Hall of Infamy

by Amanita Virosa

  With that, he left. Amelia still knelt on the parquet floor, astonished and bewildered by this turn of events. She could hardly believe that she had escaped unscathed. Ruefully, she stroked her tender bottom and the backs of her thighs. The rubber sheets would be even more vexing tonight, she thought. She stood up, wincing, and wished that the Reverend had left his ointment tin. She wondered how long it would take for the effect of the birching to fade.

  There was a rattle at the door and Amelia froze.

  Mrs Pritchard entered, regarding the semi-naked girl with disdain. ‘Are you ready to go back up? Finished with you, has he?’ the housekeeper smirked.

  Amelia did not care. She had had the courage and moral fortitude to refuse him. Beg him to abuse her? Hell would freeze over and corporal correction cease in Hatherby before Amelia Colinbrooke would do any such thing. He had had a shock, Amelia assured herself, trying not to smile. She was ready for her ordeal with the sheets, and she would not think about the Reverend Dawes at all tonight. She was resolved upon the matter.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Pritchard,’ Amelia said, head held high. ‘I am ready.’

  Rather than lead the way, Mrs Pritchard came over to her with a smile that Amelia did not much like. The housekeeper pulled up the hem of Amelia’s smock, though this was scarcely necessary.

  ‘Oh, no. Not quite, missy! The Reverend asked me most particularly to make sure—’ she produced from behind her back a pair of the hateful rubber bloomers ‘—that you put a pair of your favourite pantaloons on.’

  Amelia’s heart almost stopped. Not only had her bottom been birched almost raw, she was sure that it was swollen. Terror seized her as she thought about the prospect.

  Mrs Pritchard’s eyes twinkled maliciously. ‘Come along now, madam, we had better get a move on. I have the feeling that this is going to take some time.’

  Runners and Riders

  That summer was a hot one in Hatherby. Slowly it unfurled, drifting by in a seemingly endless succession of dreamy days and languid nights, punctuated by the sound of rod on resilient flesh, the clink of chains, of girlish shrieks of pain and cries of pleasure.

  Amelia never ceased to chafe under the relentless nursery discipline but, as time and the distressingly frequent floggings went by, she did grow more and more adept at disguising her displeasure. Clara continued far more content, and no one who encountered her failed to remark upon her sweet air of exquisite submission.

  And the maids? The maids did what maids had always done within those ancient walls. They were worked and they were whipped and sometimes they were pleasured. Little Emma Swift was trained in the immemorial iron regimen of Hope Hall, taught to dance to the tune of birch and cane and leather.

  The greatest change as the weeks rolled on was to be found in the stables. Blossom bloomed with the summer flowers. Not that she found her training easy, for it was nothing of the kind. Many nights she whimpered in her stall, back and bottom welted from her master’s whip. Many days her legs shrieked with pain as she was forced to canter up Holly Hill, hauling Lord Alex in his sulky to the top for the sixth successive time.

  But weals faded and her thighs waxed ever stronger. Blossom’s big body slowly became sleek and powerful on her diet of raw fodder, and regime of relentless exercise. Her times around the course grew faster, and Lord Alex petted her more and flogged her less diligently as time went on.

  At night, before stalling her, Dick would scrub her down at the pump as she stood placidly. With time, Blossom even learnt to stand still while he used the curry-comb. Her skin turned golden as she ran under the sun and, with Dick’s attentions and her diet, soon it shone with health.

  She found that she was, if not exactly happy, strangely content. She wept when she was whipped or when Dick held her steady for Mr Blackstock’s punishing strap. Blossom felt desolate when her master scolded her or when the grooms were cross. But then, when they stroked and praised her, she was suffused by a warm glow. Life was simple. Safe. All she had to do was run and pull. Run and pull, eat and sleep, be silent and obey.

  Nor did she mind the hands of the groom and stable-boys when they came to her stall at night. They stroked her body, fondling her thighs and breasts fervently as she became sleek and beautiful with the passing weeks. She sucked them willingly when they wanted, and let them mount her bottom-hole or sex without demur, for they touched her with increasing reverence and affection. Blossom felt herself more adored than abused and anyway, the long days in harness under the whip stirred up urgent needs that were all her own. When, for some reason, no one came to take her, she would lie in the straw of her stall and press her hands between her legs until her cries disturbed the swallows nesting beneath the stable eaves.

  Best of all, on a warm evening, Dick would often take her to the meadow behind the ornamental lake at the front of the great house. Here he would set her free to run naked through the long soft meadow grass. After a hard day in bit and bridle, hauling a well-built man in a heavy cart, she would feel so free that it almost seemed like she was flying, as her long legs galloped through the grass.

  Occasionally, the stable-lad would saddle one of the ponies and chase her, whip in hand, through the field. But this was play rather than work; the stinging strokes he aimed at her bottom were not hard ones, and she would laugh and dart away as his mount struggled to keep pace.

  July came and went and August wore on. Then, as the end of August approached, so a hum of anticipation began to grow around Hope Hall. The maids were worked harder but vexed less for, as

  every year, there was much to do in preparation for the day of the Silver Cup and the Hatherby fete.

  September came at last, and with it the first crisp scent of frost in the air of the darkening nights. For a few days the weather clouded, and chill rain provoked much muttering and many furrowed brows.

  ‘There will not be much of a picnic for this year’s Silver Cup if this keeps up.’ Jamie stared gloomily out of the nursery window at the driving rain. ‘Lord Alex says he cannot even exercise Blossom, it is so cold and wet.’ He turned to Clara and Amelia. The cousins were bent over, knickers about their knees, trembling as they struggled to keep their legs straight and their fingertips on the floor.

  ‘Oh well,’ the young man said languidly as Betsy handed him a stiff-tailed leather tawse, ‘I expect we shall find a way of keeping you girls warm.’

  Then, in the week before the great day, the weather began to change. Wednesday dawned, still cool, but bright with but a few fugitive clouds lingering in the sky.

  ‘Giddup there!’

  Blossom no longer flinched as she heard the cracking of the whip perilously close to her bottom. Instead she put her head down, grasped the shafts of the sulky tightly, and ran. There was still water in pools on the driveway and she splashed through these as she gathered speed, her long legs almost effortlessly eating up the path.

  Blossom knew the day was coming, for she had overheard enough to gather that she was going to be raced. The stable-boys talked of whippings for the losers. She would have smiled if the bit had allowed it. All summer she had been trained, and now she was as strong and sleek as any thoroughbred. The path turned and the big rise known as Holly Hill came into view. Blossom felt the extra weight as pressure in her legs as the slope grew steeper, then felt her thigh muscles deal with the extra load. Still breathing steadily, she powered up the hill that once had nearly killed her, even at a trot. Let them come, she thought exultantly. After the long days confined in the stables, she ran with extra energy and joy. Let them come, let them just try to race me. I will beat them all.

  The weather continued to improve. Thursday was almost clear and warm until the evening. Friday was warmer still. By now, Hope Hall was gripped by a frenzy of preparatory activity.

  ‘Not there, on the table, you silly girl!’ Kitty waited until the red-haired girl placed the baskets of nectarines on the table. As her short ref
ormatory skirt rode up, Kitty gave the girl a sharp crack with the cane across the backs of her shapely legs.

  ‘Ooh!’ The girl’s manacles and leg-irons jingled as she leapt up in pain.

  ‘Now,’ Kitty said with a grin on her full lips, ‘off you run back to the kitchen garden and fetch another load.’

  She watched the reformatory girl hurry off as quickly as she might without tripping on her leg-irons. The house was full of manacled young women, hurrying hither and thither on all sorts of tasks. As usual, Hatherby Reformatory had lent two score of its most comely convicts to help with the preparations for the great event. Thus the maids found themselves temporarily promoted, issued canes and told to supervise the felons as they fetched and carried, scrubbed, polished, and peeled.

  The house, in short, had entered its annual state of glorious uproar, and Kitty devoutly wished that it could be like this all year round.

  Itching to lace another pert behind, she looked out of the back door. There were some fruit baskets abandoned in the courtyard and two of the girls in Kitty’s team of helpers were being hauled off to the stables by Mr Blackstock, who had a fist around each one’s upper arms. Kitty pouted crossly at the sight, but she knew that she dare not protest against this blatant filching of her workforce, even though she suspected that the girls would be good for little by the time she got them back.

  The maid was still staring impotently at the stables when the jingling of reformatory manacles made her turn. A small, pretty brunette and a buxom blonde were trotting across the courtyard towards her with big baskets of blackberries in either hand.

  Kitty looked into the anxious eyes of both of them in turn, and swished her cane meaningfully through the air. The stealing of Maude and Anne by the stable was forgotten.

  ‘Right, put those down and touch your toes!’ the blonde maid ordered. ‘I’ll teach you lazy reformatory sluts to take so long!’

  ‘Well, girls, all ready for the big day? Betsy, I want these minxes scrubbed and in their best smocks. Amelia, Clara, before your baths you can polish your leashes, cuffs and collars. Everyone from Hatherby, and miles around, will be here today.’

  Amelia polished her brown leather collar in sullen silence. Next to her, Clara worked away with that air of serene acceptance that made Amelia want to box the blonde girl’s silly ears. Almost everyone in Hatherby had already seen Amelia naked or half-naked, but the knowledge of what was coming still gave her a tight knot in her stomach, and a lump in her throat that felt just like a stuck plum-stone.

  ‘That’s it, good girl. Just relax, my beauty,’ Mr Blackstock spoke quietly as his strong hands worked. He had made a sort of couch out of hay bales and covered this with a horse blanket. Blossom had been made to lay on this, at first on her back, as she watched him warming the oil in his hands.

  For such a big, rough-seeming man, his hands were cunning. He massaged her with dedicated concentration, stroking and probing her entire body before making her turn. Blossom felt herself transported as he worked the kinks and tensions out of her now lean and muscular back.

  There was a crack, the sound of leather on flesh and a pained female cry, from one of the stalls. Blossom knew that Dick was in there with the reformatory girl called Anne.

  ‘Stop that!’ Mr Blackstock called out. ‘You’re unsettling the filly. Wait until Blossom is prepared until you have yourself more fun with that chit.’

  The grooms had kept the two girls that they had corralled the previous day and, from the way that Dick was proceeding, the reformatory would do well to get their charges back after the cup. Blossom felt a little jealous, for she had grown accustomed to Dick’s solicitous attention, but she was too excited herself to dwell upon the matter. In any event, Mr Blackstock’s clever hands soon stroked away any such concerns.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Emma,’ Cook exclaimed, ‘not like that. You ought to know yourself, that such paltry little pats have no effect on reformatory girls.’

  Emma blushed at the reference to her own origins. Timidly she turned back to the girl who was bending over the sink. The kitchen-maid had been put in temporary charge of the scullery, and given two of the conscripted felons to help with the mountains of washing up. It was not a responsibility she relished in the least.

  Daisy was a laconic young woman whose work rate slowed almost to a stop if she were left unsupervised. Emma gripped the wooden spoon and looked at the girl’s exposed bottom. The grey shirt hem had been tucked into her belt and below the waist she was naked, except for woollen stockings. It was a firm bottom, with pale skin only marred in a couple of spots by not quite faded welts. Emma’s own last effort had scarcely raised a blush.

  The kitchen-maid took a deep breath and brought the spoon down on the bottom with a sharp crack. Daisy gave a wriggle and a slightly sarcastic-sounding gasp.

  Cook gave an exasperated sigh. ‘I would do it myself, but I have half a dozen of these slatterns to supervise. Now listen to me, Emma. You can put yourself a black mark in the big book for unwarranted leniency, when you get a moment. If you do not punish this girl properly, you will get two more. Do I make myself perfectly clear?’

  She had. Emma wiped her perspiring palm on her apron before gripping the wooden spoon’s handle again. Bitter memories of the birch and visions of herself strapped to the block, overwhelmed the little maid. There was nothing for it. She had to do it, hard.

  This time she put her weight behind the stroke. The bottom-cheek flattened and then bounced. Emma did not give Cook time to criticise but struck again, letting her arm uncurl from the shoulder to the wrist. There was a retort like a pistol shot. Daisy gave a hiss of pure pain and dipped her knees convulsively.

  ‘Straighten up, girl!’ Emma heard herself order.

  ‘Now, that’s better, Emma,’ Cook said, sounding a little surprised.

  A strange joy coursed through the kitchen-maid as she tapped the wooden spoon thoughtfully in her palm. She watched the spoon-shaped patch bloom red on Daisy’s bottom, which had begun to twitch.

  ‘Ah, ooh, please, miss—’ there was new respect in Daisy’s voice, maybe even fear ‘—can I go back to work? I will be quicker, honest…’

  ‘No, Daisy.’ Emma sounded astonishingly firm in her own ears. ‘Not just yet!’ She raised the wooden spoon for the next stroke. A strange excitement gripped her. She would teach the lazy trollop to take advantage of her gentle nature. A couple of dozen sharp ones ought to do the trick.

  ‘Oof, please Betsy, it’s too tight.’

  ‘Nonsense, Miss Amelia. Today is a special day and you girls must look your best.’

  Betsy had her knee in Amelia’s back, and she hauled on the laces of the corset with tremendous strength and an almost indecent enthusiasm. Amelia gripped the rail that had been set up for this, and other purposes, and groaned again. She felt as if she were being constricted around the waist by a python. Clara, already corseted, stood nearby, blinking at her. The blonde girl had been laced so tightly that Amelia thought she must be able to encircle her cousin’s waist between her hands. The thought made her feel dizzy. There was a last grunt of effort from behind her, and a final terrible tightening about her waist.

  ‘There! That shows off your figure lovely. The folk at the picnic will not be able to keep their eyes off you.’

  Amelia clenched her fists in impotent fury. Creaking from her own impressive corseting, Betsy knelt to roll white silk stockings onto Amelia’s shapely legs. Acutely conscious of the constriction of her stays, and the nakedness of her shaven sex so near Betsy’s full lips, Amelia looked at the waiting Clara and felt her pulse quicken at the sight. Clara’s stockings had already been fastened to the suspender-straps descending from her corset, and her sex was prettily framed. If only she might have a moment to herself, Amelia thought, her fingers twitching with the desire to assuage the itching in her loins. However, she dare not touch herself now, so she reluctantly tore
her gaze away again.

  As she did so, she heard the door open behind her.

  ‘Is that as tight as you can get them, Betsy?’ Jamie’s voice asked languidly. ‘Oh well, I suppose that will have to do. The usual knickers for Clara. Rubber bloomers for Amelia.’

  Amelia turned, blushing furiously. The torture of the rubber pantaloons had been less frequent of late. She was so appalled that she almost got herself into real trouble, but somehow managed to turn her protest into a plea. ‘Please, sir. Must I wear those things today?’

  ‘Of course you must, Amelia. After all, everyone who is anyone will be there. Unless you would prefer something else?’

  Amelia felt herself go pale at the implied threat. There was an awful silence that she dared not break, for fear of precipitating a fate even worse than she could imagine. Instead, she pleaded mutely, with her gaze. Jamie’s own eyes laughed back at her and the fist in her stomach clenched even tighter.

  ‘No, I think we will just have the rubber bloomers, Betsy.’ He turned to go and Amelia was engulfed by a wave of relief. Jamie stopped at the door and turned back. ‘Oh, but I do want them both in back-boards. Our girls must exhibit good posture and deportment on the day of the Silver Cup.’

  ‘I must say, you have done a splendid job!’ Lord Alex boomed.

  It was true that the sulky and every piece of tack gleamed from long hours of polishing and that Blossom herself had been curried and combed and oiled to sleek perfection. Mr Blackstock acknowledged the compliment.

  ‘Dick did a lot of work,’ he said gruffly, ‘and it is easy to make a rig look good when the filly is a fine fit thoroughbred like this.’

  The groom was holding Blossom by the bridle and he patted her cheek affectionately. She felt a surge of pleasure at the compliment. The words of approbation made her feel proud and happy.