Devon Cream

by Aishling Morgan

  ‘As often as you like,’ Octavia replied joyfully. ‘I expect Edward’ll be away a deal of the time, so I’ll need my comfort the same as ever.’

  A brief knock on the door followed by the sound of the latch cut off Polly’s answer. Both women turned, to find Becky at the door.

  ‘The Marays are back!’ she blurted out without troubling with a greeting. ‘Jervis and some fancy French piece by the name of Genevieve. They’re married.’

  ‘Married?’ Octavia demanded.

  ‘Married,’ Becky stated firmly. ‘She’s a frightfully fancy piece, ever so proper and hoity-toity. From a family of lords, so they say.’

  ‘Well, I don’t suppose he’ll be wanting our services, then,’ Octavia answered with mixed relief and disappointment.

  She had been dreading the return of Jervis, sure that he would want to put her back in milk and knowing that she would be unable to resist for the pleasure it gave. Now he was married, and presumably to a respectable French woman.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure of that,’ Becky went on. ‘She’s a rude one, for all her airs, and you should have seen some of the things they’ve brought over! Why, they’d make a London girl blush! Whips and straps and all sorts, and a great big machine, a bit like one of the milking frames but with straps and tubes and goodness knows what besides. Set it up in the dairy block, they have. Then there were the most peculiar noises coming from the master bedroom last night, even for the squire! Anyhow, he’d like to see the two of you right away.’

  Octavia and Polly exchanged glances. Like herself, Octavia could tell that her friend was thinking of the ecstasies of the milking process, and also the humiliations. Polly gave her a faint smile and rose. Octavia followed.

  Together with Becky, they set off across the moor. Presently they reached Kerslake Manor, entered by the back gate and made their way to the yard. Jervis Maray stood at the door to the dairy block, as handsome and arrogant as ever. Beside him was a woman of medium height and slender build who projected an air of absolute certainty in her own superiority. This was clearly Genevieve Maray, and Octavia found herself following Polly’s example and curtseying. Jervis responded with a grin, pleased yet malign. Genevieve did not deign to respond, but lifted her chin and took a step towards them.

  ‘Good morning, girls,’ Jervis said. ‘I trust you each had an enjoyable war. I certainly did, and as you see I am now married. I have explained how things are in these parts, and you will be glad to hear that my wife approves and intends to continue your employment as milk cows, perhaps even to extend it. Now she wishes to inspect you, so stand still and be quiet or you’ll be over a frame with your arses bare before you can say Jack Robinson. Understood?’

  Octavia nodded, knowing full well that to acknowledge him verbally was a sure way to a spanking. Her feelings were mixed, and she was half-wishing that her affianced were present. The other half wanted desperately to be subjected to the skilled sexual torment that Jervis seemed to understand so well. Neither Polly nor Becky spoke up.

  ‘My cows,’ Jervis said, indicating the three of them. ‘Becky you have met. The taller is Octavia, the one with the truly enormous breasts is Polly.’

  ‘Typical peasant girls,’ Genevieve remarked. ‘Big, as you say, and fat-breasted. Yes, I can see that they would make good cows.’

  ‘In prime condition, they can produce over a quart each,’ Jervis continued, then stepped forwards and gave one of Becky’s breasts a casual squeeze. ‘At one point, we had six girls in production.’

  ‘And now only three?’ Genevieve asked.

  ‘Maybe, maybe not,’ Jervis replied. ‘Becky’ll soon be back in milk, and her sisters might be tempted or cajoled, in the absence of their husbands. Meanwhile, two will provide at least some amusement.’

  ‘I’m not in milk at present,’ Octavia admitted.

  ‘Well, we had better get you back in milk, then,’ Jervis replied.

  ‘What is needed is a stricter regime,’ Genevieve put in. ‘We must work out a system which they will follow to the letter. That is the way with peasant girls. Give them simple instructions and beat them if they make mistakes.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Jervis agreed, ‘although, in the past, I have found that light beating during the actual milking increases production. I think because it brings the blood to the surface and quickens the heart.’

  ‘Certainly, beatings will form an important part of the system,’ Genevieve agreed. ‘Do they like it, or do they protest?’

  ‘Each responds in her own way,’ Jervis answered. ‘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 a wet cunt.’

  ‘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 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.’

  Polly had already reached the wall, and was pulling up her skirts while looking back with her lips set in a resentful moue. As Octavia approached, the broad seat of her friend’s bloomers came on show, stretched taut across the ample bottom. The design was simple, with buttons at the waistband and a short split coming some way down the bottom. Polly’s position and figure now stretched this split, providing a rude glimpse of her bottom crease.

  Octavia came up beside her friend and assumed the same position, midriff across the top of the low wall, breasts lolling down beyond, buttocks thrust high at the rear. She too lifted her dress, exposing the short, lightly frilled drawers that she had selected that morning. Polly, who was always reluctant to display more than she had to, had left her bloomers up. Octavia followed the example, unsure whether Genevieve would feel the exposure of their bare bottoms was correct for discipline. Generally when girls were beaten it was on the bare; what a French lady of exalted status would think, she had no idea.

  She quickly discovered. Genevieve came up behind them and Octavia watched over her shoulder as she began to interfere with Polly’s bloomers. The buttons were opened and the waistband tugged down, while Polly’s face held an expression of resentful misery. With Polly’s bottom naked Octavia was given the same treatment, her buttons being undone and the wings of her drawers opened to expose her. With both girls showing their bare behinds, Genevieve showed her first reaction other than severity, a light chuckle.

  They were made to wait in their rude position until Becky returned. She had been sent into the house, and when she did come back it was with a long cane of thin whalebone. Octavia, peering back over her shoulder, eyed the instrument with trepidation. It looked both painful and efficient at its task, that of disciplining the bottoms of wayward females.

  The girls were beaten, but not with the detached severity Octavia had expected from her first impression of Genevieve Maray. Instead, it was an openly erotic process, although none the less painful. Genevieve would apply a cut, then touch, stroking their smarting cheeks and wobbling the plump hemispheres of their buttocks. Another cut would be applied, perhaps to one bottom, perhaps to the other, then once more exploring fingers would find the beaten girl’s bottom. At first the attention was applied to the cane welts, which stung dreadfully and which Genevieve would always give a brisk rub immediately they had been applied. Then the touches became more intimate, exploring the girl’s full buttocks and even touching their quims.

  Octavia was soon in a lath
er of excitement, and this feeling grew with the pain in her bottom and the intimacy of Genevieve’s touches. For all the French woman’s disparaging remarks about the size of the girls’ bottoms, she seemed fascinated by the plump flesh and the chubby cunt-mounds. Once a dozen strokes had been delivered to each and both girls hung sobbing and trembling over the wall, Genevieve came to cup their quims, one in each hand. Octavia heard Polly’s low moan as a finger burrowed inside her own vagina, then another had found her clitoris and she was being masturbated.

  Genevieve brought them off as they lay across the wall, exploring and rubbing their quims with a proprietorial thoroughness. Soon Octavia was approaching orgasm, only to find herself taken suddenly by the hair. She looked up, finding Jervis scowling down at her with his erect cock protruding from his fly and thrust directly at her face. She opened her mouth and took it in, sucking with abandon as her orgasm rose in her head. She came like that, mouth full of cock, buttocks stinging with a dozen cruel cane cuts, cunt open to the fingers of the woman who had beaten her.

  Polly’s orgasm soon followed and, as she started to come, Jervis pulled his cock from Octavia’s mouth. It was thrust into Polly’s, then pulled out an instant later and emptied over her face as he too came. Octavia watched as the thick white sperm splashed out across her friend’s face to soil her hair and cheeks and hang in thick streamers from her nose and lips. Polly had had her mouth open in the full ecstasy of orgasm and received a good deal of sperm into it, leaving her gagging and choking on the unexpected mouthful before she had really come down to earth.

  Jervis laughed at the sight, wiped his cock on Octavia’s face and walked casually back to the gate. Octavia made to rise but was pushed back and an instant later a new stroke of the wicked cane was applied to her buttocks. She yelped as it struck her, finding the pain far worse for coming after her orgasm. She looked back to find Genevieve raising the cane above Polly’s bottom, only for Jervis to reach the scene and take his wife in his arms. Genevieve dropped the cane and melted into a kiss. Jervis’s hands were on Genevieve’s breasts, then lower, gathering up her dress.

  Genevieve assisted, allowing her skirts to be rucked up to her waist. The petticoat had gone up with the dress, and Genevieve’s fancy black drawers were showing, the crotch wet with juice. Still deep in her kiss with Jervis, Genevieve put a hand to her quim, sliding it in around the side of the loose drawers. She began to masturbate, heedless of Octavia, Polly and Becky. Indeed, after a while, she put her spare hand on Polly’s bottom and began to squeeze and caress the well-beaten cheeks. Polly gave a mild exclamation but made no move to stop the fondling. Soon Genevieve came, her thighs tensing and her body sagging briefly in Jervis’s arms as her orgasm swept through her.

  Mindful of the cane, and of Genevieve’s determination to have her orders obeyed, Octavia stayed in position until she was told to rise. Jervis did this and, as Octavia stood, she thought that she had never seen him looking quite so self-satisfied, or so much the master. Genevieve went into the house, and Polly and Octavia to the pump, where they washed their soiled faces and soothed their hot bottoms. Presently Genevieve emerged, once more cool, poised and ladylike. Again the three Devon girls were ordered into a line.

  ‘Things have been too easy for you while I’ve been away,’ Jervis announced, when the girls were ready. ‘I’m glad you haven’t become too full of yourselves to accept punishment, but I would have expected you to keep yourselves in milk. Now, you all know the consequences of disobedience and you all know the price of your produce. So may I be assured of your continued co-operation?’

  Octavia nodded almost before she knew what she was doing, Becky the next instant. Only Polly hesitated, and then gave a resigned inclination of her head.

  ‘Good,’ Jervis continued. ‘Well, now, Polly has been a good girl, although I suspect it was only for the benefit of my friend Richard, eh, Polly?’

  Polly nodded again.

  ‘Octavia and Becky have been less good,’ Jervis went on. ‘So I, with the help of my ever-loving wife, have devised a little scheme to encourage you both to get your milk back as soon as possible. I also aim to have the three other girls who share the secret back in production and so will be offering each a post at the manor. Besides, being married, I will require a larger staff and they will serve this purpose admirably. Any questions?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Octavia said quietly. ‘What’s our encouragement to get back into milk?’

  ‘That,’ Jervis Maray stated, ‘you will see.’

  The next day Octavia walked over to Kerslake Manor with a yet greater sense of trepidation than on the day before. The idea of being brought back into milk caused only a not unpleasant fluttering sensation in her tummy. What was worse was the knowledge that the Marays had devised some form of ‘encouragement’. It was bound to be sexual in nature, and almost certain to include the application of disciplinary beatings to her bottom, which was still sore from the previous day’s caning. Undoubtedly she would become aroused; indeed, she was already becoming aroused at the prospect of it. This, bearing her engagement in mind, was the worst of it.

  Edward Penrose, while taking pleasure in her sexuality, was definitely not the type to accept wanton behaviour in his fiancée. If word came to him of what she did, even of what she had done in the past, then she imagined that their engagement would be at an end. This represented tragedy, as she genuinely loved him. As before the war, Jervis had made no definite statement of blackmail, yet the implication always existed. She could not defy Jervis, even if her craving for his brand of cruel erotic pleasure had not been so strong.

  For all her enjoyment of it, she recognised Jervis’s cruelty as the sort typical of the nastiest of little boys. Indeed, Polly assured her that the only change in his behaviour across the years had come from an ever-increasing knowledge of how to torment hapless females. Genevieve’s cruelty had seemed more poised, more deliberate. With Jervis, Octavia always felt that his actions were calculated to confirm his superiority over her. With Genevieve, the superiority was never in doubt. She had treated the three of them as if they existed purely for her amusement.

  Octavia paused at the back gate of Kerslake Manor and made adjustments to her dress. She had decided that if pleasure was to be taken in her being stripped, then she should have something to show off. Her dress was a simple, elegant affair with the waistline set low and the hem leaving her ankles exposed. This felt peculiar, despite her predilection for nudity, yet had meant she had been able to cross the moor track without constantly having to lift her skirts. Beneath the dress she wore a light corset, chemise and drawers of white silk and stockings that attached by suspenders, another novelty for her. Certain that she was immaculate from bonnet to boots, she pushed in at the gate. In the yard, she discovered Becky, red-faced and grimy as she unloaded a barrow of soil on to the cobbles.

  ‘Whatever are you doing, dirtying the yard?’ Octavia asked in astonishment.

  ‘Squire’s orders,’ Becky answered. ‘Something to do with the milking, I’m sure.’

  ‘You need cleanliness for milking, not dirt,’ Octavia stated. ‘Everybody knows that. Do you think he’s going the same way as the old squire?’

  ‘It may well be,’ Becky replied, ‘but I’ve to follow orders, in any case, and orders are to spread plenty of dirt over the cobbles and then to pump enough water up to make a good mud.’

  ‘Well, I never,’ Octavia answered, sure that whatever Jervis was doing it boded no good for her.

  Entering the hall, she found Jervis and Genevieve in the library, seated in the fine armchairs and sipping some pale wine that stood in a decanter to one side.

  ‘Good morning, ma’am, squire,’ she announced herself as they looked up. ‘I’ve come over as you said I should.’

  ‘Good,’ Jervis responded. ‘Now, as you know, you are to be brought back into milk. I wish this to be done as expeditiously as possible, so you will be living here until it is accomplished.’

  ‘Here, sir?’ Oc
tavia retorted. ‘But I’ll be needing my things, spare clothes and all sorts. It’ll take a good fortnight.’

  ‘Pigs,’ Jervis replied, ‘do not need clothes.’

  ‘Pigs, sir?’ Octavia queried.

  ‘Pigs,’ he repeated.

  ‘I’m not at all sure I understand, sir,’ Octavia answered.

  ‘You will,’ Jervis said merrily. ‘You will.’

  He raised one lazy hand to the bell-pull and tugged. Octavia glanced between them. Jervis was smiling his cruel smile. Genevieve was eyeing her over the rim of her glass with a cool, amused stare.

  ‘You rang, sir?’ a voice sounded from the doorway.

  Octavia recognised the voice as that of Eliza Grant and turned to greet her friend, only to stop short. Eliza was standing in the attentive pose normal for a maid, but instead of the plain blue dress and pinny that Becky had been wearing, Eliza was stark naked. Almost stark naked, Octavia corrected herself. Around Eliza’s neck was a thick leather collar with an iron hasp and a length of chain at the front. In her hand she held three identical combinations of collar and chain.

  ‘Yes,’ Jervis answered. ‘Collar this one.’

  ‘Very well, sir,’ Eliza replied and then turned to Octavia. ‘Best strip off, my dear.’

  Octavia put her hands to the buttons that held her dress closed at one shoulder, only to stop at a command from Genevieve.

  ‘No, no,’ the Frenchwoman said. ‘She has dressed so prettily, and in a style no more than a year out of fashion. Let her keep her clothes, for now at least.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Octavia answered uncertainly.

  Genevieve returned a smile that contained not an ounce of warmth, then took another sip of wine as Eliza held up a collar. Octavia raised her chin, allowing the thick leather band to be placed around her neck and then fastened off with a padlock. The chain was heavy and hung down between her breasts to the floor, producing an immediate sense of being captive and vulnerable even though she was not naked. Looking down, she saw that it ended in an iron ring, clearly designed to be attached to something.