Details were added as the summer passed. First enemas, on which Genevieve insisted for the sake of hygiene. Then inspections, for no better reason than the Marays’ enjoyment of the girls’ bodies. Lastly, an elaborate system of reward and punishment, although it was often hard to distinguish between the two. Plans were also laid for more efficient milking frames and an electrical milking machine, on the design of which Jervis came to spend ever more time.
So it continued across the late summer and autumn. With each new torment, Octavia found herself deeper in thrall to Jervis and Genevieve. If Jervis had always been able to provide enough pleasure to break what resistance she had, the same was doubly true of Genevieve. The French woman had a knack of bringing out Octavia’s dirtiest feelings, and of making her not simply enjoy the degradations to which she was subjected, but to actively crave them.
Polly was little better, succumbing to Genevieve’s authority, despite a strong feeling of resentment. Genevieve not only had obvious breeding and came from an ancient family, but also had the mystique of being a foreigner. Her haughty airs and stern commands represented everything Polly had been taught to respect. In Jervis’s case, her natural obedience was tempered by the memory of him as a horrid little boy; in Genevieve’s case, it was pure.
9
1920
Octavia knelt over the seat of the converted clysopomp, her head swimming with pleasure and also resentment at what was being done to her. In accordance with the new milking regime worked out by Jervis and Genevieve, she had been put through a long process, both humiliating, unnecessary and irresistibly exciting. On arriving at the manor, she and Polly had been told to strip in the yard. Becky had been there to take their clothes, already stark naked. Each had then been inspected, including being made to bend double while elegantly gloved fingers were inserted into quims and bottoms. This had been done by Genevieve, as Jervis was in London seeking new customers for milk and milk products among his debauched friends.
Their nudity was emphasised by Genevieve’s dress. She wore immaculate riding gear, including jodhpurs, which Octavia considered both daring and somehow to show great inner strength. In addition Genevieve wore highly polished, knee-high boots of black leather, a bottle-green riding jacket and a white blouse, accompanied by her hat and a riding whip. As a final, and disturbing, touch, she wore elbow-length gloves of black rubber with her sleeves rolled up to leave their full length on show.
Octavia, Polly and Becky had been lined up with their bottoms stuck out over what had once been a pig trough. Genevieve had inserted a nozzle into the anus of each and tied it off with a thong around the waist. Each nozzle had been at the end of a tube, and the three tubes had run to a large reservoir of water set on a high shelf. Together, the girls had had to suffer the indignity of being given enemas and evacuating into the trough. Octavia had then watched Polly milked on the new machine. It was a rather terrifying device, with sheaths of thick rubber that held the girl’s breasts and squeezed them by a process Genevieve had referred to as hydraulics. It had certainly proved efficient, and well over a quart of milk had lain in the pail beneath Polly’s fat breasts in half the time a hand milking would have taken. Polly had been beaten while she was milked, Genevieve applying her riding whip to the broad pink hindquarters. Yet this was normal and scarcely accounted for the extreme state of aroused distress Polly was in by the time she was finished.
Octavia could only imagine that the mechanical milking produced an even stronger erotic reaction than did being milked by hand, and had bent over the bench with a mixture of anticipation and fear. Now each of her breasts was encased in the sheath of thick rubber and she was about to be milked. Becky had put the sheaths on and was now going to the handle that worked the machine. Octavia’s nipples were erect from Becky’s touch and she was still shivering with reaction to the enema and to simply being so utterly under Genevieve’s command.
Becky depressed the lever and Octavia felt her breasts squeezed, both at once and with an even, all-over pressure. Jets of milk burst from her nipples and she gave a cry of alarm at the bizarre sensation. Then Genevieve’s whip came down across her bottom and she cried out again. Once more her breasts were squeezed and once more milk spurted from the nipples, even as Genevieve’s whip cracked down once more across her bottom. Strapped over the bench as she was, she could do nothing but yell out her emotion as she was simultaneously milked and beaten. The machine was remorseless, squeezing again and again while the whip was applied to her buttocks with no less thoroughness. She had no control over her condition, and had soon lost her self-possession entirely.
What followed was a period of dizzy half-awareness in which the only things that mattered were the constant squeezing of her breasts and the pain in her bouncing buttocks. The smacks of the whip on her flesh came vaguely through the haze, as did the pattering sound of her milk joining Polly’s in the pail below her. She knew she was begging, first to have it stop and then for more as she began to lift her bottom to the smacks. The sight was greeted with laughter but she could do nothing to stop herself. Then it stopped, abruptly, and a moment later Genevieve’s riding boots had appeared before her lowered face.
‘Miserable little trollop, you can’t hold yourself for an instant, can you?’ Genevieve demanded.
‘No, ma’am,’ Octavia replied wretchedly.
‘You truly understand that your place is at my feet, don’t you?’ Genevieve continued. ‘More so than the others, I think.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Octavia responded.
‘Then, as a special privilege, you may lick my boots,’ Genevieve answered. ‘Then, when you have done it, we will go back to the milk.’
‘Careful of the milk ma’am,’ Polly put in.
‘That remark has just earned you a dozen – no, three dozen – of my whip across your fat peasant backside!’ Genevieve snapped back at Polly. ‘How dare you be insolent?’
‘Mr Jervis is always careful of the milk,’ Polly answered with determination.
Genevieve looked up with fury in her eyes, only to be distracted as the dairy door swung open. Judy and May entered, fully dressed and arm in arm. At the sight of Octavia they giggled, then hastily went quiet at a glance from Genevieve.
‘You are late,’ Genevieve snapped. ‘Right, I see I have been far too lenient. Once this trollop has licked my boots, there will be whippings: four dozen strokes for each of you, naked, in the yard.’
‘Sorry, ma’am,’ Judy answered hastily, ‘but do have a care, there’s a gentleman coming down along the moor. Looks like a military gentleman, he does, and he has ever such a big bunch of flowers.’
‘Doubtless some officer come to pay his respects to me,’ Genevieve answered. ‘Well, it seems we must postpone your beatings, but don’t think I have forgotten. He will, of course, go to the front door. May, Judy, go and greet him, show him to the library, offer him suitable refreshment and place the flowers in a vase. I will be along presently.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Judy and May chorused, then left.
‘Just time, I think, for my boots to be cleaned,’ Genevieve continued. ‘After all, it wouldn’t do to greet an officer with my boots dirty, would it?’
Octavia had said nothing, being too excited and dizzy to respond. Now, as the elegantly pointed toe of Genevieve’s boot was raised to her mouth, she poked her tongue out in docile obedience. She licked the smooth, black leather surface, tasting boot polish and dust. It was not the first time she had licked Genevieve’s boots, and the act always brought its own brand of servile ecstasy. Moreover, once both boots were clean, Genevieve was certain to want her anus licked clean, the prospect of which had Octavia trembling with need.
Slowly she cleaned the polished surface, licking up the soft mud from where Genevieve had crossed the yard and swallowing it, with each mouthful bringing her to a higher state of grovelling bliss. Soon her mouth was full of the taste of dirt, while her sex felt so swollen that it seemed to have expanded out from between her thighs. With a f
ew touches she would have come, yet neither Polly nor Becky, much less Genevieve, made any move to help her.
The lower part of the first boot was finished, and Genevieve swapped feet, keen to feed Octavia more mud. Once more Octavia began to lick, now splaying her lips to kiss and rubbing her face against the leather. Genevieve gave her soft, cruel laugh, then a cluck of annoyance as the door opened again.
‘Octavia?’ a male voice sounded. ‘Good God!’
Octavia looked up. In the open door stood Lieutenant-Colonel Edward Penrose, her fiancé. In one hand he held an enormous bunch of roses, while his face was set in an expression of utter astonishment. His eyes settled on Octavia, then rose and his mouth opened yet wider as he saw Genevieve.
‘By God, I recognise you!’ he swore. ‘You’re . . . you’re one of Madame Bégorce’s girls! Lalou, that’s it, Lalou le Cul.’
‘Sir, you are mistaken,’ Genevieve answered, but her face had gone white.
‘Damned if I am! I’d know you anywhere. You’re the girl who used to play that filthy trick with some infernal machine. What was it called . . . a clysopomp!’
‘I . . .’ Genevieve began weakly.
‘Don’t deny it!’ he stormed. ‘And what are you doing here? And Octavia? By God, but that machine’s damn like the one you used to go on! It is! By God, Octavia! What is the meaning of this?’
‘She’s milking me,’ Octavia admitted softly.
‘Milking you?’ he demanded. ‘What do you mean, milking you?’
Polly had listened to the exchange with mounting amazement. All her respect, all her awe of Genevieve had melted slowly away as it became apparent that the colonel was telling the truth. Genevieve was no aristocrat, but a whore, albeit an obviously successful one.
For a moment she stood, staring blankly at the woman who had taken such firm command of her for the best part of a year. She was indifferent to being naked in front of Octavia’s fiancé, indifferent to the welts on her bottom, indifferent to the hot, needful feeling in her sex. Instead she felt only a burning indignation that she had succumbed not to one of her betters, but to a tart, and a French one at that.
Ignoring the colonel, Octavia and Becky, she marched quickly around the milking machine and grabbed Genevieve by the ear. The result was a yelp of pain and outrage, but Polly took no notice. Dragging the furiously protesting Genevieve from the dairy, she sat solidly down on the edge of the pump trough and pulled her struggling victim hard down across her knee. An arm was pulled into the small of Genevieve’s back and twisted up, bringing a squeal of pain. One powerful leg was wrapped around Genevieve’s slimmer limb and a knee cocked up, forcing the small, rounded buttocks high in the air.
‘Now, you dirty little whore,’ Polly declared through gritted teeth, ‘I’m going to spank you well.’
Genevieve squealed in fresh outrage as Polly took up her jacket tails and began to pull down her jodhpurs. She struggled, cursed and threatened, but all to no avail as, under Polly’s sheer strength and determination, she was utterly helpless. Becky had followed and came forwards to help subdue the struggling girl, only to be waved back by Polly. Down came the jodhpurs, exposing the seat of a pair of fancy black lace drawers, then slices of bare thigh and seamed silk stockings. The drawers provided little cover for Genevieve’s bottom, either for protection or modesty. A good deal of rounded bum-cheek could be seen through the lace, and the gusset was pulled tight against the double bulge of her sex.
Polly paused a moment to catch her breath and admire her victim’s rude rear view, then set to work to pull down Genevieve’s drawers. Genevieve fought crazily to protect the sanctity of her bottom. Scratching, biting and clutching at her drawers, she put all her strength and all her power of invective into a desperate effort to save her the final indignity of having her rear view exposed. Polly took little notice. Genevieve’s nails and teeth seemed not to hurt, while in strength there was simply no contest. With a quick wrench she had burst the buttons at Genevieve’s waistband and the fancy drawers were coming down, drawn inexorably over the round little peach as its owner struggled frantically to keep them up. The tangle of black lace was around the lower bum-cheeks, then the thighs, and Genevieve’s bottom was bare.
Polly allowed herself a grim smile as the full expanse of Genevieve’s bare bottom came on display. It was small, round and soft, the bottom of a girl who had never done a hard day’s work in her life, the bottom of a girl whose entire worth centred on her ability to please men. The cleft was deep and somewhat hairy, yet sufficiently open for the anus and the pouting rear of the cunt lips to show. With a final hard tug, Polly took the drawers down to knee level, and at that Genevieve surrendered.
The struggles subsided, the furious tirade of abuse stopped. Then, with a muted sob, Genevieve Maray lifted her bottom to be spanked.
As the first smack of palm on buttock rang out, Octavia had just finished admitting that she was being milked for commercial purposes. The explanation had been brief and she had missed out the involvement of Jervis Maray and how much pleasure she took in the act. The colonel had listened in astonishment, all the while with half an ear cocked to the sound of Genevieve’s struggles. Now, as it became evident that Genevieve was getting a bare-bottom spanking, he gave a grunt and turned to look out of the door.
Octavia knew that he would be wrestling with his conscience and was praying that his lust would overcome his sense of propriety. Wanting to watch Genevieve spanked augured well for this and, as the smacks continued and the victim’s squeals began to ring out in time, his stern expression faded to be replaced by a grin.
‘Well deserved, no doubt,’ he finally observed and turned back to Octavia. ‘Now, my dear, you say you sell this milk, presumably for a large sum?’
‘Yes,’ Octavia confessed. ‘A half-sovereign a quart.’
‘Humph,’ he responded, ‘I can see that a girl could be tempted, although it is a matter of the most questionable morality. I am also most hurt at not having been informed. Yes, most hurt.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Octavia said meekly, ‘but I thought you . . . you might not want to marry me if you knew I’d been so rude. You see, I’d stopped then, so I thought it best not to mention it. Then, when I was asked to start again . . .’
She trailed off with a sigh, expecting him to make a formal severance of their engagement and withdraw. Instead he blew out his cheeks, took another peep outside the door, where Genevieve was still squealing her way through what was evidently a thorough spanking, and turned back to her.
‘As you know,’ he stated, ‘my family is not a rich one, so I think that perhaps I understand. Yet you may be assured that you will be punished for this . . .’
‘Do you . . . do you still want me, then?’ Octavia asked.
‘Want you?’ he exclaimed, his manner changing on the instant. ‘Of course I still want you! Dammit, you’re what every man hankers after, a dirty girl who can look respectable. Now stick it up; for two years I’ve been without your divine rear end and I’ll not wait a second longer!’
He took two quick steps to come behind her and brought the bunch of roses down across her naked bottom. Octavia had lifted it in anticipation and now squealed in joy as he began to beat her. The first and second blows were heavy, like the smacks of a broad belt. Then the paper tore and the actual rose-stems came into contact with her flesh, causing a sharp, stinging sensation that made her cry out.
‘By God, I missed this!’ the colonel exclaimed and once more brought the roses down hard across Octavia’s bottom.
She was flogged until the roses were in tatters and her bottom was a hot, throbbing ball. Thorns had pricked her skin at several points, making her buttocks tingle and sting. When it had finished, her bottom felt huge, a fat ball of swollen flesh with her sex hot and wet at the centre. She was taken by the hair and the colonel’s cock was thrust into her mouth. For a while, she enjoyed the taste of his penis, a taste that she had missed for so long. Then it was erect and he was pulling away. She thr
ust up her bottom and then he was behind her, pushing his engorged prick at her quim, then up her hole. She gave a deep moan of pure bliss as she was entered, then began to gasp and sigh as he began to move inside her.
Octavia was fucked to the tune of her own noises and the slaps and cries from outside the dairy. The colonel’s hands were on her hips at first. Then he took hold of the straps that bound her to the milking machine and began to ride her. After a while, Becky looked in at the door and then hastily made to withdraw. The colonel chose that moment to come, and whipped his cock from Octavia’s hole to spray sperm across her well-thrashed bottom.
Becky fled blushing from the dairy as the colonel drained his cock out over Octavia’s bottom. The spanking noise stopped and Octavia felt the colonel’s hand move between her legs to cup her mound. She groaned as a finger began to tickle her clitoris, then shut her eyes and allowed herself to be brought to a slow, exquisite orgasm.
Once she was released, she and the colonel went outside to use the pump. Polly was still sat on the edge of the trough, with Genevieve in the dirt at her feet. The beaten girl had made no effort to cover herself and lay with her crimson bottom naked and her once-fine drawers in a soiled tangle at the level of her knees. Her face was close to Polly’s foot, which she was licking.
‘What are you going to do with her?’ the colonel demanded as Octavia stepped into the pump trough.
‘What do I aim to do with her?’ Polly responded. ‘I aim to put her in milk, that’s what I aim to do, and she’d best learn to like it.’
Genevieve rose slowly to her knees, leaving her little breasts dangling out through her ruined clothes. Turning her eyes up to Polly, she nodded in mute appeal.
With the secret of her past as a specialist prostitute in the bordellos of Paris now known to the girls, Genevieve had little choice but to fall in with their plans. Polly’s spanking had also changed her, much as Jervis’s had done once before. Her devotion was doglike and her willingness to be brought into milk unquestioning.
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