Devon Cream

by Aishling Morgan

  ‘A gentleman like Jervis Maray, you mean?’ Octavia responded. ‘And what about the milking?’

  ‘We’ll have to do everything over at the manor dairy,’ Polly said, ‘and maybe suckle a little at night. Leastways, what else are we to do?’

  ‘I couldn’t say,’ Octavia answered, ‘but for now my breasts hurt. Could you milk me while the stew simmers?’

  ‘If we’re quick. Where are the girls?’

  ‘Up in the orchard.’

  ‘Then we’d best lock the dairy, although I suppose we’ll have to tell them someday.’

  ‘Not for a while yet. Come along. I feel fit to burst.’

  Octavia went outside with Polly following, only to discover a wain approaching along the track from Ermecombe. At the reins was Eliza Grant, who had taken to driving the carrier’s cart in her husband’s absence, while the rear was filled with boxes and a large trunk. Eliza waved and both women waved back, then Polly went to the gate to undo the latch. Presently the cart was within the yard and Eliza had climbed down to join them.

  ‘So what’s this?’ Octavia asked, indicating the baggage.

  ‘Effects of one Major Edward Penrose, who’s to be billeted on you, so I understand,’ Eliza answered.

  ‘Plenty of them,’ Octavia stated.

  ‘Expensive, too,’ Polly added. ‘That’s a fine trunk, with the brass and all. But if we’ve got the baggage, then where’s the man?’

  ‘Can’t be down here, I don’t suppose,’ Eliza stated. ‘Leastways, he wasn’t on the train. I suspect he’ll be following along in a day or two.’

  ‘Then we’d best take all the dairy apparatus and whatnot over to the manor dairy,’ Polly said. ‘If we load it in the cart, you can drive over first thing tomorrow morning. We’ll meet you there. For the now, we’d best get all this business inside and then see about the milking.’

  ‘And how’s the family?’ Octavia asked Eliza as they took hold of the trunk.

  ‘Much as always,’ Eliza replied. ‘Nat writes as often as he can. He says the mud’s the worst of it, for all the Germans and such. Mother’s well – very well, in fact. Just this morning, she gave our May a real blisterer of a spanking, on account of not having washed her antimacassars. My Anna would get the same, if I could find her; there never was such a scamp.’

  Octavia and Polly gave sympathetic nods. Before long the cart was unloaded and the baggage stored in what had once been Lias Slater’s room. The three women then went to the dairy, locked the door and began to disrobe with the casual intimacy of those long used to seeing each other’s naked bodies. As the war had progressed and conditions had become gradually tougher, the ostentatious clothes that had been in fashion had given way to plainer, less elaborate designs. Eliza in particular was disinclined to wear anything showy and had on now simple, plain drawers, stockings and chemise with a single petticoat beneath a dress of plain wool. Polly’s dress was similar, only somewhat more lacy, while Octavia had no more than a pair of bottom-hugging bloomers beneath her dress. All of this was peeled away and folded neatly, until all three women were quite bare.

  Naked and ready, Octavia sat down on the milking stool, while Polly got into a kneeling position. As she had done so many times before, she took the fat globe of her friend’s breast into her hands and began to squeeze, pressing and then pulling at the teat until the milk began to squirt out into the pail beneath. Eliza waited to the side, watching Polly milked and occasionally giving her own breasts a gentle stroke to relieve the pressure.

  Polly produced close to a quart and a half before she was replaced by Eliza as the cow. Again Octavia emptied each fat breast into the pail and then took her own turn with Polly as milkmaid. Having handled her friend’s and had her own breasts relieved, Octavia found herself as aroused as ever.

  ‘Who would like to spank my bottom?’ she asked boldly as Polly closed the lid on the churn.

  ‘We haven’t time,’ Polly objected. ‘There’s ever so much to do and dinner’s close to ready besides. I’ll give you all the spanking you like in bed tonight.’

  ‘What if this Major fellow turns up?’ Octavia objected.

  ‘Spanking’s no matter,’ Polly answered. ‘It’s what we do after that he wouldn’t approve of. Come on now, we’ve got to smarten his room and clear the shippen and goodness knows what beside.’

  ‘There’s plenty of time for all that,’ Octavia pleaded. ‘Please, I’d just like my bottom smacked a little and a nice lick.’

  ‘You’re a terrible trollop, Octavia Challacombe,’ Polly chided. ‘Oh, come on, then. Eliza, tie her up to the beam while I fetch a birch; that’ll teach her to be so wanton.’

  Octavia giggled and held her wrists out to Eliza as Polly moved to unlock the door. Eliza had already taken a hank of twine from the wall, and now used this to bind Octavia’s wrists. A meat-hook was then pushed through the binding and its chain thrown over a beam, after which Octavia was hauled up on to her toes and the chain fixed off on a peg. Now helpless, all she could do was wait for her whipping. Polly had decided on a birch, of which they kept a supply in a pickle barrel in one of the sheds. When Polly came back, Octavia’s bottom would be whipped, and whipped well, as Polly was never one to pull her strokes. Birch tingled and stung, bringing the blood to the surface of the whole bottom, all of which Octavia looked forward to with an exquisite blend of fear and arousal. Once Octavia’s bottom was warm, Eliza would go down in front of her and lick her quim while the beating continued, producing what she knew would be an exquisite orgasm.

  ‘I’ll just check that the maids are well up the orchard,’ Eliza said and nipped from the door.

  A moment later, she was back, stating that Alice and Lucy were playing at the very top of the orchard. Polly was behind Eliza, carrying the birch, from which drops of vinegar were still falling. Knowing how much the coming punishment was going to hurt, Octavia gave a shiver and closed her eyes.

  ‘Best to gag her,’ Eliza said. ‘She does make a terrible fuss.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Polly agreed. ‘Bundle her drawers up and put them in her mouth; they’ll serve to keep her quiet.’

  Eliza went to fetch Octavia’s discarded bloomers, only to suddenly stop and put her finger to her mouth. Octavia listened, but could hear nothing.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Polly demanded.

  ‘I thought I heard a horse,’ Eliza replied.

  ‘Nonsense,’ Polly answered. ‘There’s only old Georgie, and he’s in the top field. Now, come on, are we going to have a whipping or not?’

  Eliza shrugged and Polly raised the birch over Octavia’s haunches, only for a new sound to interrupt them, this time quite clear: the crunch of boots on hard mud and the creak of the gate.

  ‘Oh, lord!’ Polly exclaimed and turned for the door, only to have it swing open before she had a chance to reach it.

  A man stood in the open doorway. He was tall, sandy-haired and dressed in a smart uniform with the single crown of a major on his cuffs and shoulder tabs. In one hand he held a stick, on which he was leaning, while his mouth was wide with surprise. For a moment, the tableau held, and then the major recovered himself and pulled his eyes quickly away from Octavia’s naked body. With his back to her, he shook his head as if to clear his thoughts, then abruptly recovered his poise.

  ‘What is this, some sort of punishment?’ he demanded. ‘Well, it won’t do, not with the army about. You’ll have to keep that sort of thing indoors, from now on.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Polly answered faintly.

  ‘Now untie the girl,’ the major continued, then spied the churn and went to peer up under its lid. ‘What have we here? Milk? Splendid; I’ll take a glass, if I may. Now get her decent and we’ll go over the way things are going to be inside the farmhouse.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Polly repeated.

  ‘Major will do,’ he answered, ‘seeing that you’re not in uniform. Major Edward Penrose, Twelfth Kentish Light Infantry, training officer.’

  He turned on his
heel and marched stiffly away, leaving the blushing Polly and Eliza to untie Octavia. Free, she dressed hastily and joined the others in the farmhouse kitchen, feeling a touch embarrassed at what she had shown but a great deal less embarrassed than the others, who had been fully dressed.

  Once seated around the kitchen table the major explained that the War Department had decided to extend the military training area to the whole of the moor and that he was responsible for overseeing those recruits who would be camped on Ermecombe common. The department would pay a regular stipend to Octavia, in return for which she would be expected to provide food and accommodation for the duration of the agreement.

  Octavia accepted all this with a serious expression and grave nods of her head, all the while wondering how the major had reacted to the sight of her hung up by her hands for a birching. He had received a full view of her body from the front – breasts, belly, legs and quim – which she was sure could not fail to have excited him. Yet he seemed remarkably reserved.

  His detachment continued over dinner, while he explained that a leg wound had taken him out of active service. After dinner, to which he had done full justice, he complimented Polly on her cooking and asked if he might speak to Octavia alone. She acquiesced, leaving the girls with Polly and strolling out up the fields. At first he discussed only the changes that would be necessary at the farm and what services he would require, only to stop suddenly as they reached the back of the orchard. Sure that she knew what he wanted to say, Octavia stayed quiet to allow him to order his thoughts.

  ‘The . . . er . . . punishment which you were about to undergo on my arrival,’ he said, speaking in a rush of words, ‘seemed – while I would be the last to speak against proper discipline in a household – somewhat, shall we say, severe.’

  ‘It was what we’d decided on,’ Octavia answered, with a little thrill at discussing so intimate a thing with a strange man.

  ‘So what exactly did you do to earn such a stern rebuke?’ the major asked.

  Octavia hesitated, wondering what it was best to say. Certainly she could not admit the truth, that she had asked for a beating to warm her for sex. Yet the major was handsome and she recognised the glitter of carefully hidden sexual interest in his eye. A bland, safe response was no more appropriate than the truth: not that she could think of one in any case.

  ‘There is no need to be shy,’ he said when she failed to answer. ‘Not in front of me. After all, I may be billeted with you for some time.’

  Still she hesitated. The build-up to what should have been a fine beating had left her tingling with arousal and she wanted to ask him to finish the job and then put her on her knees to suck his cock while she played with herself. It had been too long since she had had the pleasure of a penis, yet she could not imagine the major accepting such an open proposal. Various sins she might have committed went through her mind, until she recalled dinner.

  ‘I took a hare off the moor, sir,’ she said shyly.

  ‘Poaching, eh?’ he responded, now severe. ‘And on the Prince’s land. The beating would seem to have been well deserved. In fact, I’m not sure that my duty is not to report . . .’

  ‘Not strictly poaching, sir,’ Octavia said quickly. ‘You see, I found him in the stream. He was already dead.’

  ‘Hm,’ the major replied. ‘A fine point of the law, and I suppose one that might reasonably be resolved by means of domestic discipline.’

  ‘That’s what we felt, sir,’ Octavia went on. ‘We didn’t want to waste good meat, not with the war and everything, but we felt I ought to take the birch for it just the same, and that Polly was the one to do it.’

  ‘Hm, fascinating,’ the major responded, ‘but I was given to understand that the farm is your property and that Polly Endicott is the housekeeper. Surely if there is any physical correction to be done, one would expect to find the mistress beating the servant, not the other way around.’

  ‘Bad behaviour is bad behaviour,’ Octavia answered. ‘I was wrong to steal, mistress or not.’

  ‘A rare attitude, but a commendable one,’ he replied. ‘Would that more people in authority held the same view. Yet surely to allow yourself to be beaten, naked, by your servant can only breed contempt for your authority?’

  ‘It’s a job that needs doing,’ Octavia stated with a shrug.

  ‘That I don’t doubt,’ he answered and ran his eyes down her body in a fast but evident appraisal of her full chest, slender waist and neat hips. ‘Still, there ought to be a more proper way of going about it.’

  ‘Well, I suppose you might beat me,’ Octavia said tentatively.

  ‘If you think it suitable,’ the major answered, attempting to keep his voice steady and stern. ‘In private, of course, and when it’s necessary.’

  ‘Well, I don’t feel right having got away with it,’ Octavia said. ‘Perhaps you should do it now?’

  ‘Now, you say?’

  ‘If it pleases you. Perhaps up behind the high wall, where nobody’s likely to see . . . or hear.’

  ‘That would be just the ticket.’

  With her heart fluttering, Octavia led him up through the orchard and over the high wall that sheltered it from the moor. Here she knelt and thrust out her bottom, then, throwing reserve to the wind, she pulled up her skirts and exposed the taut seat of her bloomers. The major gave his moustache a thoughtful tug at the sight, then made a brisk, flicking motion with his stick.

  ‘Bloomers down, I think, my dear,’ he said brusquely. ‘Let’s not have any half measures.’

  This was exactly what Octavia had wanted to hear, and she reached back to unbutton them and then to take the waistband firmly between fingers and thumbs. Feigning reluctance, she drew the bloomers slowly down, all the while watching his face as he gazed at the exposure of buttocks, anus, quim and thighs. Then, with everything showing, she thrust it out for punishment.

  Octavia was beaten in a brisk, perfunctory manner. Twelve times the stick was applied to her bare bottom, hard across the full breadth of her cheeks. By the end she was gasping and sobbing, but when the last stroke had fallen, she kept her bottom stuck out and made no attempt to hide herself.

  ‘All done, my girl,’ the major said.

  She gave no answer, but sat back on her hot bottom and reached out for his fly. Seeing her intention, he gave a single, guilty glance towards the farm and then leaned back against the wall. Octavia freed his cock and took it into her mouth, sucking greedily until it was fully erect. Then, with her tongue working around the fleshy bulb at the end of his erection, she started to masturbate him into her mouth. As she did so, her other hand went to her quim and she too began to masturbate.

  As she did it, she concentrated on the hot sore feeling in her bottom, on the tension of her bloomers between her spread thighs, and on the hard penis in her mouth and hand. Most of all she concentrated on the way she had been beaten, beaten with her bloomers down and her sex showing. He came first, filling her mouth with hot sperm. Most of it she swallowed; the rest she began to play with in her mouth as she sat back and let his penis slide free. Rolling on to her back, she cocked her legs up, showing him her open sex and the red cheeks of her well-beaten bottom, and also the puddle of come in her open mouth. He watched avidly as she brought herself to orgasm.

  After assisting her in cleaning up, he became cheerful in the extreme, helping her back over the wall and offering his arm as they walked down through the orchard.

  ‘I hope I wasn’t too rude,’ Octavia said carefully, unsure whether the wantonness of her display might have been too much for his sense of propriety.

  ‘No, no, my dear, quite appropriate,’ the major assured her. ‘Most flattering, and most stimulating. Yes, most stimulating. I think, in future, we may make a regular practice of such disciplinary sessions. It will help to maintain proper order.’

  ‘Just as you like, sir.’

  ‘But no more poaching off the moor, my girl, even of carcasses. There are few crimes worse than the theft of anoth
er’s property. It shows disrespect for all appointed authority, for the entire order. Nor is it wise to take an animal that’s already dead.’

  ‘Oh, my uncle Lias did it for years and none of us ever came to any harm.’

  ‘Well, I’m surprised. Now you’re to take the hare and bury it.’

  ‘Can’t do that, sir. We had him for dinner.’

  8

  1919

  Octavia sat in the kitchen at Erme Head Farm, her hands trembling with emotion as she read and reread a letter. Its contents were simple and to the point, but hid a wealth of emotion. Edward Penrose, now a lieutenant colonel, was returning from France.

  He had remained at the farm for somewhat over a year, only to be recalled to the Western Front during the German offensive of 1918. While he stayed at the farm, their relationship had become increasingly intimate. He had beaten her bottom frequently, accepting the pleasure of her mouth as reward for punishing her, then mounting her after she had earned a particularly heavy thrashing. Afterwards, he had proposed and she had accepted joyfully, finding in him the perfect balance of love and firmness that she needed.

  Knowing of the terrible casualties his regiment had suffered, she had been distraught when he left. Yet he had survived, and was now due to return, a prospect that filled her with undiluted happiness, even though it was not to be until the following spring.

  During his time at the farm, he had also arranged for the schooling of both girls, bearing the expenses from his own pocket. Alice and Lucy were now at a small establishment near Honiton. Polly remained present, helping with the arrangements for Edward’s replacement, a dry, humourless man with whom neither girl could feel entirely at home. As her relationship with the major blossomed, Octavia had let her milk stop. Polly had not, and still added her own milk to what the sheep produced, for the unknowing benefit of the soldiers. She also supplied Richard Haldon on his infrequent visits, direct from her breasts.

  ‘I am glad,’ Polly assured Octavia, ‘but I hope you’ll be able to spare me a cuddle from time to time.’