Devon Cream

by Aishling Morgan

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Copyright Page

  By the same author:

  Dedication

  Contents

  Devon Cream

  1. 1895

  2. 1898

  3. 1900

  4. 1905

  5. 1908

  6. 1914

  7. 1916

  8. 1919

  9. 1920

  10. 1923

  Epilogue

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  Epub ISBN: 9780753529393

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  This book is a work of fiction.

  In real life, make sure you practise safe sex.

  First published in 2000 by

  Nexus

  Thames Wharf Studios

  Rainville Road

  London W6 9HA

  Copyright © Aishling Morgan 2000

  The right of Aishling Morgan to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Typeset by TW Typesetting, Plymouth, Devon

  Printed and bound by

  Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berks

  ISBN 0 352 33488 6

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ‘Becky is a slut but needs to be told what to do. Octavia is wanton and likes nothing more than a good spanking. Polly is stubborn, but in the end her reaction is the same: stiff nipples and wet between her legs.’

  ‘Sir!’ Polly objected, finally giving up the attempt to remain silent in the face of his flagrant rudeness.

  ‘Over the wall, Polly,’ Jervis said casually and turned to watch his wife Genevieve, who had placed a finger beneath Octavia’s chin and tilted it upwards.

  ‘I understand you enjoy the application of a cane to your fat rear?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Maray,’ Octavia admitted.

  ‘Yes, madame, will serve,’ Genevieve replied. ‘Now, would you like to be beaten by me?’

  ‘If it pleases you, ma’am.’

  ‘It does please me. There’s little I like more than to see a pair of fat, white peasant buttocks decorated with a fine set of scarlet lines. Join your impudent friend.’

  By the same author:

  THE RAKE

  MAIDEN

  TIGER, TIGER

  Dedicated to the master of the Devon yarn, A.J. Cole – ‘Jan Stewer’, who would probably not have approved.

  Contents

  1. 1895

  2. 1898

  3. 1900

  4. 1905

  5. 1908

  6. 1914

  7. 1916

  8. 1919

  9. 1920

  10. 1923

  Epilogue

  DEVON CREAM

  Aishling Morgan

  1

  1895

  ‘Now that Octavia Challacombe, there’s one who’d likely benefit from a good spanking.’

  The speaker was Mrs Arrish, one of three middle-aged matrons who sat drinking tea in a comfortable parlour in the village of Ermecombe. Each held her cup with a refined delicacy somewhat out of keeping with a solid body, yet entirely in accord with an expression of smug authority. Mrs Arrish was the tallest of the three and also the most imposing, big-boned and somewhat red in the face. Mrs Apcott was smaller and dumpy, with a round, beaming countenance. Mrs Athwell combined the height of the first with the flesh of the second, producing a bulky whole that filled her substantial armchair.

  All three regarded overseeing the social welfare of their neighbours as an absolutely necessary task, albeit an onerous one. That morning Mr Arrish had visited Erme Head Farm, a remote moorland property on which the young Octavia Challacombe lived with the elderly Lias Slater. This had reminded the three matrons of their self-imposed responsibilities and after a discussion of the general moral welfare of the village the conversation had returned to Octavia.

  ‘Regular spankings I’d say, Mrs Arrish,’ Mrs Apcott replied.

  ‘On the bare behind,’ Mrs Athwell added.

  ‘Certainly on the bare behind, Mrs Athwell,’ Mrs Arrish responded. ‘How else would one go about spanking a maid? It won’t do to leave their dresses down, else they hardly feel it. As to opening their drawers, why, how else is a body supposed to see what she’s slapping? Besides, having their behinds bare keeps them in mind of their place.’

  ‘Very true, Mrs Arrish, very true,’ Mrs Apcott answered. ‘In fact, I find that being bare altogether doesn’t do them any harm.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ Mrs Arrish agreed, ‘but it’s not hardly decent, not in company anyhow. Still, there’s a time and a place for it, that’s for certain.’

  They paused, each contemplating the thought of a naked, wriggling, spanked Octavia with a quiet relish. None would have admitted that the pleasure was anything other than an entirely respectable response to the thought of a necessary job well done, yet each was aware of a familiar warmth between her plump thighs. Finally Mrs Arrish broke the silence.

  ‘A housekeeper, that’s what’s needed,’ she stated firmly. ‘A sensible maiden who won’t stand no nonsense.’

  ‘Never a truer word was spoken, Mrs Arrish,’ Mrs Athwell replied. ‘It’s not proper, a young maid like that living all alone with an old man.’

  ‘True indeed,’ Mrs Apcott added. ‘Besides, she’s a strange one, that Octavia. Giddy as an appledrane that’s been at the beer.’

  ‘It’s her mother’s doing,’ Mrs Arrish responded. ‘Now, I’m not one to speak ill of those that have passed on, but she hadn’t a bit of sense in her head.’

  ‘Plenty of airs, though,’ Mrs Athwell said. ‘Anybody would have thought she was a fine lady, what with her painting and her poetry and who knows what other old crams besides.’

  ‘And fancy calling her maid Octavia,’ Mrs Apcott put in. ‘That’s no name for a country girl. What’s wrong with Jane, or Anne, or Mary?’

  ‘Not good enough for her, I dare say,’ Mrs Arrish replied. ‘She was never content with her place, was Emily Challacombe, and the maid’s the same.’

  ‘And that Lias Slater’s no better,’ Mrs Athwell put in.

  ‘Very true, Mrs Athwell,’ Mrs Arrish replied. ‘My Jan says he can never figure out what the sly old fox is thinking.’

  ‘He changes his mood like the weather,’ Mrs Apcott supplied. ‘Tricky he is and not one to be trusted with a young girl. It doesn’t do to think what he might get up to, and her so young and not at all worldly.’

  ‘She’s a flighty little piece, by all accounts,’ Mrs Arrish stated. ‘She won’t hardly talk to one. It’s as if she’s too good for folk.’

  ‘It’s the farm sends them that way,’ Mrs Apcott suggested. ‘Way out on the moor with hardly a soul visiting for weeks on end. When she was a child and my Tom used to go up for the milk, she’d run up into the orchard to hide. Not now
; she’ll stand and stare like you didn’t have leave to be there.’

  ‘As we said, a bit more time across her mother’s knee, that’s what she needed,’ Mrs Apcott responded.

  ‘Wouldn’t do her more than middling harm now,’ Mrs Athwell put in.

  ‘Very true, Mrs Athwell, very true,’ Mrs Arrish agreed. ‘But the point is not so much as how she needs looking after, but as to who’s going to do it?’

  ‘How about your Eliza?’ Mrs Athwell replied.

  ‘No, thank you very much, Mrs Athwell,’ Mrs Arrish answered. ‘I need her to help with my other seven.’

  ‘Sophie Causey, then.’

  ‘Don’t be soft, she’s no more fitted to keeping house than Octavia. There’d be more sense in putting one sheep to guard another.’

  ‘How about Mrs Endicott’s Polly?’ Mrs Apcott suggested. ‘She’s a strapping maid and wouldn’t stand no nonsense from old Lias. She’s got sense, besides.’

  ‘Don’t she work to the dairy to Kerslake?’ Mrs Athwell asked.

  ‘Not any more, she don’t,’ Mrs Apcott replied. ‘Seems old Daniel Linnel pinched her where he shouldn’t have and she gave him a scat on the head with a butter scoop. When he’d got his senses back, he sent her home straight away.’

  ‘She sounds the very person for the job, then,’ Mrs Arrish concluded.

  High on the moor, Octavia Challacombe was blissfully unaware of the discussion of her life. Nothing more serious occupied her mind than the possibility of being able to find a patch of mushrooms for her supper. She stood on an outcrop of grey granite, drinking in the air and the beauty that stretched away on all sides. The wind blew out her loose black hair and lifted her skirts, making a display of her legs to which she was entirely indifferent, save to enjoy the cool feel of the air on her bare skin. Indeed, had Mrs Arrish chosen that moment to lift Octavia’s skirts for spanking, the matron would have been as shocked as her victim, for Octavia wore neither petticoats nor drawers.

  The day was hot, the moor a wide expanse of sun-baked grass beneath a blue sky flecked with windblown cloud. She had been walking all afternoon, thinking her own thoughts and choosing her own path, heedless of any need save to be back by nightfall. Lias Slater – who was technically the farm-hand, although she called him ‘uncle’ – would do no worse than pass a grumbling remark on her lack of industry, which she would ignore. Meanwhile, she was free to do as she pleased, although it was a faint sense of obligation that had spurred her decision to search for mushrooms.

  Jumping down from the rock, she began to make her way roughly towards the farm. It was a casual route, born largely of the desire to find a mushroom patch and yet more out of sheer caprice. Walking in a wide curve, she made for a gully which concealed a stand of rowan and pine. As she went, she became aware of pressure in her belly, which grew until, by the time she reached the lip of the gully, it had started to become uncomfortable.

  Without the least sign of self-consciousness, she pulled her dress up and sank down into a squat. With the folds of her skirt held high to ensure that it didn’t get splashed, her whole lower body was on display: long, shapely legs, a pert yet entirely feminine bottom, and a neat, well-furred sex with the pink centre open as she allowed her muscles to relax. The pee squirted from her vulva and she smiled at the delicious feeling of release, then shut her eyes in bliss as it drained into the grass beneath her. The stream dried to a trickle, then to a drip. With a brief wiggle of her bottom she shook the last few drops away, then rose and went her way.

  The copse proved fruitless, with only poisonous or distasteful species to be found. The same was true of the next two places she looked, but she finally found what she wanted on an area of short turf beside a brook. Lifting the front of her dress to form a convenient pannier, Octavia began to pick mushrooms. She was now definitely late, yet she knew that her tardiness would earn no more than a mild rebuke and perhaps a gentle slap on her bottom. Indeed, when Lias saw that his meal was going to include mushrooms, the rebuke would probably be omitted altogether. When they had eaten and rested for a space, she would peel the top of her dress down to her waist and suck his cock for him, an action that was as much part of their evening’s routine as clearing the table or dousing the fire.

  The knowledge that within the hour she would be bare-breasted and sucking on a large, thick-skinned penis gave her no more concern than did being late for her meal. It meant no more to her than her other chores at the farm and, if she sometimes felt an urgent tingling sensation between her thighs afterwards, then there was a simple remedy. Up would come her dress and her fingers would go to the soft mound of curls below her belly. A few deft touches to the little bud at the top of the wet opening from which she peed would bring a delicious sensation, after which the odd feeling would be gone. Occasionally a carrot or parsnip would provide a pleasant filling for her hole while she touched herself, but while she knew that uncle Lias’s cock was intended for that same hole, he never suggested inserting it and she never pressed the issue.

  Despite her innocence, she had seen what happened when neighbours brought their mares to be covered by the carthorse, Georgie, and she knew the consequences. Georgie’s enormous penis would grow hard, just as Lias’s did. Also, just like Lias, Georgie would become excited and his cock would produce a good quantity of a thick white substance which Lias called seed. This was what caused the mares to produce foals. Lias, she supposed, refrained from covering her in order to avoid the risk of the same thing happening.

  The farm was hers, yet she was so used to Lias’s company and following his rule that it had become entirely a matter of habit. Indeed, the regular cock-sucking and occasional fondling of her breasts or bottom formed an element of the stability that lent so much to her happiness. Infrequently he would spank her, bare-bottomed, across his knee – unless it was bedtime, when she would be done quite nude. This happened when she was naughty, but his excuses for doing it were so plainly manufactured that it seemed more of a game. It was also usually fairly gentle, and more arousing than painful. Nor did she suffer any of the indignation that being turned bare-bottomed over an old man’s knee would have led to among less unworldly girls. After such sessions, she would usually find a quiet corner in which to play with herself. Only when he was drunk did he spank her hard, which hurt but then became more arousing still.

  Octavia selected a last mushroom and gave her head a toss to shake a loose curl of hair from her eyes. It was a button, but a large one, with a shape and a glossy skin that brought back the thought of the head of a penis. A large penis, she thought, as she stroked the bulbous shape: bigger than Lias’s but not so large as Georgie’s. The mushroom flesh felt firm, again not unlike the end of Lias’s cock, and presumably like Georgie’s too, although when helping with coverings she had only ever touched the shaft.

  She smiled at a sudden, delightful thought and once more stroked her finger over the cap of the mushroom. Thoughts of cocks and smacked bottoms had set her sex tingling and she badly needed to play with herself. Action came immediately after the decision, and she at once decanted the mushrooms on to the ground and pulled her skirts high over her waist. For a moment, she stood enjoying the feel of the cool air on her naked lower body. Then, choosing a suitable patch of long, soft grass by a tree, she made herself comfortable with her back to the trunk and her knees up and open. A tug removed her neckerchief and another burst the knot that held the drawstring of her bodice. Pulling it open, she let her breasts spill out and cupped them in her hands. It felt nice to be bare-breasted, and she took a while to enjoy the sensation, feeling their weight and the way her nipples hardened under her caress. The little buds were soon erect, hard and sensitive so that her stroking renewed the urgency to touch her sex.

  Octavia closed her eyes and reached out for the large button mushroom. As her fingers closed on it, she imagined it to be the head of a big cock. Her imagination ran as she placed the mushroom between her legs, close to the wet flesh of her vulva. In her mind she was sat spr
ead open in front of a man, a man who was about to push his cock into her hole. It was not Lias, but another man, a bigger, stronger man; a man with a bigger cock; a huge cock that would fill her like the fattest of parsnips. Perhaps it was the big, heavy-set man who had come that morning to buy some hams. Mr Arrish had been his name, and his trousers had shown a most promising bulge . . .

  She put the mushroom to her vagina and pushed, feeling it slide in and open her just as Mr Arrish’s big, fat cock might have done. She closed her fingers around the thick stalk and tried to imagine them being the shaft of Mr Arrish’s cock as she pushed them up herself. Her vagina felt tight around the bunched fingers, deliciously tight, as if the hole were really straining to accommodate the cock being put into it. The image of Mr Arrish was strong in her mind, his face red and beaming as he fucked her, his big, jovial smile turning to a huge, lustful grin. The size of his fingers had impressed her and she now imagined them gripping her by the thighs to control her body. A finger found her clitoris and she began to flick at herself with little cuffing motions, each of which caught the top and made the little bud wobble back and forth in the most delightful way.

  As her pleasure rose, she embroidered her fantasy. First it was to imagine why Mr Arrish might be inside her. Possibly he might simply have caught her in the woods and thrown her skirts up to get at her sex. He would have pulled her breasts out and made her suck his cock before mounting her, then come in her and left her pregnant on the ground. Certainly it was important that she ended up pregnant, more important than why he had chosen to put his cock in her in the first place. That was simple: men liked girls, as Lias had explained, and what they liked was to put their cocks in whatever warm, wet orifices were available.

  She began to push her fist more deeply into herself and to rub harder at her clitoris. The fantasy had now changed. Lias had decided that it was time she was covered and had chosen Mr Arrish to do the job. She had been told to strip and been put out in the field, naked and with a wet sex from a warming spanking, a really hard one. Mr Arrish would have come to her, had her suck his cock, then put it between her breasts. Then he’d have fucked her, down in the grass with her legs kicked high and her hole bursting with huge, fat cock as he pumped himself into her, pushing, and pushing, then grunting as he came. Suddenly she would be full of seed, enough to make her belly swell and to drip from around his cock on to the grass so that she was left in a puddle of it: naked, come-sodden and, best of all, pregnant.