Devon Cream

by Aishling Morgan

  By the time her senses cleared enough to take full notice of her surroundings, her lover had withdrawn. She said nothing, content to lie on the table in the hazy afterglow of sex. Only when she heard voices did she try to rise. It was Jervis, demanding that Richard come quickly to the car. Realising that it was Jervis’s intention to abandon her on the benighted moor, she began to struggle to untangle herself. With great effort, she managed to get her head out of the slit in the side of her skirts, only to see the dark forms of the men already by the car.

  ‘Come on, Jervis old fellow!’ Richard’s voice carried to her. ‘We had them, didn’t we?’

  ‘Best get in,’ Jervis answered, ‘unless you’re game for a damned long walk!’

  ‘But, I say . . .’ Richard protested.

  ‘Shut up and give me a hand with this damn handle!’ Jervis answered.

  She shouted out but her words were lost in the roar of the car’s engine. Then Richard had jumped in and they had left, leaving her bound and helpless over the bench.

  With a great deal of effort she managed to extract her arms from the binding and get them through the slit to work on the knot that held her skirts up. Finally free, she stood up and looked around for her friends. One was only yards away, and in the same plight she had been, possibly worse. This was Becky, who had been thrust upside down into the picnic site rubbish bin. In the moonlight she showed only as a bundle of cotton and lace with a bare bottom sticking up out of the middle and a pair of legs kicking in helpless frustration. The sight was at once so rude and so ludicrous that Octavia found it impossible not to laugh. Of Polly, there was no sign.

  Polly writhed in her bonds, wondering how she could possibly release herself from her position. He had left, kissing her buttocks as a parting act but not bothering to untie her or even to cover her modesty. That was when she realised how badly she had been undone. The kisses had been firm, and planted on the crests of her bum-cheeks. As it had been done, she had felt the rough bristles of a moustache. Richard Haldon wore no moustache. She had been molested, fucked and finally buggered by Jervis Maray.

  The knowledge was close to unbearable, and made worse by the degree to which she had enjoyed his dirty treatment of her body. Never before had she been buggered, let alone in such humiliating circumstances, yet she could not deny that it had been an exquisite experience. When he had left, she had tried to get free of her bonds, but found it impossible. Now all she could do was wait for rescue, with the evidence of what had been done to her on clear display. The dark was her only solace, hiding the very rudest details of sopping quim and sperm-filled bottom. There was also the humiliation of having begged to be made to come, a release that had been denied her.

  With every passing minute, she prayed for rescue and that it would be Octavia who came to release her. Yet nobody came, and she was beginning to feel the first ripples of panic when a noise caught her ears, a sharp, yet faint squeaking. Gradually it became louder, until it seemed to come from directly behind her. Then it stopped.

  There was a crash, like something metal being dropped, then a grunt of surprise. Burning with shame, Polly realised that there was somebody watching her. She could say nothing, but only work her mouth, trying frantically to swallow the solid lump that seemed to be blocking her throat. For a long moment nothing happened, then she felt something press against her vagina and knew that whoever had found her was no gentleman.

  With her mouth gaping in disbelief for what was happening to her, she was fucked once more, hard, fast and in a rather perfunctory manner, as if the man was worried that somebody else might come on the scene. Nor did he trouble to pull out before orgasm, but came deep inside her. She was left with sperm running from both orifices as the curious squeak that had first drawn her attention faded into the distance.

  6

  1914

  In the late spring of 1914, Squire Archibald Maray died at the age of seventy-four. His doctor recorded the death as the result of an apoplectic fit in the bath and subsequent drowning. The fact that the bath had been filled with milk and that the squire was found with an erection went unrecorded. The fact that the milk had come not from any cow but from four of the local girls went unnoticed.

  The reaction to his death was varied. His son made a moderate pretence of grief but clearly felt that the event had not come before its time. Becky Arrish was distraught, as she should have been with the squire but had spent the night in Ermecombe attending the birth of her sister May’s fourth child. Octavia and Polly were both saddened and concerned, as both of them had had a soft spot for the old man and their handsome income derived entirely from supplying milk to him.

  The funeral was held two days later, when they donned suitable black dresses and made their way to Kerslake. It was a small event, most of the squire’s friends and acquaintances having predeceased him, and afterwards they found themselves walking beside old Dr Appleby, who had attended the squire for much of his life and had pronounced him dead.

  ‘A tragic accident,’ Dr Appleby was saying, ‘a truly tragic accident. Do you know, I had fully expected him to make one hundred. I have perhaps never known a more healthy individual.’

  ‘Thanks to you, Doctor,’ Octavia replied somewhat diffidently, unsure as to exactly how much the doctor knew.

  ‘Me?’ Dr Appleby replied. ‘Hardly that my dear girl. Do you know, I attended him no more than three – no, four times in the last thirty years.’

  ‘Surely not,’ Polly put in. ‘Why he used to mention you ever so often, and always with the highest praise, what with his regime and all.’

  ‘Regime?’ the doctor replied.

  ‘The special regime you put him under,’ Polly continued with a blush. ‘The one you learnt about in the Andaman Islands.’

  ‘Special regime? The Andaman Islands?’ he queried. ‘My dear girl, the good squire must have been pulling your leg. He was remarkably sound in health and certainly never needed a special regime. As to the Andaman Islands, I have never been there in my life. They are, I believe, somewhere in the Indian Ocean.’

  Polly said nothing, but turned her face to the distant hills of the moor as her cheeks flamed through pink and scarlet to a burning crimson. When she finally brought herself to look at Octavia, she received only a wry smile in return.

  For a week Octavia and Polly did nothing, but continued diligently with the milking routine and consumed the produce themselves. Despite allowing themselves considerable extravagance they had managed to save a good deal of money and several times considered abandoning the milking in favour of a quiet and respectable life. Yet each time the idea was rejected. To contemplate it seemed the route to boredom and advancing age, while the continued social disapproval of the Ermecombe matrons made their link with Kerslake their sole contact beyond the farm.

  Since the birth of Polly’s daughter Lucy as a consequence of the encounter with the stranger at Belever picnic ground, the disapproval had become stronger than ever. Mrs Arrish had sworn to have both of them stripped and beaten in public if they so much as dared set foot in Ermecombe. Neither did dare, and Eliza had taken to going to the manor to be milked before the old squire’s death.

  Finally, Polly decided that the matter of what was to become of the milking had to be settled and set off across the moor for Kerslake Manor, leaving Octavia with the children. Despite her natural determination and obstinance, she felt considerable trepidation at the thought of approaching Jervis Maray, now that he was squire. For all his faults, he was the squire, and to the squire she owed respect and obedience. Since he had buggered her, she had held herself aloof from him, yet there was no denying that he exerted a certain horrid fascination. It was impossible to get the thought of how his cock had felt up her bottom out of her head. Since then, she had more than once had Octavia bugger her with a convenient vegetable, in order to reproduce the feeling. There was also the question of who had taken advantage of her while she was bound and helpless, which was an event she blamed more on Jervis than the my
sterious stranger.

  Whoever it was had fathered Lucy, as Jervis had spent his load up her bottom. Yet all she could find out was that the culprit had been riding a bicycle along the road by Belever Tor at around midnight. This in itself was an unusual thing to have been doing, yet she had not so much as a suspicion as to who it might have been. Lucy’s appearance told her nothing. She was bonny and big and curly-haired, much like the majority of local children and indeed almost identical to Polly’s own appearance as a child.

  Richard Haldon was also a concern to her. On the rare occasions she had seen him since the fateful night, he had been courteous and friendly, also apologetic, blaming drink and high spirits for what had happened. Polly accepted this, despite her private opinion on the matter. Slowly, she had allowed her feelings towards him to grow, although he seemed disinclined to make any advances.

  Reaching Kerslake Manor, she steeled herself to her task and then rang the back door bell. Becky answered the door and Polly was ushered inside to find a remarkable amount of activity. Various men were busy about various tasks, while both Judy and Eliza’s eldest daughter, Anna, were helping Becky in the kitchen. Richard Haldon was also present, which caused a distinct fluttering in Polly’s breast. Jervis showed not the slightest surprise at her arrival, but ushered her into the library.

  The interview went far more easily than she could have imagined. Jervis was polite and made no improper suggestions, but happily agreed to continuing buying as much milk as the four girls could make at the old price. He even made a joke of her old habit of adding horse’s semen to the cheese and finished by insisting that she and Octavia join a party that he was planning for the following evening. Amazed by the ease with which she had accomplished her task, Polly returned to Erme Head with the good news.

  The next day, Octavia arrived at Kerslake Manor, fully expecting to have ended the night having accepted at least one cock inside her. It was a prospect she looked forward to with relish as, for all the pleasure taken under Polly’s now expert tongue, she enjoyed the occasional stiff penis. Polly had been less enthusiastic, although Octavia had noticed with amusement that she had selected a pretty pair of drawers and an elaborate corset faced with purple satin.

  For the first time in their association with the Marays, they entered the manor by the front door. They had expected a polite assembly, with the less proper entertainment saved until later. Instead, they found themselves in company with a large group of young men and men not so young who were unified only by the appearance of wealth and a rakish disposition. Becky Arrish and Eliza Grant were also there, both looking rather nervous and clutching Champagne flutes as if they were holding tankards of cider. No other females were present.

  Jervis greeted them with a reptilian smile, while the men’s attention was frank and complimentary, if somehow curiously disrespectful. Octavia returned unabashed smiles and unctuous greetings with polite nods, all the while wondering what was in store for them and how Jervis had represented them to his friends. The truth was quickly revealed when he began to introduce them as his milkmaids. Evidently every man in the house was aware that the four of them were in milk and it seemed naïve to assume that Jervis was not going to make use of the fact.

  Octavia found her nipples tingling at the prospect despite an unaccustomed blush when she realised that perhaps as many as thirty men knew she had been providing breast milk for the Marays’ sexual pleasure for some sixteen years. Yet if she was embarrassed, she was not alone. Polly’s face was a burning scarlet.

  As the party progressed, her sense of anticipation built, to the point where she was terrified of what might be coming, yet equally worried that nothing would and that she would return home frustrated. The men continued friendly, but none did more than pass comment on the magnificence of her chest and how well her low-cut gown displayed her cleavage. Three times this happened, and after the third she found herself seriously considering offering the next worthwhile man who passed a compliment a more thorough investigation of her breasts.

  A group of four were paying court to her, two unremarkable young men, a tall older man with a Roman nose and greying hair and an enormously fat youth. Each was attentive, although more to her breasts than her face, the fat boy being particularly open in his admiration of their smooth, plump upper surfaces. None of them appealed to Octavia, and she was considering how best to move on when Jervis himself joined the group.

  ‘Ah, Octavia,’ he greeted her, ‘you grow more radiant with each glass of Champagne. Gentlemen, is she not beautiful?’

  The men nodded vigorous assent, making Octavia think of a group of farmers admiring a prize pig.

  ‘If her breasts lack the opulence of Polly’s, they make up for it in firmness,’ Jervis went on, quite casually. ‘Here, it is time they were out. Let me show you.’

  Octavia could only manage a quiet gasp as Jervis reached a hand down the front of her dress and scooped out first one breast, then the other. Despite being both embarrassed and flustered, she made no move to stop him, nor to put them back when he had treated himself to a quick feel and left them thrust out for the men’s inspection.

  ‘She has always been the most pliant of my girls,’ Jervis continued, ‘a slut to the core and naturally obedient.’

  Octavia bridled but said nothing, far too awed by the attention she was getting and by the casual misuse of her body to protest. She had known that the evening was unlikely to finish without her being called on to satisfy one or more men sexually, but had not expected such a casually proprietorial act. Still, her breasts were now out and the men more attentive than ever and, even when Jervis had sauntered casually away, she felt that she would merely look silly returning them to her dress. Besides, it was undoubtedly arousing having them bare.

  As she continued to talk and her excitement continued to rise, she kept an eye on Jervis. With all his usual arrogance, he was making a tour of the girls and exposing the breasts of each. Becky allowed this without fuss and was soon giggling as an elderly man with a bristling white moustache examined them through a monocle. Eliza was somewhat more restrained but, at the sight of her younger sister bare-chested and obviously thriving on the men’s attention, she allowed her own breasts to be pulled free of her gown. Polly made more of a fuss, but soon ended up like the others, with her enormous breasts nestling naked on the silk ruffles that had previously covered them.

  The men became less reticent, as if the exposure of the girls’ breasts proved a point of which they had been unsure. While Octavia was speaking to one of the older men, the fat boy who had previously been so absorbed in her cleavage came behind her and grabbed her breasts from the rear. She yelped and spilled her Champagne, but her reaction provoked only amusement from the older man and the fat youth began to bounce her breasts up and down in his hands, as if weighing a pair of melons.

  She suffered his attentions for a while, letting her nipples go stiff. Only when he gave one a painful pinch did she protest and gently remove his hands. The older man smiled and reached out, stroking the hurt nipple with a delicacy of touch that sent a shiver of pleasure the full length of Octavia’s spine. She smiled and sighed, then gave a fresh shiver as she felt the dampness of a bead of milk beneath his finger.

  ‘Would you perhaps . . .’ the man began, only to be distracted by a commotion from across the room.

  Octavia turned to follow his gaze, finding a group of men circling round the furthest corner. A flash of green caught her eye between their legs, a green that clearly belonged to Eliza’s gown. Giggling protests and admonitions in a stern, half-drunk voice showed that whatever was in progress, it was likely to be worth watching.

  Excusing herself to the man who had been caressing her breasts, Octavia climbed on a convenient chair to allow herself to look across the heads of the crowd. Within the ring of guests, a heavy-set old buffer with a red face and a huge moustache had taken a seat. Across his lap lay Eliza, with her bottom turned up and one arm twisted into the small of her back.

>   For whatever reason, Eliza was about to be spanked. Octavia felt a flush of concern for her friend, but also a great deal of pleasure. Watching other girls being beaten was always enjoyable, if only because she herself had so often received the same treatment. Eliza was protesting and asking to be let down, though her intermittent giggles and a rather showy kicking of her legs betrayed her real feelings.

  As Octavia had hoped from the instant she realised what was happening, Eliza was not allowed the dignity of retaining her clothes during the spanking. The fat man had already begun to pull her gown up, and Octavia found her fingers going to her mouth in delighted anticipation as Eliza’s silk petticoat was exposed. That too was lifted, displaying another in light cambric that lay over the plump ball of the girl’s bottom in a most enticing manner.

  Eliza’s squeals became more earnest as her cambric petticoat was lifted, then truly desperate as the old man began to fiddle with the buttons that held her drawers closed. He took no notice, but popped them open one by one until the flap was loose, then peeled it slowly down over his victim’s magnificent peach. As Eliza’s bottom came bare she gave a despairing wail and her tormentor a grunt of satisfaction. The fat, soft cheeks were entirely naked and well raised, revealing a hint of the full, well-furred quim below. At that point a bright flash drew Octavia’s attention and she turned to see a man operating a photographic apparatus to capture the scene.

  For a moment the man paused, admiring Eliza’s bottom, then laying his hand on it and beginning to stroke the creamy skin with the most lascivious of motions. She whimpered, then sighed and at his command lifted her bottom for spanking. It was dished out hard, with no thought for the victim’s modesty or pain. Eliza was soon dancing her legs and bottom, flashing her quim and even her anus to the crowd as her big cheeks turned first pink and then an all-over red. The crowd laughed at the sight, the girls included, which only seemed to make Eliza’s struggles all the more vigorous and the display she was making of herself all the more rude. She was shaking her head and making her fat breasts wobble from side to side. She was kicking so hard that one shoe came off and both her stockings had begun to come down. Best of all, for Octavia, she was thrusting her bottom up and down to make a truly obscene display of the tight brown hole of her anus.