‘Don’t you “good morning” me, Polly Endicott,’ Mrs Arrish answered. ‘I want an explanation.’
‘What for?’ Polly answered hopelessly.
‘You know full well what for, Polly Endicott,’ she answered. ‘What you and that Octavia Challacombe were about in the woods yesterday, that’s what for.’
‘I . . . We . . .’ Polly stammered.
‘And no lip, or you’ll only make it worse for yourself,’ the formidable woman went on. ‘Tom Apcott was up after wood, and he saw it all. Now, what did you think you were about, behaving like that?’
‘I . . .’ Polly was blushing furiously.
All around her was a ring of curious faces, each one fascinated to know what she had done. To say it was impossible, even with the terrifying Mrs Arrish demanding it.
‘I . . . I don’t know . . .’ she stammered.
‘Well, I do,’ Mrs Arrish snapped, ‘and I know the cure for it. I’m going to spank you and spank you well, and while it’s happening I want you to think about what you’ve done and then maybe afterwards you won’t be so keen to let your dirty feelings get the better of you.’
‘Spank me!’ Polly exclaimed. ‘Please, not that, Mrs Arrish. I won’t do it again, I promise!’
‘A spanking’s what you deserve and a spanking’s what you’re going to get,’ Mrs Arrish answered. ‘Now, are you going to do as you’re told or do I have to get Mrs Athwell to sit atop of you?’
‘I’ll do as I’m told,’ Polly answered, hanging her head and turning towards the Arrishes’ front door.
‘And where do you think you’re going?’ Mrs Arrish demanded.
‘Indoors,’ Polly answered, ‘to be spanked.’
‘Oh, no, you don’t,’ Mrs Arrish said. ‘You’ll take it out here, so everybody can see what happens to dirty little girls.’
‘No!’ Polly exclaimed. ‘Not in front of everyone! Please! I’ll be good, Mrs Arrish, I promise, but not in front of them!’
‘Come along, my girl,’ Mrs Arrish said and placed a hand on Polly’s arm. ‘This stool’ll do nicely for me to sit on, and you can come across my lap.’
‘Please, no, Mrs Arrish,’ Polly begged. ‘You can give me double indoors. You can all three spank me! You can use a brush or a belt, but don’t do it in front of everyone!’
‘If you want folks to mind your modesty, you should have thought of that before misbehaving,’ Mrs Arrish declared firmly and tightened her grip on Polly’s arm. ‘Now, let’s have you over and then we can get these skirts up.’
Mrs Arrish tugged and Polly followed the pressure. She was quickly pulled down and her bonnet fell off as she was tipped across the woman’s knee. An arm was twisted up into the small of her back, leaving her helpless. She could see more onlookers gathering as Mrs Arrish put a hand to her skirts. Then her dress was being lifted, coming up over her legs and bottom, exposing her under-skirt. That followed, then the petticoats, one by one, until all three were turned up high and her pretty new drawers were on show to the crowd.
‘Not bare!’ she begged, although she knew it was hopeless.
Sure enough, Mrs Arrish did not even bother to respond to the plea, but simply gave a cluck of disapproval at the sight of the fancy underwear. Polly’s bottom felt huge, a great fat ball that bulged out through the tight cotton to make a display that she was sure was utterly lewd, yet not a fraction as lewd as it was about to become. Then Mrs Arrish’s fingers found a button and it had begun, the agonising humiliation of having her bottom exposed for public spanking.
She felt the opening of each button and with it the exposure of a little more flesh. The first showed the tight valley at the top of her bottom crease, the second a slice of creamy cheek and another length of crease, and the third the whole upper part of her substantial bottom. She clenched her fists and gritted her teeth as the fourth was popped open, then gave an involuntary gasp of shame as the fifth went and the flap fell away to reveal her most intimate details to the crowd. It was showing, all of it: both her bottom cheeks, plump and big, round and white in the sunlight, and her quim, hairy and pouted and thoroughly rude. Only the fatness of her bottom saved her from the yet greater indignity of showing her anus, and she knew that once she started to kick, in her pain, that too would be revealed.
‘Go on, Mrs Arrish, spank her well,’ a voice called out from behind her.
‘Well there’s no shortage of target, that’s for sure,’ another laughed.
‘You mind your manners,’ Mrs Arrish replied, ‘or you’ll get the same. Now, lie still, girl.’
Polly stopped wriggling and, as she did so, she felt a pathetic sense of gratitude to the woman who was about to spank her for quelling the jeering male voices. Not that it was much of an improvement. She was still to be spanked, only at least the rude display she was making of her bottom would not be commented on and laughed at while it happened. Expecting the spanking to begin, she braced herself, only to feel Mrs Arrish’s hand at her chest. She gave a broken sob as she realised that her breasts were to be pulled out.
‘Not those. Why those?’ she whined.
Mrs Arrish didn’t trouble to reply. Strong fingers groped at her dress, pulling open the buttons and then tugging loose the strings of her chemise. Her breasts burst from the constraint of her corset cups, into which they had never really fitted properly. Then they were hanging loose, naked and plump, as bare to the vulgar gaze as her bottom.
The grip on her arm tightened and she braced herself for spanking, determined not to make an unseemly show of herself. Then Mrs Arrish’s hand came down hard across her naked seat and all such thoughts were knocked from her head. Her bottom seemed to explode with pain and she yelped and kicked out her legs. Another slap caught her and she kicked and squealed again, her dignity quite lost as she adopted a lewd pose in helpless response.
As Polly was beaten, her struggles became ever more frantic and the poses she adopted ever more ludicrous and vulgar. At this, some members of the crowd began to titter, then to laugh openly. For an instant, she tried to control herself again, but a hard slap caught the tuck of her cheeks and she yelped and threw her legs open, giving a blatant display of open buttocks that drew yet louder laughter from the audience.
It seemed to last forever: her bottom dancing naked to an agony of red-hot smacks, her breasts bouncing up and down and slapping together, her fists beating on the ground, her legs kicking and opening to show cunt and anus to the laughing crowd. Yet, with each stinging slap, the heat in her sex grew, until even through her pain she was aware that her vagina would be a gaping, sopping hole, presenting clear evidence of her uncontrolled arousal. This knowledge brought fresh humiliation, which in turn made her yet more aroused. Agonising frustration at being unable to control herself joined the pain of her spanking and the shame of her exposure. A hard lump was building in her throat, a lump that she knew would mean tears. She choked it down, only to catch a comment from the crowd.
‘Hasn’t she a fat backside? I’d like to fill it, that I would.’
Polly burst into tears, only for the spanking to stop on the instant.
‘I’ll have none of that filth!’ Mrs Arrish called out. ‘Now, that’s the lot, so you can all stop gawping!’
A huge wave of gratitude to the woman who had beaten her swept over Polly, and then her arm had been released and she was sliding from Mrs Arrish’s lap. She rolled off and sat down hard on her bare bottom in the dirt. For a moment, she was too pained and confused to do more than sit there as the cool mud oozed up into the crevices of her bottom and sex. It was her exposed breasts that she first became aware of, simply because a good dozen men were staring at them with unconcealed lust. Blushing furiously, she returned them to the confines of her underwear and quickly did up her dress.
Mrs Arrish stood and dusted down her dress as Polly retrieved her soiled bonnet and climbed to her feet. Overwhelmed by shame and the stinging pain of her bottom, she hung her head and mumbled an apology.
‘So I shoul
d think,’ Mrs Arrish replied, ‘and let that be a lesson to you. Any more nonsense and there’ll be more where that came from, and next it’ll not just be me, but the three of us, one after the other. And you can tell that Octavia Challacombe that we’ll be up to pay her a visit tomorrow.’
Mrs Arrish swung on her heel and walked indoors, followed by Mrs Apcott and Mrs Athwell. Polly was left alone with the crowd, some expressing pity, others amused, others leering openly. Overcome by confusion, she ran.
Among the crowd that watched her go stood Squire Archibald Maray. His cock was stiff in his trousers, as were those of the majority of male members of the audience. Unlike them, the focus of his attention during Polly’s spanking had been neither the full moon of her bottom nor the well-furred purse of her sex. Rather, his eyes had been fixed on the fat orbs of her breasts as they swung and bounced beneath her chest.
He had been to London with his son Jervis, and they had been passing through Ermecombe on the way between Exeter station and Kerslake, where he held the manor. On seeing that a girl was about to be spanked, he had ordered the driver to stop their trap. He had been expecting the normal flurry of beating fists and kicking legs as her bottom was bared and then slapped up to a glowing red, but had been taken aback by the sheer magnificence of her breasts. Only when she had sat down in the mud had he realised that the victim was Polly Endicott, who for some years had worked at Kerslake dairy.
The trip to London had been undertaken in order to introduce Jervis to the pleasures of expensive whores, and had been a great success. They had visited a selection of rude burlesques and yet ruder private shows, then gone on from straightforward brothels to more specialist brothels. Among these had been an establishment whose distinctive feature was to have its girls in milk. Both of them had enjoyed the two big breasted cockney girls, from whose nipples came a plentiful supply of milk. He had found himself fascinated as with no other sexual foible, and afterwards he had persuaded the madam to reveal the secret of how the girls were brought into milk.
The cockney tarts had been fine, buxom girls; plump, pretty and full-breasted. Yet neither came close to Polly Endicott in sheer magnificence of mammary development. Looking wistfully after the departing Polly, the squire began to wonder if she might not be persuaded, or tricked, into providing a similar service. Not, he realised, that it would be easy. Yet with skill, and patience, it might just be possible.
Polly scampered up the track towards Erme Head Farm. Her bottom throbbed and stung beneath her clothes, keeping her constantly in mind of the spanking she had just received. Tears choked her eyes and sobs racked her throat, but these were less from the pain of the spanking than from the appalling indignity of having had it done in public. Her bottom had been laid bare, her breasts had been pulled out and she had been spanked; spanked in front of a jeering crowd; spanked until she howled and blubbered and begged; spanked while her quim juiced and swelled until she been open and ready. And it had showed, to all the women and all the men; revealing her sexual excitement at a public beating. A great many of her friends had been there, and as many strangers.
She had run from the village, her mind a welter of confusing feelings. Shame had been the dominant emotion, and she had been imagining the reactions of each of the people who had watched her punishment. Squire Maray from Kerslake had been there, his expression half pitying and half amused. Worse had been his son, Jervis, whose ear she had often cuffed for trying to steal cream or for playing horrid tricks when she had worked in the dairy. He had been little more than a child then; spoiled, wilful and cruel. Now he was eighteen, although adulthood seemed to have done little to improve his character. Indeed, he had laughed loudly during her spanking and afterwards his smirk and been the most openly amused and lustful of all.
Only when she reached the bridge over the Erme did she stop running, her breathlessness finally overcoming her panicky desperation to be away from the village. Sitting down on the parapet of the little bridge, she began to draw in great gulps of air, then to shake her head in a vain attempt to rid herself of the image of Jervis Maray leering down at her naked breasts.
Thinking of how much he must have enjoyed seeing her beaten brought the feeling of being sorry for herself to the fore. Soon everybody in the district would know that Mrs Arrish had had to spank her in public. It would be a prime piece of gossip for months to come, along with speculation as to exactly what she and Octavia had done. The details, at least, had not come out, although that was small mercy as they undoubtedly would.
Then she tried to be angry, but could only manage a faint ‘bother’, addressed to the empty woods of the Erme Valley. Mrs Arrish had spanked her for doing something incredibly rude with Octavia and, when all was said and done, it had been just, even mild. During her days at Kerslake dairy, she would undoubtedly have beaten any girl caught making another lick her quim, and probably out in the yard to shame her, and probably with a strap. No, Mrs Arrish had done the right thing by beating her.
The thought of exactly why she had been punished brought out her underlying lust. Her quim was as warm as her bottom, and soaking wet. The urge to touch it was close to overwhelming, although she knew that to masturbate over her recent experience would mean feeling even more ashamed of herself, once she had done it. It was too much. The thick birch understory of the woods to either side of the track beckoned, an ideal place to pull up her skirts and rub herself until she came, all the while remembering the pain and indignity of being spanked across Mrs Arrish’s lap. Maybe she would get her breasts out, just as they had been during the beating. Or she could do it kneeling and imagine all those eyes staring at the rude details of her bottom, her quim, her bumhole . . .
She got up from the parapet, only to stop suddenly. A man was coming up the track from Ermecombe, a big, solid man with a ruddy face and a bristling moustache – Mr Jan Arrish. He was walking fast and swinging a heavy cane, bringing a new flush of fear to Polly as she wondered if his wife had decided that the beating had been inadequate and sent her husband to finish the job properly. Doubtless it would mean being bent bare-bottomed over the bridge parapet and soundly thrashed, a prospect that made her sore buttocks clench in fear.
Then he raised the stick and waved it, a gesture accompanied by a shout far too merry to be that of a man bent on dishing out discipline. She relaxed a little and returned his greeting as he came up with her.
‘Good morning to you, Polly Endicott,’ he called. ‘I trust your behind’s not too sore?’
‘I . . . It’s . . . very well, thank you,’ Polly stammered.
‘I’m glad to hear that,’ he answered, ‘but it must be warm, and I’ve brought just the thing for a girl with a warm behind.’
‘I’m fine, really, I . . .’ Polly answered, only to stop short.
Mr Arrish had put his hand to his fly, which was not buttoned. With a single, smooth motion he then pulled out a large, heavily hooded cock and an ample scrotum. The cock, while not erect, was at least halfway there, and moved in a sluggish manner over the balls, a sight that held Polly’s horrified gaze.
‘Come on, my girl,’ he urged. ‘Into the woods with you. I saw how you liked your spanking and I know it’s what you need.’
Polly could only stare at the huge set of cock and balls in front of her. On the one hand, she was revolted; on the other, she had the most desperate urge to reach out and take it all in her hands.
‘I’ll have those big titties out, first,’ he went on placidly, ‘and take a good feel. Once those nipples are stiff you’ll be more in the mood to play. Don’t worry, I’ll give your cunt a rub, so you don’t feel left out.’
‘Mr Arrish!’ Polly exclaimed, finally finding her voice at the sheer rudeness of his remark.
‘Come on now, my girl, you needn’t play the innocent with me. You’ve no more morals than a bitch on heat. I know what you get up to with that Octavia Challacombe, remember, and if you can do it with a skinny piece like her, you can do it with a fine, strapping man like me.’
‘Now, don’t be foolish, Mr Arrish. What would be said if you was to leave me with a baby?’
‘That I was a proper fool, I dare say. And it’d be the truth. No, my dear, I won’t pretend as to how I wouldn’t like it up that little cunt of yours, but I’ll settle for doing it between those fat titties, and perhaps a suck. Either that or it’s up your arse, so you’d best get them out. Come on, girl, we both know the state you’re in.’
Polly moaned in shame at his words, but she knew he was right. The sensible part of her mind was screaming at her to tell him a few home truths and then to run away, but when she spoke her words were very different from those intended.
‘If we do, do you promise you won’t tell?’ she asked.
‘And me married to Anne Arrish?’ he answered.
Polly nodded in understanding and glanced nervously up and down the track. Nobody was in view.
‘I . . . I’ll do it then,’ she stammered. ‘Come in here where we can’t be seen.’
He grinned and took her hand as she pushed into the copse. At the far side was a fallen tree, its dead foliage providing cover from three directions while the birches hid the fourth. She sat down on the trunk and with trembling hands undid the front of her dress and extracted her breasts from within the folds of her underwear. He watched the process in fascination, all the while nursing his growing erection in one hand and stroking his moustache with the other. When her top was bare, she cupped a breast in each hand and held them forwards to offer a fleshy slide for his cock. They felt huge and heavy, as they always did when she was ready for sex. The nipples were already stiff, two rose-pink buds of flesh standing the best part of an inch proud from the crowns of each breast.
‘By God, but you’ve got fat ones,’ Mr Arrish leered. ‘I suppose it’s all that butter and cream you were brought up on. Nice teats, too, very pretty. Stroke them a bit and then I’ll do it.’
Polly obediently brushed her fingers over her hard nipples, sending a delicious shiver right through her. Mr Arrish grinned in delight, then edged forwards and laid his cock between her breasts, giving a sigh of satisfaction as she folded it into the fat pillows of flesh. Only the tip stuck out, red and angry with the tiny hole already damp with fluid.
Devon Cream Page 4
