squeezing.

  ‘Soft as shit!’ she sneered. ‘You quality sorts, you make me sick, with all your airs and graces, and the way you think you’re so bloody superior. By God, I’m going to thrash you, Thrift, you little Pollicle bitch, you!’

  Thrift bit her lip, forcing herself not to let out the stream of entreaties threatening to burst from her mouth. Kirsty gave her bottom a final pinch and stood back, lifting the strap. It came down, hard, cracking onto Thrift’s bottom to make her jump, and to squeal despite herself. Kirsty laughed, and struck again, making Thrift cry out in pain once more, louder than before.

  ‘Better not make it too hard,’ Jane put in cautiously. ‘The way she squawks, it’ll bring the hags up for sure.’

  ‘I’ll gag her,’ Kirsty replied.

  ‘Nah, make her kiss your arse,’ Joanna responded.

  ‘Nah, Duck, lick it!’ Jane laughed. ‘Then see how high and mighty she is, after a taste of your Brown Billy!’

  Kirsty gave a crow of delight and turned to the row of girls, grinning.

  ‘How is that, your Ladyship, my kind friends feel you should be spared your whipping, and you get to lick my arse instead! How fortunate you are!’

  Thrift tried to answer, but there was a huge lump blocking her throat. Her stomach was churning frantically, the muscles of her smacked bottom twitching, but worst of all, her quim felt as if it was aglow. Determined not to let them see her reaction to the awful proposal, she swallowed hard and spoke again, fighting to keep her voice level.

  ‘No. There is no call for such... such impossible vulgarity. Beat me, if you must, but not that.’

  Kirsty’s response was a knowing grin.

  ‘I think she wants to, girls.’

  ‘No!’ Thrift squealed. ‘I do not! Absolutely not!’

  ‘Sally-Anne,’ Kirsty ordered, ‘hold her down.’

  ‘No! You... you mustn’t! Not that... no!’ Thrift stammered, scrambling over her bed end in a panicky and pointless attempt to escape.

  Sally-Anne came down one side, Jane and Joanna the other, and she was grabbed, still struggling and babbling pleas as she was turned over and spread out on her bed. Kirsty came to the end, to look down, grinning. Thrift had been spread-eagled, the three girls gripping her hard, her legs wide to spread her quim to their gaze, her breasts quivering naked on her chest, the nipples rigidly erect, and a trickle of juice running down from her quim to wet her anus. Kirsty saw, and laughed.

  ‘See her! I said it, I did! She’s running like a bloody tap, the little wanton! What a trollop, to come when she’s beaten, and wet her cunt over putting her tongue in another girl’s arsehole!’

  She began to climb onto the bed, over the end, and Thrift was struggling with all her force, the consternation growing ever more furious in her head, but was quite unable to break free. Kirsty swung around and mounted up, legs straddled wide across Thrift’s body, her drawers baggy across her slim bottom, then open as she hauled them wide. Thrift gave a despairing sob at the sight of the bottom she was to be made to lick, the pale, freckled skin on firm, oval cheeks, well open to show off a pale pink quim with a puff of gingery hair on the mound, tiny lips in a long slit, a ragged, wet hole which had quite clearly been used, and well used. Most horrifying of all was the tight, puckered star of pale flesh which Thrift was to be forced to put her tongue on. Again she began to fight, but to no more effect as Kirsty moved back, to poise her bottom directly over Thrift’s face, the cheeks well open, the scent of her quim strong in the air.

  ‘Do it slow, Duck, let her know it!’ Jane advised.

  Kirsty gave an evil little chuckle, and twisted to look down at Thrift.

  ‘See this, your Ladyship, see my arsehole? I’m going to sit right in your face, and you’re to lick me, do you understand, ‘cause if you don’t, and well, I might have to do the same to your little friend. D’you get me?’

  Thrift heard Elizabeth’s gasp and nodded. Kirsty chuckled and slowly, deliberately, began to lower herself. Thrift turned her head, her face screwed her in disgust and against her own treacherous needs. Kirsty’s bottom touched, soft on Thrift’s cheek, squashing down. Thrift heard her own despairing sob, and then she had turned full on, as Kirsty’s cheeks spread in her face, the little puckered anus right on her mouth.

  ‘How’s that feel, eh?’ Kirsty taunted. ‘See you, with your face as a stool for a Glasgow girl! Now lick my arsehole, and good, come on, you all, see her tongue in my Brown Billy!’

  Kirsty lifted a little, and reach back to spread her cheeks, splaying her anus wide an inch above Thrift’s mouth. The twins crowded close, giggling in delight as Thrift struggled to stop herself doing what she knew she had to, and so desperately wanted to, yet could not.

  ‘Come on with you!’ Kirsty urged. ‘A little kiss to show me your place, and then a good lick, or by God I swear I’ll take a piss in your mouth... no, I’ll dump in your friend’s, that’s what I’ll do!’

  Thrift broke, lifting her head with one last, plaintive sob, to plant a delicate peck on Kirsty’s anal ring, and then she was licking, the earthy taste of the Scots girl’s bumhole filling her mouth as her tongue tip moved on the little bumps and creases, lapping at it, gently, then firmly, to the sound of her persecutors’ laughter as she finally lost control. Kirsty gave a grunt of surprise as Thrift buried her face, licking hard and probing at the rubbery little anus against her mouth.

  ‘The little wanton!’ Sally-Anne breathed, and released her grip.

  Immediately Thrift was clinging onto Kirsty’s hips, pulling the firm little bottom as hard into her face as she could, to smother herself in soft, feminine meat, with her tongue pushed deep up the little hole in between. Her own legs were wide, her quim showing to all of them, and as the final strand of her resistance snapped she had reached down, to rub in the wet folds as she tongued Kirsty’s bott
om. As she began to masturbate she heard Elizabeth’s shocked gasp, and the others’ laughter was ringing in her head. Then Kirsty had given in too, sighing in ecstasy as she began to squirm her bottom in Thrift’s face, all pretence abandoned, and the others had gone silent, watching in awe as the two girls brought themselves off.

  Kirsty climaxed first, with her little breasts in one hand and the other on her quim, touching herself off with little pinches and flicks of her fingers as she rode Thrift’s face. By then her ring was open on Thrift’s tongue, moist and pliable, so that as her contractions began the spasms could be felt. With Kirsty coming in her face it was too much for Thrift, her body locking in orgasm as her busy fingers worked in her slit and her tongue was up Kirsty’s hole. Unable to breathe for her mouthful and with her nose smothered between the fleshy little cheeks as Kirsty ground her bottom in her own ecstasy, the climax hit harder than ever, and as she rode it her head was full of thoughts of her own subjugation, forced to bend for the strap, spread out to be mounted, and finally... finally, made to lick a common girl’s bottom hole.

  In the last moments of her tormented rapture she came close to fainting, and then Kirsty was climbing off her and she was left gasping on the bed in the dying light of the day, her thighs spread, her fingers still on her sopping quim, her breasts heaving, her face a sticky, juice smeared mess. All six girls were looking at her, Kirsty well pleased with herself, Lucy in shock, Sally-Anne surprised, Joanna and Jane smug, Elizabeth in astonishment but also sympathy. When Elizabeth came forward to take Thrift gently in her arms, nobody objected.

  Elizabeth helped Thrift wash before reconnecting the microphone, and they shared a last hug before retiring to their separate beds. Kirsty was still looking pleased with herself, and as she pulled the covers up to her chin Joanna made a sign from across the dormitory, extending her tongue through her ringed forefinger and thumb before pointing to herself, to Thrift, and then to Jane, who gave a nod of agreement. Thrift returned a sullen look and turned over, ruefully contemplating what she had been made to do, and her response, in the sure knowledge that the working girls would now use her to amuse themselves at every opportunity.

  Part of her wanted to surrender, but not all, and as she considered the likely course of her future she began to wonder if it would be possible to escape Weathercote House.

  Chapter Four

  Ribblesdale, Yorkshire, April 2005

  For some weeks the idea of escape matured slowly in Thrift’s head, and as the weather gradually grew warmer it began to seem realistic. She would not even need to reach London, as once she was in touch with a person of quality it would simply be a matter of time before everything was sorted out. Once assured of her safety, she could then see to it that every step was taken to discover how such a terrible mistake had been made, and to punish those responsible, severely, which was an extremely satisfying prospect.

  The difficulty lay in escaping Weathercote House. From the moment they rose at six o’clock, to bedtime at eight in the evening, they were under almost constant supervision, while at night the dormitory door was invariably bolted and the single window large enough to climb through opened over a two storey drop above the walled kitchen garden, with a large, glass cucumber frame directly beneath. It might be possible to climb down, using knotted sheets and blankets, but it was hard to predict the response of the other girls, who would undoubtedly be beaten if they did not stop her immediately.

  Elizabeth she would have to tell anyway, although probably not Lucy, who alone was sufficiently convinced of her own guilt to feel real remorse, and in turn was shocked by the failure of the others to do so. Although meek, and friendly, it was uncertain where her loyalties would lie. Sally-Anne was impossible to predict, although unlikely to run to the chaperones. The three working class girls were likely to want to come with her, which would undoubtedly cause more problems than it solved.

  Even if they did not want to come with her they might well refuse to help. Several times across the previous weeks she had been made to lick Kirsty’s quim and bottom, also Jane’s and Joanna’s, and on two occasions Elizabeth’s, when the rough girls had forced the two of them to put on a show. For all the pleasure it brought, she remained resentful, while her persecutors took ever greater pleasure in her degradation, not only sexually, but by making sure she had to do most of the unpleasant tasks, particularly cleansing the potties. Kirsty had even stated her intention of making Thrift effectively a servant, which made it seem likely an escape attempt would meet with disapproval.

  Yet there were few alternatives to nocturnal flight. The only time she was ever really alone was when she was made to run up to King Alfred’s Seat, which was done in drawers and chemise, and barefoot. To run wildly off across the country in her underwear was pointless, as she would quickly be overhauled and brought back, to be subjected to whatever undoubtedly horrible punishment was reserved for runaways.

  She was considering the matter for perhaps the hundredth time during a Divinity lesson in the afternoon of a bright spring day. Outside, the sky was a clear egg-shell blue, with a light wind stirring the new leaves of the beeches and the moor bathing verdant green and dove grey in sunlight. The sight brought back memories of playing in the hills of Scotland as a child, and an intense pang of homesickness, made her more determined than ever. In the background Miss Habberwick droned on, a lesson on the correct interpretation of the Book of Leviticus every detail of which Thrift had had drummed into her years before. Once more Thrift’s mind turned to what she would do when she had won free.

  Her priorities, she had decided, would be to secure her own safety, then to do what she could to assist Elizabeth, and lastly to visit just revenge on the staff at Weathercote House. Possibly she would be able to have the chaperones dismissed, although it seemed unlikely. More satisfying still would be to demand equality of retribution, and have all ten of them lined up with their fat bottoms on show for a good dose of the strap, perhaps four or five dozen strokes each. Miss Scarsdale, as a Lady, and the Supervisor of Weathercote House, would have to be singled out for special treatment, perhaps a public caning, nude, and tied...

  She sighed, realising the impossibility of the idea, and yet it was a delicious fantasy, which her thoughts were drifting back to when Mrs Habberwick’s sharp voice cut into her reverie.

  ‘Thrift Moncrieff! If you could perhaps favour us with your attention for at least a moment so that you may provide the answer?’

  ‘The answer, Miss Habberwick?’ Thrift queried, already blushing in confusion and fear at the inevitability of what was about to happen.

  ‘The answer?’ Miss Habberwick repeated, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Habberwick,’ Thrift admitted. ‘I wasn’t paying attention, but I assure you I know my Leviticus thoroughly.’

  ‘No doubt, but this is hardly the issue,’ Miss Habberwick stated. ‘To the front.’

  Thrift stood, struggling not to pout, the other girls’ eyes all turned to her. Following a painfully familiar routine, she walked to the front of the class and bent down across the desk as Miss Habberwick stood up. Behind, someone stifled a giggle as Thrift pulled up her dress and petticoat. Staring mournfully at the dark, polished wood an inch in front of her nose, she waited, wincing as her drawers were opened behind and her bottom put on show. The strokes came quickly, three as always, delivered hard across the meat of her cheeks, each one wringing a cry of pain from her lips to leave her shaking with her bottom warm behind her.

  ‘Up! You may return to your desk,’ Miss Habberwick stated.

  Hastily rearranging herself, Thrift scurried back to her desk, and for the remainder of the lesson paid full attention. It was the last, and afterwards they were herded out onto the lawn, where they stripped to chemises and drawers, piling their clothes on the sundial as Miss Aislebie and Miss Laird watched. The moment they were ready, a run was announced and the girls sent off up the hi
ll towards King Alfred’s Seat, with the prospect, as always, of a smack for every minute spent out over the allotted hour.

  In two months Thrift had greatly improved her time, her body growing leaner and lighter, her muscles more responsive. She could now outrun Sally-Anne, and almost keep up with Lucy and the colliery girls, and on the last outing she had managed to reduce her punishment to only two strokes of the strap. Elizabeth was fitter still, the best save for Kirsty, both of whom had escaped punishment for nearly a month. Now, as Thrift finally slowed to a walk nearly half-way up, Elizabeth hung back, to fall in beside her.

  ‘You will be strapped,’ Thrift warned.

  ‘I don’t mind, not one or two, which I’m likely to get anyway, not when it means I can talk to you.’

  Thrift managed a smile. They had reached a patch of boulders, forcing them to jump from crown to crown, with the others somewhat to one side.

  ‘I... I wonder if we might find a little time alone together?’ Elizabeth asked.

  ‘I would like that, dear Elizabeth,’ Thrift answered, ‘but it is difficult, and dangerous. Perhaps we are better to swallow our pride and take pleasure in front of the others, as they seem to wish.’

  ‘It is not the same.’

  ‘No, it is not.’

  For a moment Elizabeth was silent as they negotiated an especially difficult patch of ground, then she spoke again.

  ‘Had... had you done that before? To use your tongue, the way you did with Kirsty... with Kirsty’s bottom, and with me when they made us?’

  ‘Yes,’ Thrift admitted, ‘I have been made to... and made to like it.’

  ‘It was nice... with you, of course. I would, gladly, were we together alone. It is a wanton habit, and dirty, perhaps, but have we not been declared wanton and dirty before all the world?’

  ‘For which we should feel guilt, and strive for pure and contrite hearts,’ Thrift answered, quoting, ‘but no, I do not feel this.’