‘She only bloody did it! She only did!’ Kirsty crowed. ‘That’s a portion of plum duff you owe me, Joanna, and you too, Jane.’
‘You didn’t believe us, did you!?’ Joanna demanded. ‘You stupid piece of cow dirt!’
‘Stick her bloody head back in, and make her drink some more, if she likes it so much!’ Jane snarled.
‘Ay, drink up,’ Kirsty called, and Thrift’s head was pushed into the pee once more as the twins began to sing Drink, Puppy Drink with Sally-Anne and then Kirsty joining in and roaring with laughter as Thrift gulped down urine as fast as she could, with her head spinning and her stomach churning inside her. The moment they’d finished the song they broke into a new one, Kirsty leading, The Drunken Sailor at the top of their voices, splashing Thrift’s face in the pee to the tune, then held under just long enough to force her to drink and pulled sharply back, only to be pushed under the instant she’d caught her breath.
Suddenly it was too much. Thrift’s stomach heaved and she was throwing up everything she’d swallowed and her dinner into the potty, to the sound of the girls’ raucous laughter and cries of delight and disgust.
‘Now, Pollicle, will that teach you not to tell your friends when you’re planning to run, eh?’
‘I... I’m sorry,’ Thrift gasped. ‘I... I won’t run again... I won’t...’
‘You will that,’ Kirsty answered, ‘and next time, we’re coming with you.’
Two weeks after Thrift’s dunking Elizabeth presented her plan. Her efforts to dissuade Kirsty and the twins from escape had fallen on deaf ears. All three were convinced that once safely away from the area around Weathercote Hall they would be able to melt into some great metropolis, Glasgow in Kirsty’s case, the twins less certain but keen on Birmingham. Sally-Anne was eager to follow Kirsty, who she had come to look up to, while Lucy had simply been bullied into joining the expedition by being held down and spanked until she agreed.
Thrift felt it was insane, with Mr Ormondroyd and his hounds now patrolling the moors as often as not and all eleven of the staff on the lookout. Yet the desire to get away was still there, and she found herself drawn in by the working girls’ enthusiasm despite herself, also made keen by their increasingly contemptuous use of Elizabeth, Lucy and herself. Almost every night the three of them would be spanked or made to kiss and lick at bottom holes and quims, sometimes simply taken to bed, but as often put on their knees in the now bright evening light so that the others could watch.
Three times Thrift and Elizabeth had been made to perform together, head to toe, or taking turns to lick each other from behind as Lucy crawled naked on the floor to provide tongue service to the audience. Kirsty had also confirmed her status as top cat by starting a little ritual, in which she would hold her bottom wide to have her anus kissed, something Thrift was made to do repeatedly. Then there was Mrs Budge, who was coming up to the dormitory more and more frequently, to spank and molest one girl or another, as often as not, Thrift.
Elizabeth informed them that she was ready in the showers after an exercise period, and that night, as soon as it was dark and it seemed reasonable to hope the chaperones would be distracted the microphone was disconnected. They came to sit around Kirsty’s bed, with the Scottish girl propped up at one end and Elizabeth sitting cross-legged at the other.
‘So what’s it to be?’ Kirsty demanded, the others craning close.
‘First,’ Elizabeth stated, ‘we need to learn from my mistakes last time. I was stupid, choosing an efficient but obvious plan, not because it was a bad one, but because it must have been tried many, many times before. That’s why Miss Aislebie and Mrs Stokes were at Carlisle Station to pick Thrift up. If you look at it rationally, there was nowhere else she could have been.’
‘I see that, but how to get round it, the dogs and all?’ Kirsty demanded.
‘The dogs must be distracted,’ Elizabeth answered, ‘but I shall return to that presently. If we are to stand any chance of escape, we must be original, unexpected, but that’s not going to be easy. I imagine groups of girls have sat just were we are, having just this conversation, maybe a hundred times. The chaperones will know about every attempt, how it was organised, what happened. They probably have maps detailing past routes, hazards, all sort of things, none of which we know anything about.’
‘I get you,’ Kirsty stated, ‘but what’s to be done?’
‘All that can be done,’ Elizabeth went on, ‘is to make our chances as good as possible. First and foremost, we must all go at the same moment, but then scatter, thus forcing them to deploy their resources widely and maximising each girl’s chances. That is the key. Each of us will have a personal plan developed to make the best of her potential. Lucy, would it be right to say you’d rather not come?’
Lucy nodded urgent agreement.
‘Then you’re to be decoy,’ Elizabeth told her, ‘for the dogs...’
Lucy’s eyes went wide in horror.
‘...with a strong scent on your clothes so they’ll follow your trail first and give the rest of us a chance to get well clear.’
‘Elizabeth, no...’ Lucy began, only to be cut off by Kirsty.
‘You’ll do it, and no arguing.’
Lucy went silent, biting her lip. Kirsty went on.
‘See this. You run to the hags and you’ll find what I’ll do. What Thrift got for a start, and worse. Got me?’
‘Yes, Kirsty,’ Lucy answered meekly. ‘I promise.’
‘See you keep it. Right, Lizzie, so Lucy draws off the hounds, we scatter. So what then?’
‘Then,’ Elizabeth began, and stopped.
Thrift caught the sound of heavy footsteps from the passage.
‘Hags! Into bed, quick!’ Kirsty ordered, but all of them were already scrambling for the safety of their covers.
Thrift had barely got under when the bolts scraped back and the door opened. The light flicked on, and after a moment’s blinking her vision cleared. Mrs Budge stood in the door, a quart bottle of milk stout, half-empty, in one hand, her strap in the other. Her red, pig-like face moved slowly from one side to the other as she surveyed the girls, and back, to come to rest on Thrift. Lifting one heavy arm, she crooked a finger. Thrift swallowed hard. All the girls were looking at her, even Kirsty with sympathy in her eyes.
‘Come along,’ Mrs Budge stated flatly.
‘I... am I to be punished?’ Thrift managed, the words catching in her throat.
‘Could be,’ Mrs Budge answered, ‘could very well be. Now come with me.’
‘I... I prefer to be punished here,’ Thrift managed, forcing the words out although her stomach was knotting itself in fear.
‘You’ll do as you’re damn told,’ Mrs Budge growled.
Thrift got out of bed, her whole body trembling, wondering if she dared defy the big chaperone, but knowing the inevitable consequences. She would get what was coming to her just the same, only made spiteful by her stubbornness. Yet it was impossible not to at least try, and she hesitated at the end of the bed.
‘Would... would not here be more convenient if I am to be strapped?’ she asked, making as if to bend across the bed end in traditional pose.
‘Who says you’re to be strapped?’ Mrs Budge answered her. ‘You know I’m not one of the harsh ones. I prefer to spank you, as naughty girls deserve.’
‘Then, perhaps you could take me across your knee here?’ Thrift answered in desperation. ‘Would it not be a more salutary lesson for me if I was to be punished in front of my friends?’
Mrs Budge merely shook her head.
‘You’ll do as you’re told. Follow me.’
Thrift stepped forward, six pairs of eyes following her as she walked across the dormitory, to the door, where Mrs Budge took her firmly by the arm. She gave one last look back, to meet Elizabeth’s eyes, wide and full of shock and
sympathy. Then she was in the passage, filled with the urge to run as Mrs Budge extinguished the light, closed the door and pulled the bolts home. Yet as she knew, there would be nowhere to run to, and she could only wait, and follow as Mrs Budge led the way down the corridor, and across the top of the house to the opposite wing.
They passed an open door, through which Thrift glimpsed a flickering screen and Miss Ponderby, apparently asleep in a chair. Only at the end of the corridor did they stop and enter a room. Thrift swallowed hard as the door was closed behind her, and bolted. The curtains were only partially drawn, providing a view of the lawn, bathed in moonlight, the hillside beyond and King Alfred’s Seat, bleak and lonely against ragged clouds, yet it was somewhere she urgently wished to be as Mrs Budge settled her weight into a chair. The big woman grunted, then spoke.
‘Best get those drawers off, my girl, and your chemise.’
Thrift hesitated only an instant, and then she was undoing the buttons of her drawers with trembling fingers. They fell open, and down, as her hands went to her chemise, to open the front and shrug it off. As she stepped out of her drawers she was nude, standing in the dim light of Mrs Budge’s bedside lamp, her skin prickling.
‘Hands on your head,’ Mrs Budge ordered, ‘then then turn around, nice and slow. Give me a good look at you, you fat little baggage.’
The big woman gave a drunken chuckle as Thrift hastened to obey, and took a swig of milk stout. Thrift’s breasts and quim and bottom felt absolutely huge as she began to turn about, with the fat woman’s eyes travelling slowed up and down her body, drinking in the details of plump young flesh. Three times Thrift turned before Mrs Budge spoke again.
‘Fleshy little thing, ain’t you? Especially your backside, nice and ripe...’
‘What... what are you going to do to me?’ Thrift sobbed.
Mrs Budge gave a grunt that might have been a laugh.
‘You’re due a spanking, I think we said. Come over my knee.’
‘But why?’ Thrift managed miserably.
‘Because I say so, that’s why. Now over you go.’
Thrift gave a single, sulky nod and went down, draping her body across the chaperone’s knees. Immediately a hand settled on her bottom, cupping most of one cheek, with a touch that was somehow far more intimate, and improperly intimate, than the same sensation would have been from any of the other chaperones, even those who took open pleasure in the girls’ punishments. The thick, soft fingers began to stroke her bottom, and squeeze, kneading the soft flesh, and Thrift’s skin began to crawl.
It was almost a relief when the spanking began, firm, heavy swats planted full across Thrift’s bottom, each one knocking the breath from her body, but they hurt, and in no time she was kicking her legs and shaking her head, wishing it would stop, even if it meant being interfered with again. It did stop, after no more than a couple of dozen swats, and she was interfered with again, this time more intimately still, with her bottom pulled open and her anus inspected, then touched, which left her sobbing with shame. Again it was a relief when the spanking began once more, and again she was soon wishing it was the other way around. The second set left her hot behind and trembling, also wishing earnestly her quim felt a little less ready, but the awful cycle of spanking and fondling continued, until she was whimpering with miserable consternation, her bottom on fire and the juice from her quim wet between her thighs.
‘That’ll do, I dare say,’ Mrs Budge said, and relief swept through Thrift, only to be knocked back as one fat hand was pushed down between her thighs, to cup the mound of her quim.
She gave a single, choking sob as the most intimate part of her body was taken in hand, before the big thumb was rubbing in the fleshy folds of her slit, then pushed inside her, burrowing up into the hole with embarrassing ease, deep in. Mrs Budge gave a low, dirty chuckle and began to work her fingers in Thrift’s slit, right on the little sensitive bump, muttering as she jiggled the soft, wet flesh.
‘Let’s see how easy you come off, eh? Let’s see... nice cunt you have... nice and chubby, and wet... I like ‘em wet... I like ‘em when they’re spanked and they get wet, little wantons... dirty little wantons. Let’s have you off then...’
Despite herself, it was happening, Thrift sobbing in frustration as her pleasure rose despite herself, higher and higher, until her quim had begun to go into contraction against the fat woman’s hand, and she was coming, in a welter of hot tears and choking sobs, but quite unable to stop as she was rubbed off with practised skill. She stuck up her bottom, completely out of control, overcome by her ecstasy, wiggling it against the rubbing hand, lost to her own wantonness and yet in an agony of shame and misery.
The moment it was over she collapsed down across the big woman’s lap, sobbing bitterly. Mrs Budge gave her dirty laugh and began to feel Thrift’s bottom again, pawing the hot cheeks. Taking the milk stout bottle, she swallowed a deep draught, still fondling, and another, before setting it down as her finger delved deep between Thrift’s cheeks, to tickle the little wet hole in the middle, and pop it open. Thrift gasped as her anus was penetrated, and was panting hard and clutching at the carpet as the fat, soft finger was forced slowly up into her rectum. Again Mrs Budge chuckled, and began to wiggle her finger about up Thrift’s bottom, then to ease it in and out, setting Thrift gasping despite herself.
‘Dirty...’ Mrs Budge muttered happily, and pulled her finger free with a wet noise.
A big hand locked in Thrift’s hair, she was pulled up, the hand twisted, bringing her mouth open in a pained gasp, and the finger which had just been up her bottom was pushed in. Her eyes popped as she tasted herself, and Mrs Budge was laughing as she wiped her finger on Thrift’s tongue before pulling it free. Thrift was dropped, once more to collapse panting, and whimpering again as her bottom cheeks were hauled wide one more time. Again she felt something touch her anus, but hard and cool, the mouth of the stout bottle, which was eased in up her slippery little hole and pushed deep, so that her ring closed behind the bulge of the neck.
‘This stays up until I’ve come,’ Mrs Budge said, ‘and here’s a little treat for you.’
She abruptly tilted the bottle up. Thrift squeaked as the felt the cold stout running out inside her, and then her bottom hole closed hard on the bottle neck, as if sucking at it.
‘Now get down,’ Mrs Budge ordered, ‘you’re going to lick my cunt, and well, or I’ll give you such a strapping as’ll make you wish you weren’t born.’
Thrift was already climbing down, pouting sulkily, but obedient as she got into a kneeling position between the woman’s massive thighs. The black bombazine skirt came up, an underskirt, two petticoats bunched together, to reveal a pair of coarse, woollen drawers. Thrift swallowed as these were hauled apart, to expose a big, red cunt, the mound matted with hair, the lips thick and fleshy, the bump a glossy knob, obscenely large.
‘Get your head in there,’ Mrs Budge ordered, and as Thrift hesitated, she was taken firmly by the hair and pulled in, her face smothered in reeking, hairy cunt flesh.
For a moment she fought, but the grip in her hair tightened and her face was already slimy with the woman’s cream. She gave in, and Mrs Budge gave a low grunt as Thrift began to lick, with the tears streaming down her face and the bottle in her bottom hole wobbling behind her, naked and humiliated, with the dizzy thrill of the milk stout in her rectum already singing in her head.
‘Good,’ Mrs Budge grunted, ‘that’s right, just there. You’ve done this before, haven’t you, you little wanton... you have, and you’ll do it again, my little pet... that’s what you’re going to be, my little pet...’
She broke off in another harsh grunt, and the grip in Thrift’s hair became tighter still, forcing her to apply herself to Mrs Budge’s bump. Her head was spinning, her bottom hole clenching on the bottle in her rectum, her quim wet and urgent despite herself, in need of a cock, or Elizabeth�
�s fingers and tongue, and before she really knew it she had taken her breasts in her hands, holding them as she licked the big, ugly cunt into which her face was being forced, harder and harder...
Mrs Budge came, with a pig-like grunting as her huge thighs tightened on Thrift’s head and her hand twisted and pulled. Smothered in cunt flesh, unable to breath, Thrift could only squirm her lips and tongue among the folds and on the bump and wait until it was over. When it was, she was left gasping for air, her face smeared with cunt cream and her body shaking hard. Mrs Budge took one look at her and laughed, then spoke.
‘Just what I need, you are, just what I need for a pet.’
‘May... may I go now?’ Thrift asked.
‘I need to take you back, do the bolts,’ Mrs Budge answered.
Thrift nodded, and stood. Feeling thoroughly chagrined, she reached behind her to pull the bottle from her anus, only to find it wouldn’t come. She pulled harder, but still it wouldn’t budge, and her mouth sent in resentment, then pain as she tried once more.
‘It’s stuck in me!’ she protested.
‘Airlock,’ Mrs Budge answered casually as she rearranged her skirts. ‘Don’t fret, it’ll come out easy enough once you’ve had a good fart.’
After a night spent lying on her face with the bottle protruding from between her bottom cheeks and thinking wryly of what Mrs Budge had done with her, Thrift’s determination to escape Weathercote House rose to its old level. There was little opportunity to talk the next morning, or until their afternoon run, when Elizabeth signalled that they should reach the rock as fast as possible to allow them to rest and talk.
Lucy was close by them, and the three settled into the shelter of a great block of stone as the twins turned back. Thrift immediately began a heartfelt tirade against Mrs Budge, which Elizabeth listened to in sympathy for a moment before interrupting.
‘Do you think she will take you away again, or perhaps another?’
‘She will take me! She... she says I am to be her pet! Can you imagine anything so awful? She is worse than Kirsty, far worse, and she...’
Schooled for Service Page 12
