Devon Cream

by Aishling Morgan

  Polly was stripped naked, the three matrons working with quick, thorough motions and commenting on the inappropriate quality of the garments and on the fleshiness of Polly’s body. With her corset gone, her chemise and drawers were pulled off, then her boots. Even her stockings were taken, leaving her stark naked. With Polly ready, they stood back, admiring her plump, bare curves as she hung from the hook.

  ‘When I say stripped, I mean stripped,’ Mrs Arrish declared in satisfaction. ‘Now, Mr Apcott, if I might borrow your belt?’

  Tom Apcott put his hands to his waist, unfastening the heavy brass buckle of his belt. Slowly he pulled it free, all the while grinning at Polly’s naked body. The belt was some three inches wide, of thick leather and darkened with time and use. Polly returned his stare with a sorry little smile, expressing regret and apology.

  ‘Well, at least she knows she’s done wrong,’ Mrs Athwell remarked as Tom handed the strap to Mrs Arrish.

  ‘And so she should!’ Mrs Arrish answered. ‘But that don’t mean she won’t benefit from her strapping.’

  Mrs Arrish hefted the belt over Polly’s already well-spanked bottom. The big cheeks quivered as Polly braced herself, then bounced as the leather struck home with a meaty smack. Polly yelled and danced on her toes, making her breasts and bottom wobble as a thick, dark line sprang up across her fat cheeks. Eleven more times the belt was applied, each stroke drawing a fresh yelp and a ridiculous little dance of pain. By the end, Polly was moaning and making little choking sobs.

  Reluctantly, Mrs Arrish declared the punishment suitable, ignoring the straining erection of nipples and the smear of white fluid between the thighs that betrayed their victim’s sexual response. Polly had been well beaten, although the punishment had only partly diminished the matrons outrage at what she had done. Nevertheless, she was clearly contrite, as witnessed by her snivelling apologies and avowals of good behaviour. For a while they stood watching, regarding Polly’s plump curves as if looking for further fault, or perhaps to ensure that she suffered the full indignity of being hung up in the nude, beaten and then inspected. It was Mrs Athwell who first turned from the still-sobbing Polly and pointed to Octavia.

  ‘What about this little minx?’ she demanded of the others.

  ‘Didn’t do no wrong, did she?’ Tom Apcott stated regretfully.

  ‘We didn’t see her do no wrong,’ Mrs Arrish said, ‘but that doesn’t mean she didn’t. In any case, a good spanking wouldn’t do her any harm.’

  ‘Do you know, Mrs Arrish,’ Mrs Apcott put in. ‘We never did catch up with her after Tom caught her being so rude with Polly here. She’s due a spanking for that, if for nothing else.’

  They turned on Octavia, who responded with a worried smile.

  ‘Stripped, do you think Mrs Arrish?’ Mrs Athwell asked.

  ‘Certainly stripped, Mrs Athwell,’ Mrs Arrish replied. ‘Come on, girl, off with the clothes, or do we have to do it for you?’

  Octavia shook her head and put her fingers to the long row of buttons that fastened the front of her dress. Every eye was on her, Polly full of concern, the three matrons blending severity with pleasure, Tom Apcott with undisguised glee. The pressure of Octavia’s breasts pushed the sides of the dress apart as she undid the buttons, her lack of underwear drawing disapproving clicks from the matrons. With the gap open to the midriff, she shrugged and the dress fell from her shoulders, revealing big naked breasts and then a bare midriff, a midriff with an unmistakable bulge in the tummy.

  Mrs Arrish’s admonition for Octavia’s complete lack of underwear died in her throat. With eight children of her own, there could be no doubting what she saw. Octavia Challacombe was pregnant.

  5

  1908

  On the last day of January 1906, Octavia Challacombe gave birth to a baby girl. The child was named Alice, after the character in one of Octavia’s favourite books. No baptism or christening was held, and Octavia’s defiance of tradition and refusal to accept that she had sinned led to an ever-increasing level of ostracisation for herself and Polly Endicott.

  Within two years, they had become almost entirely isolated from the community at Ermecombe. Few links remained. Sophie Causey was one, supplying cloth and garments despite regular recriminatory spankings. Eliza Arrish, now Eliza Grant, still contributed her share of milk, despite being married to Nat. Her husband’s job as the driver of the carrier’s cart for the local area made it possible for Polly to visit her each day and collect her milk. Judy and May were also married, but had been forced to abandon their milk production. Becky continued, secure in her job at the manor and free to have Polly milk her each day, often in front of the squire and his son.

  Since Octavia had become pregnant she no longer visited Kerslake, leaving all such details to Polly. Although shamed and angry at the Marays’ treatment of Octavia, Polly was unwilling to give up the income from their milk. Not only did it keep them in comfort but, with most of the district set against them, it was evidently impractical to make ends meet by another method. Octavia felt the same, although she seemed largely immune to the deep shame that everybody else expected her to feel. For Polly, some little satisfaction was retained by the continued inclusion of horse’s semen in Jervis’s cheese.

  Jervis Maray sat lounging in an armchair in the library of Kerslake Manor. In one hand he held a long cigar, in the other a glass of cognac. In the chair opposite was Richard Haldon, a wealthy friend who was in the act of accepting a glass from Becky Arrish. Relieved of her burden, she placed the tray on a low table beside the cognac decanter, then gave a brief curtsey to each man.

  ‘Will that be all, sir?’ she enquired of Jervis.

  ‘For the moment,’ he answered. ‘I shall ring if we need you.’

  ‘Very well, sir,’ she answered, curtseyed once more and withdrew.

  ‘Fine little piece,’ Richard commented as the door closed behind Becky. ‘Pretty, and I do like curls. Good bust, too. Do you . . .?’

  ‘Now and again,’ Jervis responded casually. ‘She’s willing enough and, as you say, she has a fine body. Her uniform gives a good idea of her titties, but she has a fine backside too, full and well tucked-under but not too soft.’

  Richard gave a soft laugh in response, then smacked his lips in anticipation of Becky’s charms.

  ‘Would she be amenable?’ he enquired carefully. ‘Perhaps we could get her stripped over a game of cards or something?’

  ‘No need, old man,’ Jervis boasted. ‘I can make her do anything you like.’

  ‘Really?’ Richard questioned, his tone showing just a shade of doubt.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Jervis assured him. ‘She’ll even take it up the arse, with a bit of persuasion and perhaps an extra shilling at the end of the week.’

  ‘Beatings?’

  ‘She gets those anyway, bare-arsed or stripped, as I choose. The little whore likes it as well.’

  ‘When I was last in Paris,’ Richard said thoughtfully. ‘I visited this speciality place, down by the Canal de l’Ourcq. The girls would fill a piss-pot and then invite you to push their faces in it. It was a fine sight, watching some pretty French filly blowing bubbles with her head held under her own pee, then coming up with her face wet and her hair bedraggled. For a bit extra, you could take them from the rear while they drank it; that was sport. Do you think your Becky would be game?’

  ‘Who cares?’ Jervis answered. ‘She’ll do as she is told. Mark you, it’d be wise to get her cunt hot before we tried it.’

  ‘Might we?’ Richard asked.

  ‘I’m damned if I can see why not,’ Jervis answered and reached for the bell pull.

  Becky appeared before the rope was still, once more bobbing her skirts to Jervis.

  ‘There’s a little service we’d like of you,’ Jervis drawled, ‘a little service for which there’ll be an extra florin for you at the end of the month. The normal sort.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Becky answered, throwing a nervous but not altogether displeased glance towards
Richard Haldon.

  ‘Good girl,’ Jervis went on.

  ‘Shall I strip down?’ Becky asked tentatively. ‘Or would you like me to go up to the bedroom?’

  ‘Strip,’ Jervis instructed her. ‘Strip bare, in fact; we wouldn’t want you soiling your pretty underthings, would we now?’

  ‘Soiling, sir?’ Becky asked.

  ‘You’ll see,’ Jervis answered. ‘Come on, girl, we want to see that fine, fat body, or do I have to take the cane to your backside first?’

  ‘No, no, sir, I’m quite willing,’ Becky assured him as she began to work on the buttons of her uniform.

  Jervis took a draw on his cigar and sat back to watch. Becky’s uniform was conventional, a long dress of grey-blue wool, open at the neck to show off a white cotton blouse with a high, ruffled neckline and a plain brooch of black glass as a fastening. A mop cap and pinny completed the uniform although, as Jervis knew, the formal, inexpensive clothes concealed somewhat more exotic underwear.

  Becky stripped in the manner she had been taught, making much of the slow exposure of her breasts and bottom. Beneath her plain dress, she wore combinations of the finest gossamer, stockings of the same sheer material and a corset faced with gorgeous crimson satin. With this on display and her hair thrown out loose around her shoulders, she looked very different from the demure maid who had started the strip. The gossamer left the contours of her breasts and bottom showing, also the dark triangle between her legs. Yet it concealed enough to allow her to tease and, by the time she had pulled the top open to expose her breasts, Jervis’s cock was rigid in his trousers. The removal of her combinations necessitated loosening her corset, for which she sat in Jervis’s lap with her glorious bottom pressed to his erection. With her combinations struggled off beneath her corset, and peeled slowly down off her bottom, she sat bare in Richard’s lap for the laces to be fastened again. That left her in corset, stockings and neat, heeled boots, with her breasts, belly and bottom quite bare. Striking a pose with her hands behind her head, her breasts pushed out and one hip cocked impudently sideways, she finished her striptease and stood smiling down at them.

  ‘By God, but wasn’t I right?’ Jervis demanded. ‘Was there ever such a fine little whore for a maid?’

  ‘I’ve seen worse routines in Paris!’ Richard exclaimed, squeezing his erect cock through his trousers. ‘Bravo!’

  ‘I taught her that myself,’ Jervis boasted, ‘although she has a natural talent for flaunting herself, as do most women. I didn’t even have to take my stick to her arse more than a couple of times. Let’s see some more. Turn and bend, girl.’

  Becky obeyed immediately, turning her back to them and dipping it into an elegant swan’s neck that left her bottom thrust out and her cheeks open to leave the rear pouch of her vagina and the puckered brown dimple of her anus showing. Jervis laughed as he heard Richard swallow hard.

  ‘Now, my dear,’ Jervis drawled when he tired of examining Becky’s most intimate details. ‘We want to watch you piss, so why don’t you run along and fetch a chamber pot? A nice big one, mind you.’

  Becky blushed and hesitated for an instant, then scampered from the room. Jervis heard her run soft-footed up the stairs, then back down just moments later. Once more she came into the room, yet more flustered and holding a large china chamberpot in one hand.

  ‘Front or back, sir?’ she asked coyly as she placed the pot on the floor.

  ‘Back,’ Jervis ordered. ‘I like a full view – and remember, I said stripped bare.’

  Now blushing furiously, Becky made quick work of her remaining clothes, tugging loose her own corset laces and quickly kicking off her boots and stockings. Naked, she squatted down and swung round to present them with the full moon of her bottom poised over the chamberpot. The two buttocks were glossy balls of pale flesh, firm and plump with skin the colour and texture of cream. They were well parted, and every detail of her sex was visible, the swollen outer lips, the soft pink folds of the inner lips and the wet, partially open hole of her vagina. Her anus also showed clearly, a ring of somewhat puffy, dun-coloured flesh in a nest of dark fur.

  Jervis watched, delighting in the rudeness of the view and in his power in having Becky respond to such intimate orders. He had watched many girls pee before, but never tired of the exquisitely dirty way the vulva and anal area pouted as they relaxed, nor of hearing their sobs of shame and passion as the thick yellow stream gushed out of their vulvas in full view.

  Becky’s quim spread and her anus pouted as she readied herself. Then her pee burst out from between her labia, splashing into the pot beneath her bottom with a loud rushing sound. She looked back, her face suffused with blushes at the rudeness of what she was doing, then away again, unable to meet either man’s gaze as she emptied her bladder in front of them. Jervis gave his cock a thoughtful squeeze as he watched the pee gush from Becky’s sex and swirl in the bowl beneath her. There was plenty of it, and he chuckled at the thought of her pretty face being pushed into her own waste. He would get her head well in, he decided, so that her hair was wet. He would also hold her down until she was forced to open her mouth and swallow, or perhaps he would let her up, only to thrust her face back into the pee the instant she gasped for breath. Then it would be time for his cock to go into her cunt while she drank her own pee from the potty. Her stream had begun to slow, first to a trickle and then to a drip. She wiggled her bottom to shake off the last few drops, then rose and turned with an embarrassed but expectant smile. In front of her stood the chamberpot, more than half full of gently steaming, deep gold liquid.

  ‘Very pretty,’ Jervis sneered, ‘and I suppose you think we’re going to fuck you now, or maybe have you suck our cocks?’

  Becky nodded and cast a nervous glance to each of them.

  ‘Well, you won’t be disappointed,’ Jervis went on, ‘but you’ll have to wait a little. Meanwhile, get down on all fours with your head over the potty.’

  ‘Over the potty, sir?’ she queried.

  ‘That’s what I said,’ he snapped. ‘Come on, girl, down you go!’

  ‘What are you thinking of doing?’ she asked worriedly.

  ‘Well, not that it’s any affair of yours,’ Jervis said angrily, ‘but I’m going to push your face in the piss and have a good laugh while I hold it under.’

  ‘I don’t think I could do that, sir.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I don’t want to do it, sir!’

  ‘You’ll damn well do as you’re told!’

  ‘Not that, sir.’

  ‘Your choice is simple,’ Jervis snarled, ‘so simple that even you should be able to understand it. Do as I say or lose your position.’

  ‘I’ll tell your father!’ Becky retorted.

  ‘Ha!’ Jervis laughed. ‘And do you think he’d care?’

  ‘He’s very fond of me. He’ll not –’ Becky began, but got no further.

  ‘But quite batty,’ Jervis finished for her. ‘He won’t notice the change, as long as he got his morning tea from a girl with big bouncers and a wide arse!’

  ‘That’s . . . that’s not true,’ Becky stammered.

  ‘Care to put it to the test?’ he sneered.

  ‘It’s not right of you to ask such a thing,’ Becky answered, suddenly changing tack.

  ‘I’ll ask what I please,’ Jervis answered, ‘and if there’s any more of your insolence you’ll be spending the night chained in the pump trough with a dozen cuts to decorate your arse. So what’s it to be, eh? Your face in the pot and a little drink, or out on your ear?’

  ‘I won’t do it!’ Becky snapped back. ‘It’s dirty . . . It’s not right . . . I don’t mind fooling around and I don’t mind the odd tanning, but I won’t do that, not ever!’

  ‘Then you’d best get out,’ Jervis answered, his temper flaring at her obstinacy.

  ‘I will, then,’ Becky answered hotly, only to suddenly soften her tone. ‘You like your blue-veined cheese, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jer
vis admitted, somewhat taken aback by the sudden and apparently irrelevant change of tack.

  ‘All lovely, and thick, and creamy, isn’t it?’ she continued.

  ‘What the hell has the cheese got to do with this?’ Jervis demanded.

  ‘I’ll tell you what!’ Becky shouted. ‘It’s salty, too, isn’t it? And this is why! Ever since you put poor Octavia up the stick, Polly’s been pulling the horse off into your milk! Yes, that’s right, that lovely, thick, creamy cheese you ate earlier was made with one-fifth horse seed!’

  As she finished, her voice had risen close to a scream. With a final furious glare at Jervis, she spun about and stamped from the room, slamming the door behind her. Jervis was left standing, red-faced with anger and amazement at Becky’s rage. He was used to obedience from her, and she had previously always been willing enough to indulge his whims. It seemed impossible to him that she had disobeyed, more impossible still that Polly Endicott had dared such a spiteful act. Yet, as he thought about it, he remembered overheard sniggers and odd, amused looks from the girls. With a sick feeling rising in his throat, he realised that what Becky had said was simply too bizarre not to be the truth. Then he became aware of his friend’s laughter.

  ‘Priceless!’ Richard declared. ‘There’s a girl with spirit, Jervis, old man, and this Polly girl sounds richer still! Imagine it, putting horse’s spend in the cheese!’

  ‘Most amusing, I’m sure,’ Jervis grated sarcastically, ‘but I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that you helped yourself to a large slice at dinner.’

  Richard abruptly stopped laughing, his face taking on a curious pale green cast as he looked up at Jervis.

  Archibald Maray sat up in his bed and reached for the bell pull. A tug produced distant tones downstairs in the servants’ quarters. Life was rosy, the product of a weakening mind and a healthy body. Not that his mind was quite as weak as others suspected. Rather it was a case of convenience, as there was no call for mental effort on his part and his apparent senility allowed him to avoid irksome social calls and, in fact, any responsibilities whatsoever. His sole concern was to maintain his supply of girl’s milk and the perquisites that went with that supply.