‘No good fighting,’ he grunted, ‘it’ll only hurt. Come on with you, poppet, one more up the bum’ll make no difference. You’re to be mine, remember, and I’ll not stand for a prissy wife.’
It was too late anyway, her anal mouth already stretched open on his cock head, and with one more push he was in. Thrift gave a last, pained gasp, and then she was panting and clutching at the bed sheets as the thick, twisted cock shaft was forced inch by inch up her back passage, with the Colonel grunting and puffing with effort. He stuck it all up, until his hairy ball sac was pressed to her quim and the overwhelming sensation of being sodomised had her fighting not to give in to her dirty feelings.
‘Stick it out,’ he ordered, and she obeyed, pushing up her bottom as he began to thrust up her hole, ‘ah, but that feels grand! You bugger like an angel, don’t you just, you wanton little tart!’
Thrift barely heard, her fingers locked in the bed covers as her anus pulled in and out on the thick cock shaft, fighting not to give in to the pleasure within her and utterly disgrace herself, and losing. He was puffing and blowing as he buggered her, with most of his weight on her upturned bottom and the heavy sac of his balls slapping on her empty quim with every thrust. It got faster and faster, his cock seeming to fill her gut right up to her mouth, and his balls sending a jolt of pure ecstasy through her every time they touched her quim. With an awful burst of shame she realised she was going to come, and then she was, screaming and whimpering her rapture and her shame out into the bed as her quim and bottom hole went into violent contraction together. Fluid spurted back from her pee-hole, all over his balls.
‘By God, you’ve spent, you filthy little whore!’ he exclaimed, and stopped, sighing with pleasure, his cock jammed deep in as her ring pulsed in orgasm on the shaft.
A moment later he had begun to bugger her again, grunting and swearing and calling her a whore over and over again. Thrift didn’t care, lost in utter bliss as her body held tight in orgasm and her bottom hole tightened over and over on the big cock inside it. For a long moment her pleasure was perfect, and then he was pulling out. For a moment she thought he too had finished, only to be taken firmly by the hair and his great, reeking cock pushed at her mouth. Her orgasm was still ringing in her head, and her mouth had come wide before she could stop herself, filling with bloated, slimy cock, on which she started to suck as the last tremors of her ecstasy ran through her.
‘That’s right, my girl!’ he crowed. ‘Suck on it, taste yourself, you wanton trollop you! Good is it? Fancy a little more, eh?’
He laughed and pulled back, climbing onto her once more, to drive his erection back into her gaping bottom hole with a thick squelch. She was coming down, her state of wanton bliss collapsing to shame and despair as she realised just how completely she had disgraced herself. He was deep in her again, waggling his cock in her rectum, then pulling out, and once again the huge, gnarled, steaming cock had been offered to her mouth. She looked up, pleading with her eyes as she held her lips firmly closed, but he grabbed her by the hair and pushed his erection against her face, his voice coming as a hoarse rasping sound as he spoke.
‘By God and all that’s Holy we’ll have no more false modesty now! Suck it, damn you, you wanton little tart you!’
Still Thrift struggled to hold back, as he started to rub his cock in her face, but then he had pinched her nose and a moment later her mouth was open, then full, his erection jammed deep in one hard shove, right down her windpipe. Her stomach lurched, the Colonel gave a last, ecstatic sigh as he came, spurt after spurt of his seed making her cheeks bulge until he had at last finished. Unable to breathe, choking on his spend and with it dribbling from her nose, Thrift struggled to break his grip, squirming and batting at him with her hands.
‘Stop your mewling, and swallow it,’ he grunted, his hand locking tighter still in her hair. Always whining about something, aren’t you, you little whore! I said swallow, damn you, or by God I’ll give you such a thrashing...’
Thrift swallowed.
Thrift sat numb with shock and despair as the Emerald Green eased closer to Dublin mast. The lights of the city were spread out like stars below, bisected by the dark line of the Liffey. Colonel Doyle was sat opposite her, a brandy in his hand, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. Escape seemed impossible. Not only was she back in her corset, but he had tightened the laces at the hem and tied them off to the front, effectively hobbling her thighs so that she could barely walk, let along run.
She felt the faint shudder of contact, saw a gantry start to swing out towards them, and for the hundredth time she considered screaming out for help, only to abandon the idea, caught between the devil of Colonel Cruiskeen Doyle and the deep blue sea of Weathercote House. The doors locked into place, a buzz of movement ran through the assembled passengers, who began to move towards the doors. The announcement system came to life, the Captain’s voice recommending the company’s hotel in Dublin and thanking them for their custom on behalf of Nolan Air. Thrift rose reluctantly, only to start at a gentle tap on her shoulder.
Turning, she found one of the engineers standing beside her, a young man in a smart green uniform, clearly one of the crew, but little more than a boy, with his smooth face and underdeveloped shoulders. Thrift’s eyes came wide in recognition, but she managed to fight down her instinctive gasp of astonishment as he spoke.
‘Begging your pardon, Miss, but we need you to identify a piece of luggage.’
‘I... by all means,’ Thrift answered and turned to the Colonel. ‘I’ll be one moment, Cruiskeen, dear.’
He made to speak, and to follow, but thought better of it, returning to his brandy as Thrift followed the young man towards the stern of the airship. They passed through one set of doors, and a second before she dared speak, in an urgent whisper.
‘Elizabeth! What are...’
‘Sh!’ Elizabeth urged. ‘Elias is the name, Engineer Third Class Elias Brunel Chesham to be precise, now quickly, follow me, I’m still supposed to be on duty.’
Thrift hastened on as best she could with her hobbled thighs, through a third door and into a metal walled corridor that led out from the gondola at right angles, to one of the huge Collins engines. Elizabeth walked on, into the engine housing itself, where a man in the same green uniform was just connecting a cable as thick as his leg to a socket. He looked up in surprise, but Elizabeth hurried past, into the mouth of a connecting gantry that led directly to the mast.
Only in the big service lift did Elizabeth stop, to take Thrift in her arms, and they were kissing for the full thousand foot descent to the ground. Nobody attempted to stop them, and they walked arm in arm from the rear of the mast enclave and out into the streets of Dublin, to a smart apartment block within the professional enclave, where Elizabeth led Thrift upstairs to the flat she had rented.
Indoors, they fell laughing onto the settee, each demanding the full story of the other’s escape. Thrift went first, then Elizabeth, explaining how she had stolen men’s clothes from lines in the back streets of Kendal, bound her chest with linen and so transformed herself into the effete boy whose knowledge had quickly gained her a post with Nolan Air. By the time she had finished they had shared a bottle of rich red wine from the North American colonies between them, and there was no question of what was going to happen.
They went into the bedroom, tossed one of Thrift’s sovereign coins to see who would have the pleasure of going first and climbed onto the bed. Thrift had won, so she lay down. Elizabeth mounted her, still fully dressed, the suspiciously rounded green trouser seat pushed out above Thrift’s face. The smart uniform trousers came down, the woollen underpants too, revealing Elizabeth’s dainty pink bottom with the little cheeks wide enough to show her moist pink quim and the tiny dimple of her anus. She sat down, full in Thrift’s face, bottom hole to mouth. With only a flicker of resentment that it was something she’d been taught to enjoy u
nder duress, and an overwhelming desire to do it, Thrift pushed her tongue out and up her lover’s bottom.
Two days later the airship Emerald Duchess docked at the great Empire Tower in Hyde Park. Thrift descended, her nerves still on edge in the elevator and as she made her way across to Piccadilly. Every inch of her surroundings was familiar, every scent, every sound, and yet she felt strangely detached, and sure that a dozen black-clad chaperones would leap out and drag her back to Weathercote House at any moment.
At the corner of Dover Street she hesitated, expecting to find one of the black Alvis vans parked outside, or the Austin Baron in which she had first been taken away what seemed an age before. There was nothing, and she ran forward as best she could in her corset, hardly able to believe that she really had made it. Nobody stopped her, and then she was stumbling up the steps, to ring on the door, which was opened by a footman whose normally bland expression turned to astonishment as she saw her.
‘Miss Thrift Moncrieff,’ he announced as she pushed past him, to burst into the drawing room.
The family was assembled for tea, her mother prim in one chair, her father in another, looking surprised, yet also amused, while at the exact centre of the sofa was Miss Scarsdale. Thrift froze, her mouth open in horror, her heart hammering in her chest. Her mother spoke.
‘Good afternoon, Thrift dear, just in time for tea. Johnson, have an extra cup brought in for Miss Thrift. Miss Scarsdale, another crumpet?’
Thrift stood numb as Miss Scarsdale accepted the crumpet.
‘Do sit down, dear,’ her mother urged. ‘Did you come in by airship?’
‘We were expecting you the day before yesterday,’ her father added, ‘on the Emerald Isle. Wherever have you been?’
‘Dublin,’ Thrift answered weakly.
‘Dublin?’ Miss Scarsdale queried, with a note of laughter in her voice Thrift had never heard before. ‘How very clever of you! And to think we were combing the streets of Kendal, for hours.’
‘But... but what are you even doing here?’ Thrift demanded, her temper flaring. ‘If... but... I... I feel that at the least I am owed an explanation!’
‘An explanation?’ Miss Scarsdale responded. ‘Why certainly. What would you wish me to explain?’
‘Everything!’ Thrift wailed. ‘Why you are here? Have you come to make amends for my incarceration? You know who I really am, where I should really have been these past months?’
‘You have been where you belong,’ Miss Scarsdale replied, ‘in training for the Imperial Diplomatic Service, and I am pleased to say that you have passed.’
‘Passed?’ Thrift queried. ‘Passed what?’
‘Your course,’ Miss Scarsdale went on. ‘Passed with honours, as it happens. Few girls make as many as three attempts to escape, and fewer still succeed. From the beginning you have shown determination and resilience, virtues we value highly indeed. For example, your attempts to secure time on your own with Miss Elizabeth Brunel Chesham are noteworthy, although you made a common error in attempting to repeat a technique. If you never establish a modus operandi, Thrift, you may be sure that nobody will be able to use it to make predictions of your future behaviour.’
‘Yes, Miss Scarsdale,’ Thrift responded automatically as she struggled to take in what was being said.
‘Yes, we were quite impressed by your first attempt,’ Miss Scarsdale continued. ‘Although far from original, the execution was efficient and I dare say you were a little unlucky in selecting a troop train bound non-stop for Carlisle. Your second attempt began well, but as to your little escapade on Claughton Fell, we do feel you could have done better. Your basic plan was sound, yes, but in losing your temper with Miss Virtue Brooke you lost all the advantages you had secured.’
‘That... that was a test of some kind?’ Thrift asked.
‘Oh no,’ Miss Scarsdale replied, ‘nothing of the sort. We prefer our girls to react to situations as they arise. Having fled, you did well, acting boldly and driving yourself to your limits. Indeed, Mr Ormondroyd expected to come up with you several hours before he did.’
‘And when he did he...,’ Thrift began indignantly, but stopped, unable to admit to what had happened under her the calm, proud gaze of her parents, ‘...he was most uncouth, and really rather rough with me.’
‘One would hardly expect genteel treatment in such circumstances,’ Miss Scarsdale replied evenly. ‘While knowledge of the unpleasant consequences attendant upon failure may be guaranteed to improve your efforts. Is that not so?’
‘Absolutely,’ Thrift answered with feeling.
‘Quite,’ Miss Scarsdale went on, ‘and on your third attempt you succeeded, as witnessed by your presence here. Had you successfully boarded the Emerald Isle we were resolved to allow you your victory, but switching airships at the last moment will still count towards your mark, which is high. In addition to determination and resilience, you are patient and thoughtful, also well able to cope with the ill-use of both your body and your mind. You also take confinement well, exceptionally well, in fact, and although your tolerance of pain is not what it might be, that is all to the good when the prospect of increasingly severe punishment was insufficient to deter you from your task. Yes, you have done well, even turning the disgraceful behaviour of Mrs Budge to your advantage. Naturally you have a little more training to complete, specialist matters, by and large, but that will be on assignment, and not at Weathercote House.’
‘I am not going back?’ Thrift asked.
‘No,’ Miss Scarsdale replied, ‘there is nothing further to be gained.’
Thrift sat down, suddenly too weak to stand, although it felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders. The footman had returned with a cup and saucer, and she gratefully accepted tea, still having difficulty in taking in what was being said as she drank. Only when she had finished the cup did a new thought occur to her.
‘One other matter, Miss Scarsdale, if I may,’ she said. ‘The details of my first two attempts at escape were largely thought out by Miss Elizabeth Brunel Chesham, who is a most intelligent and capable young Lady. If it is not presumptuous of me, might I suggest that she also be considered for Diplomatic Service?’
‘A thoughtful suggestion, my dear, but irrelevant. Like you, she has been in training these past months, and like you, she stands to pass with honours.’
‘She does?’
‘Certainly. That is, if we can ever find her.’
‘I... might, perhaps, have some idea of where she is, but... but, she knew nothing of this!’
‘Naturally not.’
‘I did.’
‘It is somewhat different for girls of quality. Yes, we have awarded young Elizabeth first place in what has been a good year, if not an exceptional one. You have placed second. Certainly you have done better, notably better, than my own year, ‘sixty-six, in which nobody attempted to escape until well into August, and then by the most ineffectual of techniques.’
Miss Scarsdale gave a quiet smile at the memory.
‘My year?’ Thrift asked. ‘What of the others? Were we all in training?’
‘That is the sole function of Weathercote House. Each is in her own way a special case, and selected with great care you may be certain. Sally-Anne Porter, for instance, will make an ideal chaperone for future students. In due course that is, there are many openings for a woman of her abilities.’
‘I would imagine so, yes,’ Thrift managed, ‘and Jane and Joanna Thorpe, perhaps, for their determination, but...’
‘Absolutely, although I had hoped for better from them. They really only show their best in extreme adversity and are somewhat selfish in nature.’
‘Lucy Prior? She is... is such a mouse!’
‘Did she not sacrifice herself to allow you to escape?’ Miss Scarsdale queried. ‘Besides this Lucy has certain virtues
you are perhaps not aware of.’
‘I understand, I think,’ Thrift answered, blushing furiously as Miss Scarsdale went on.
‘She did rather better then we expected, and had placed fourth behind Kirsty MacAuslan.’
‘Kirsty MacAuslan? Surely not her? She’s a... a common...’
‘A prostitute, yes, but hardly a common one. She was running her own establishment by the age of nineteen, which, naturally, the authorities were obliged to close down, but one does not lightly pass up such organisational skill, nor such a fiery character.’
‘Oh.’
‘Indeed not, and as it happens, I believe Miss MacAuslan will be with you on your first assignment.’
‘Oh,’ Thrift repeated.
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Schooled for Service Page 24
