Schooled for Service

by Lady Alice McCloud

  She laughed, gaily this time, and something within Thrift seemed to snap. Two swift paces took her to Virtue’s side. One violent tug and she had the girl off balance, a second and Virtue was down in the rose bed, her initial squeal of shock and alarm breaking to disgust as her face squashed into the mixture of earth and manure. Thrift took no notice, her teeth set in fury as she snatched up Virtue’s skirts and petticoats in one huge bundle of silk and cotton and lace, inverting the bustle beneath to expose the gentle swell of the corset seat.

  Virtue screamed, in furious indignation, spitting bits of manure out of her mouth, then launching into a furious tirade, threatening every possible kind of retribution as Thrift worked on the corset gudgeons. The panel came up, and Thrift cocked a leg over it to hold it in place, indifferent to Virtue’s feeble struggling, anguished wails and continuing threats. With her victim’s drawers showing, the silken seat bulging with cheeky eighteen year-old bottom, Thrift lost no time in completing the exposure. Virtue’s struggles redoubled, just as Thrift had expected them to, but it made no difference. Driven by anger and strong from months of exercise, Thrift kept her seat, grinning sternly as the buttons came loose one by one, to expose ever more creamy white bottom flesh, until at last the panel could be folded down.

  With Virtue’s plump little bottom bare in front of her, Thrift set to work, spanking the chubby, puppy-fat cheeks with every ounce of her strength, a hand to each in a furious rhythm. Immediately Virtues furious protests stopped, to be replaced by squeals of pain and pleas for mercy. Thrift gave none, spanking as hard as she could, until her hands were stinging furiously and Virtue’s bottom was a split red ball, with the cheeks bouncing to show off a tight pink anus and a puff of dark quim hair to every slap.

  She was barely aware of the sound of voices approaching, and stopped only when the edge of a dress of brocaded green silk came within her radius of vision. Virtues squeals stopped as the slaps did, to be replaced by a forlorn blubbering. Thrift looked up, to find Lord and Lady Bowland standing above her, faces set in astonishment, also Lord Plessey Bowland, further back, with a smug grin on his face.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ Lady Bowland demanded, her husband echoing the sentiment with a demanding snort.

  ‘I have been spanking your daughter,’ Thrift stated firmly as she rose, ‘and never has a spanking been more thoroughly deserved!’

  ‘And why, pray?’ Lady Bowland demanded, her husband issuing a second snort.

  ‘Because,’ Thrift announced, ‘she is a liar, a thief, a blackmailer, and more. She claims to have had both a Miss Roseland and a Miss Harbet dismissed, and whipped, and she was threatening me with the same if I failed to comply with her wishes. Furthermore...’

  ‘It’s not true!’ Virtue wailed as she stood up. ‘Don’t listen to her, Mama! She did it out of spite, for no reason at all!’

  ‘An absurd accusation!’ Thrift snapped, glancing at Virtue, whose face was brown with horse dung and earth, save for where her still streaming tears were making pink channels in the muck.

  There were bits of rotting straw in her hair, her bonnet was ruined, her bodice filthy. Lady Bowland gasped. Lord Plessey laughed. Lady Bowland stood gaping, and Thrift spoke quickly, urgent to tell her story.

  ‘You should know,’ she stated, ‘that I am not Miss Eccles, but that if I have practised a deception on you, it was both innocent of intent and necessary. I am in fact Miss Thrift Moncrieff, daughter of Sir Kincardine Moncrieff and niece to Lord Moncrieff, whose acquaintance you have doubtless made at the House, your Lordship.’

  ‘What? What are you blathering about, girl?’ Lord Bowland demanded. ‘What I want to know is why you’ve just spanked my daughter, and rubbed her face in horse shit by the look of it!’

  ‘The horse... er... soil was an accident,’ Thrift replied hastily, ‘and I realise that these are hardly the circumstances in which I had intended to present my case, Lord Bowland... your Ladyship. Nevertheless, I must ask that you hear me out. I am Miss Thrift Moncrieff, I assure you, and I am here to beg your assistance following a terrible mistake. Following my success at the Diplomatic School I was to have been accepted for training in the Service, but owing to some... some quite frightful error, I was taken to Weathercote House of Shame, where I have been incarcerated ever...’

  ‘Weathercote House!?’ Lady Bowland broke in. ‘You are one of the girls who escaped from Weathercote House!’

  Her face was absolutely horror stricken, and then suddenly slack and she was collapsing into her husband’s arms. Lord Bowland gave a snort of surprise and then was bellowing for the servants, to aid his wife and to restrain Thrift. Virtue staggered back, tripped and collapsed in among the roses. Lord Plessey swore and started forward, even as servants began to disgorge from the house, but Thrift was already running, her nerve broken.

  With her skirts gathered up in her hands she ran with all her energy, out across the lawn simply because it led away from the house and pursuit. Angry cries rang out behind her, and calls for her to stop, but she only ran the harder, down towards the lake and into the woods at the far side. Only then did she risk a glance back, to find two footmen racing towards her, just yards away. She heard her own scream as she ran on, but it was impossible, her corset restricting both her legs and her breathing, her wide skirts catching in the undergrowth.

  She turned at bay, snatching up a piece of stone in desperation and hurling it at the leading footman. It caught his head and he went down, blood running from a cut cheek. His companion hesitated and she was running again, in blind panic, between the great trees and the clumps of rhododendron, the angry shouts from behind ringing in her ears. She stumbled, tripped, went down on her knees, turned, expecting her pursuers to be right on top of her.

  None were visible, but her ankle was twisted, and she was in pain, and it was all she could do to drag herself in among under a big rhododendron, where she curled in on herself, hugging her knees and shivering as she prayed that the forest green of her dress would blend with the foliage. Somebody ran past, and a second. She heard voices calling out through the woods, a yell for attention some way away, a rush of feet, then nothing.

  She stayed down, not daring to move, until a blackbird began to sing nearby. Slowly she uncurled herself, to peer out between the rhododendron leaves. Nobody was about, but she stayed down, her whole body trembling, her ankle on fire, her heart hammering. From somewhere well off through the woods she heard a call, and another, both to the north. Sure her pursuers must return, she forced herself to her feet and set off, hobbling south along the edge of wood, ducked low and always in cover.

  Unsure what to do, but determined to put as much distance between Claughton Hall and herself as possible, her kept moving, across the valley and up onto the fell, where a gully of broken limestone slabs gave her shelter. Finally she stopped, exhausted, to hide among the rocks and scrub thorn trees, her head in her hands as she began to weep, cursing the Bowlands and her luck.

  Only when it began to grow dark did she move on, gingerly, skirting the fell as she tried to form a plan of action. It still made sense to approach a member of the quality, but clearly not the Bowlands again, nor their neighbours. A better plan was to cross back into Yorkshire and find some local squire and his lady, to whom her position as the niece of Lord Moncrieff would be more impressive. Putting the westering sun to her back, she walked on, one foot in front of another, alone on the open moor.

  A gibbous moon had already risen, and as the reds and golds of evening faded, they gave way to the uncertain silver of night. Still Thrift walked, slowly, cautious of sinkholes, but forcing herself on, until a low and mournful howl from far off to the east froze her dead in her tracks. After a moment she moved on, faster than before, praying it was just some farm dog, but knowing in her heart that it wasn’t. Sure enough, the noise came again, and a third time, closer, and she was running, stumbling across the coarse g
rass, tripping and sobbing in her plight.

  There was a light visible, and she made for it, hoping to reach a road on which she might just be able to outrun the dogs, if they were kept in hand. It seemed close enough, yet stayed as it was for all her effort, a spark of brilliance in black shadows, seeming to taunt her as the pain in her legs rose to a red heat and the breath began to catch in her lungs, all the while the dogs giving tongue behind her.

  Suddenly she was there, no road, but the lantern of a communications mast set out on the stark moorland. Again came the baying of dogs, nearer than ever, and as she tried to rise her legs failed her and she collapsed onto the soft, damp grass before the compound fence. She tried to rise, willing herself on by turning her thoughts to the awful sweat box and the pain of cane and strap, but they seemed trivial, irrelevant, next to her exhaustion and her thirst. For a third time she forced herself up, to her knees, then to her feet, to run, full into the compound fence and before she could recover herself there was barking from directly behind her.

  For a moment she was clawing stupidly at the fence, and then she had turned, to find them coming right at her, two huge, dark beasts, drool hanging from their dewlaps and their tongues, eyes glaring and teeth on show. She screamed, and the sound was answered by a harsh, unfeeling laugh as the squat, bowed legged figure of Mr Ormondroyd emerged into the light, with a long dog lead twisted tight around either wrist. Thrift sank to her knees, sobbing bitterly, her head hung in utter defeat. He came closer, hauling on the dog leads to keep them away, until he was just yards in front of her, when he spoke.

  ‘Well I never, if it isn’t little Thrift Moncrieff. My but you’re a tough one.’

  Thrift didn’t answer, but stayed down as he gave two curt orders to the dogs and casually set about making up his pipe. She waited, expecting chaperones to come up with them, but none appeared, and at length, with his pipe puffing nicely, Mr Ormondroyd spoke.

  ‘So what’s it to be, me or my boys?’

  It took Thrift an instant to realise what he meant, and then she was staring in horror at the two huge dogs, both of which were male.

  ‘Neither!’ She managed. ‘How could you!? How...’

  ‘Oh I could, be sure. Now choose, or it’s both.’

  Thrift swallowed hard.

  ‘You,’ she croaked, ‘if... if you must.’

  ‘Oh I must,’ he answered, ‘not often I get a chance, not with a wanton piece like you, on account of how I usually get chaperoned!’

  He laughed, revealing yellowing teeth in the black cavity of his mouth. Thrift had looked up, and could only gape, watching as if it didn’t really apply to her as he pulled open his fly and the long johns beneath, to flop out a dirty brown penis. His pipe was clenched between his teeth, and he kept it there as he quickly tied the dogs’ leads onto the fence, all the while with his cock swinging slowly from side to side, until he turned to her once again.

  ‘Come on, Love, let’s have those big knockers out, and your arse. You’re in a corset I see, lovely!’

  Thrift didn’t answer, but sullenly began to undo herself, realising she had no choice but to let him fuck her, and with one eye always on the dogs. He watched, tossing at his cock as she opened her bodice and spilt out her breasts from her chemise, to lie plump and pink in the bright lantern light, each in its bed of lace. Her skirts followed, tugged up with her twin petticoats, to show off her drawers and the lacy hem of her corset, at which he grunted in appreciation. Only as she began to unbutton her drawers did she find her voice.

  ‘You... You’re not to... To spill your seed in my quim. Promise me?’

  ‘Do you take me for an idiot?’ he answered. ‘Now get your chops around this, and you can touch up your tits and cunt while you suck me.’

  He was already erect, and Thrift nodded weakly, then crawled forward to take him in, the thick cock taste filling her mouth as she began to suck, with her breasts swinging heavy under her chest, and acutely aware of her bare rear view. She closed her eyes, determined to make him come as soon as she could, with the dreadful thought of being mounted from the rear in her head. He took hold of his cock, masturbating into her mouth and stroking his balls as she sucked, then pulling out, just when she’d thought he was about to come.

  ‘Your arsehole,’ he stated, ‘that’s the best place for this. Ages since I had a girl up the arsehole.’

  ‘Not my bottom, please?’ Thrift sobbed, but he was already behind her, his big cock between her upturned cheeks as he squatted down on top of her.

  Thrift hung her head, bracing herself for sodomy as he began to rub in the slit of her bottom, then lower. She gasped as her quim was penetrated, but it was brief, a quick fucking to get her juicy so that her anus could be greased. He did it with his cock head, grunting and sniggering in juvenile delight as he dipped his cock in one hole to grease the other. Thrift took it trembling and snivelling, her head hung and the tears dripping to the grass beneath her, but she was unable to stop her quim juicing up, or control the little jolts of pleasure running through her each time he accidentally touched her bump.

  Even when he decided she was ready, and began to press his head to her reluctant bottom hole she could only manage a feeble whimper of protest. She was too slimy to keep him out anyway, her ring spreading to the pressure despite her efforts to keep it shut, and when it began to hurt, she gave up. He gasped as her muscle went loose and his cock head popped inside, and so did she, her mouth staying open, with the drool running freely from her lower lip as the full, fat mass of his erection was forced in up her behind.

  He was grunting and puffing as he buggered her, and reached down occasionally to feel how much had gone in, to give her quim a brief rub to encourage her, or to slap her bottom. With his balls pressed to her empty quim and her bottom cheeks spread over the coarse wool of his trouser front, he climbed on top to her, to take her dangling breasts in his hands, fondling them as she was sodomised. Despite herself Thrift was soon panting in reaction. Her nipples were stiff under his groping fingers, and her quim tingling with need.

  With the big cock moving in her bowels she knew that it would only take a few touches to her bump to bring her off, making her disgrace herself by coming on his penis, with him mounted up on her back like a monkey. When his hand moved back to her quim all she could manage was a single, despairing sob, and then he was doing it, rubbing a finger right on her bump, to bring her quim and anus into contraction in moments.

  She came, whimpering with shame and with ecstasy as her bottom hole tightened over and over on the thick, meaty load in her gut. At the very peak she gave in, squirming her bottom into his lap and begging to be buggered harder and deeper even as the tears spattered out from her tightly shut eyes. He just laughed, working his cock inside her and teasing her bump, with Thrift coming over and over, helpless to stop herself. She was still high when he pulled out, abruptly, and the next thing she knew he had scrambled around and the great dirty erection was being offer to her mouth, steaming gently from the heat of her rectum.

  For an instant she tried to resist, and then she was doing it, sucking on his dirty cock as he began to spank her and call her a naughty girl. He was laughing too, a wild sound, which grew yet more hysterical as he once more got behind her to feed his cock up her bottom. Again he buggered her, and again he pulled out to make her suck his slippery cock, and again, and again, cackling gleefully as he shuffled back and forth, plunging his erection up Thrift’s gaping, slimy bottom hole, only to withdraw after a few firm pumps and stick it in her mouth again.

  Thrift took it sobbing and gasping, still in tears, but right on the edge of orgasm, as between spanking her bottom when he was in her mouth he would rub her bump while he was up her hole. In the end she came again, with him up her from the rear, her anus in violent spasms on his erection as fluid spurted from the quim all over his balls. It brought him off too, deep in her guts, but that wa
s not the end, and she was left farting sperm from her well buggered anus as his erection was plunged back into her mouth one last time with her orgasm still singing in her head.

  Chapter Seven

  Ribblesdale, Yorkshire, June 2005

  Thrift lay in the hot darkness of the sweat box, her eyes closed and her mouth slightly open. For three days she had been there, allowed out only once a day, to clean herself up and scrub the box. Still it was better than what Mr Ormondroyd had done to her on the moors, for all her helpless ecstasy, and the whipping she had received on being brought back to Weathercote House.

  They had strung her up from a tree, the Ormondroyds and Miss Laird, bent double with her hands high up behind her back to leave her completely helpless. Her skirts had been tucked up under her bound arms and her drawers pulled right off, leaving her bottom unprotected to the willow lash she had been forced to make for her own beating. Mrs Ormondroyd had thrashed her, mercilessly, ignoring Thrift’s agonised screams and laughing at the frantic and ludicrous postures she had adopted in her pain. Only when the willow switch was a useless and tattered stump had it stopped, by which time Thrift had been on the edge of consciousness.

  Two buckets of water had been thrown over her, one on her bottom, one on her head, leaving her soaked as she was frog-marched into the house and Miss Scarsdale’s study. There had been a brief interview, the words of which had barely sunk in, before she was taken upstairs and pushed into the box even as the soiled and bedraggled Lucy was released. Of the others she had seen only Jane and Joanna, glimpsed on the lawn, naked and with their bottoms welted purple as they did their exercises.

  She had been fed cold, lumpy porridge twice a day, nothing more, but had been given plenty of water, which she was convinced was a trick to make sure she wet herself thoroughly to add to her punishment. Her reaction had been defiant, for all that she had been through, drinking the water only in sips when her thirst became too much to bear. It hadn’t stopped her wetting herself, but only at the point her bladder had felt it was about to explode, with her eyes tight shut and her toes wriggling urgently, before the pee finally exploded all over the interior of the box, because she had stripped nude in order to be as cool as possible, and in her determination to soil herself as little as possible.