‘Steady, Princess! Whoa, girl, easy, whoa!’
It seemed that she was not the only pony-girl who was being held back. The two kept pace with each other as the slope levelled off. Through the gloomy lanes at the back of the house, they ran. Here the path was lined with glossy-foliaged rhododendrons and camellias. There was a maze of paths here, but the wrong turnings had been ribboned off. Princess moved into the lead as they came in sight of the back of the stable-block. Blossom was running well and knew that she had strength in reserve, yet still Lord Alex held her back.
‘Oh, please, let me go.’ Emma did not dare push the man’s hand off her stockinged thigh but tried to back away, without dropping her tray of drinks.
‘Don’t be shy, sweetheart.’ The man, one of the gardeners, she thought, leered at her. He licked his lips like a hungry wolf eyeing a lamb. ‘I shan’t eat you,’ he said, as if reading her mind, ‘exactly.’
Emma took a deep breath and spun away. This time he allowed her to escape. Teetering on the unaccustomed heels, she tottered through the groups of picnicking people.
‘I’ll catch you later, then!’ the man called after her.
Some of Mademoiselle Isobel’s shop-girls grinned up at her as she passed, horribly aware of the brevity of her little skirt.
‘Looks like someone has a date,’ a red-haired minx chortled as she tottered by.
It was Emma’s first time in the uniform that the maids called a “tutu”, and it was her first time in such perilous heels. Silver Cup day was not the easiest occasion to practise. In fact, it was proving to be a true baptism of lust. The crowd of men and women were getting increasingly excited, and the sight of the little maid in her revealing costume commanded much more attention than Emma would have liked. It had not been too bad while the race was still in sight. Now the sulkies had passed out of view, the revellers were looking for alternative amusement.
‘What a sweet little bon-bon, Alicia,’ Mademoiselle Isobel cooed as she reached her goal at last. ‘Where have you been hiding this one, eh?’
‘Oh, she is our kitchen-maid. You must have seen her at church. We got her from the reformatory in May. A pretty little chit; she squeals most amusingly under the birch. Perhaps later we should see if we can make the baggage squeak!’
Emma blushed as she bent to serve the drinks, feeling the women’s eyes upon her. The glasses rattled on the tray as she felt Jamie’s hand on her bare thigh above the stocking-top. He pinched the tender flesh of her inner thighs, hard, as Lady Alicia took a drink with an amused smile. The little maid could not stop a moan escaping as his fingers probed the frills of her knickers until finding some buttock to pinch. She had nurtured hopes of a respite, once she had reached her goal, but this was almost as bad as being held up by those rough men.
‘Doesn’t like the cane either, do you, pet?’ Jamie asked. His fingers had trapped some bottom-flesh, preventing her from stepping over to offer Mademoiselle Isobel a drink.
‘Well, girl?’ Lady Alicia looked at her with malicious amusement. ‘Don’t you bother to answer your betters any more?’
‘No, sir, madam, I – I mean, yes, sir, madam… I—’ Emma did not know which question she was supposed to answer and mumbled, red-faced and in complete confusion.
‘It seems she cannot decide,’ Jamie said, releasing her bottom at last.
Emma winced and tottered over to Mademoiselle Isobel, who took a glass from the tray with a broad smile.
‘Then we must help her to remember, n’est-ce pas?’
‘But naturally. All right, Emma, offer Mrs Ormorund and the others drinks, then cut along to the rod room and fetch a nice whippy cane.’
Blossom was perspiring freely now, and her breathing was very heavy, but the months of training had paid off, and she was still feeling strong. They had run down the Reverend Dawes and his mount, in the long stretch of the course that looped behind the walled garden. First Princess had taken up the lead, and then Jack Campion had reined her in to allow Blossom to overtake. At first she was surprised, then she realised what was happening. Lord Alex and Jack had decided to work together to reel in the Reverend and his Rose. They wanted the latter part of the course free for their own personal duel. If one had made a break, the other would have followed, helter-skelter, but they were content, for now, to pace each other, and run down the cart in front.
This was not difficult. Blossom was the pacemaker as they emerged on the high ground above the lake. The drive wound down back to the starting point and she could see the Reverend and his girl in front. They were going downhill, yet the girl was stumbling. Blossom would have smiled if not for the bit. He had ridden her too hard, she realised; the pony-girl’s breath was broken. No amount of fear or pain would get the rector up Holly Hill in front.
She could have overtaken on the way down. They had practised this, and many times she had hurtled down the slope at a perilous rate. To Blossom’s surprise, Lord Alex reined her back, forcing her to keep to a safe controlled pace.
There was a roar from the crowd as each sulky came into view. At the bottom of the slope the driveway widened and Blossom heard, then saw, Princess pull up level on her right side. This time she was not reined back and she knew the pace making for each other was over.
They caught their quarry a little higher up Holly Hill than the place where they had overtaken Justice Ormorund. Rose was a fair-skinned girl and Blossom caught sight of a mass of livid welts on her pale bottom as she passed. The hill had stopped her almost as short as it had arrested Belinda on the last ascent, and they surged by.
Belinda and the Justice were still not much higher up. He had pulled her off the path to allow the frontrunners to lap him. Blossom heard some oaths and agonised whinnies as she passed, but it hardly registered, for now the race was well and truly on.
Blossom’s wind was not broken, but she was gasping as she cantered up the hill. This time around she was really feeling Lord Alex’s weight. It occurred to her for the first time that Jack was a much smaller man than her master, and a much lighter one, no doubt. Whether because of the relative weight of the drivers, or due to the comparative strength of their mounts, one thing became clear as they ground up the slope: little by little, Princess was, inexorably, pulling away.
There was a crack and a sharp sting in her flanks. The first time that her master had used his whip. Blossom put her head down and hauled with all her might. To no avail for, when she glanced up again, their rivals were several yards in front.
The slap was so sudden it took Amelia by surprise.
‘You see? Such a wicked, wilful child,’ Lady Alicia sighed. ‘Now keep still, you dreadful fidget.’
They had watched the stragglers for a few minutes, the company laughing as Belinda struggled fruitlessly to haul her burden for a second time up the hill. The sound of riding crop on girlish bottom echoed across the lawns, but it was all too obviously failing to have the required effect. Eventually Lady Alicia had bored of the prospect.
Amelia and Clara had been made to turn, kneeling up and facing Lady Alicia and Mademoiselle Isobel respectively. The object of these ladies’ scrutiny was their nipples.
‘They do stand out so, against the silk; why, they might almost as well be bare.’
Amelia tried to bite back a groan as Lady Alicia’s crimson talons pinched the objects of her interest. She heard Clara give a pained whimper beside her.
‘These are stiff and pretty, but not nearly so protuberant as her cousin’s,’ Mademoiselle Isobel said gaily. Clara gasped with pain as the corsetier tweaked.
‘No, but then not many girls have nips like our Amelia’s, do they dear? They are like claret corks, once they get engorged. My maid, Kitty, has nipples like loganberries, but I think Amelia’s are even longer. Perfect for clamping. I say, that gives me a splendid idea.’
Amelia moaned as Lady Alicia’s nails dug into the sensitive flesh
through the gossamer silk. Lady Alicia pinioned the nipples between the nails of her forefingers and thumbs, and then she rolled. Amelia grunted as they were twisted through almost one hundred and eighty degrees. Tears sprang to her eyes and her fingers flexed helplessly behind her back, in their bonds, as Lady Alicia held this excruciating position for a few long seconds. Just as she thought she must explode with pain, the Marchioness untwisted them and relief flooded through Amelia. It was a sadly short-lived sensation, for her aunt promptly wrenched the engorged flesh, just as far, the other way around.
‘Ooh, please, Aunt – I, ah, ooh.’
‘For heaven’s sake, be quiet, girl. You know, flimsy as this thing is, I do believe that this would be more fun on the bare.’
Lady Alicia released her hawk-like grip and Amelia gasped. Her aunt pulled up the hem of her smock, lifting it to Amelia’s appalled mouth. Half of Hatherby was watching. She could hear the laughter from behind her and from either side. The discomfort of the back-board and her bondage, the constriction of the rubber bloomers, which were sticky now in places: all these things paled into insignificance besides her choking sense of shame.
There was no choice, however. Amelia knew she was helpless in her bondage and appallingly vulnerable to Lady Alicia’s capricious cruelty. She took the silk in her mouth and held it there, trying to forget the fact that her breasts were now publicly exposed.
‘You see.’ Lady Alicia beamed down and patted her cheek, which was still burning from the slap. ‘You can be good if you try, Amelia.’
The Marchioness of Hatherby flexed her fingers thoughtfully. Amelia stared, as if mesmerised, by her long blood-red nails. Clara gave a startled gasp of pain beside her, and she heard Mademoiselle Isobel give a delighted little laugh. Then Lady Alicia once again took hold of Amelia’s already throbbing nipples between crimson talons, and Amelia heard herself shriek with pain.
Pain was shooting through her thighs now, and Blossom was gasping for air as she hauled the sulky up the last part of the hill. There was a sickening whistle and a flame of agony, even more intense than that in her muscles, blazed across her bottom.
‘Go on, Blossom, giddup! You can do it, girl!’
She blinked away tears as she hauled the little cart around the clump of holly that marked the crest of Holly Hill. Her arms ached, her lungs were bursting, and her thigh muscles were shrieking from the strain, but Blossom was far from beaten yet.
Taking a great lungful of air, she settled into a lope through the rhododendron maze. Lord Alex was showing his anxiety by giving her frequent lashes with the whip, but she had to get her breath back so she did not run full pelt. Blossom understood what had happened on the hill. Princess had been the stronger. She had not been able to match the strength in the black girl’s powerful thighs, certainly not when hauling a greater load. Now they were on the flat, things were different. Blossom’s legs were longer and she was very fast. If she did not succumb to panic, there was a way that she could still win.
Moving swiftly through the rhododendrons, she began to feel better. She was still blowing like a steam train, but her lungs did not hurt as much as they had. They passed the stable-block and the familiar sight made her quicken her pace. What if she were to lose? Blossom thought, fighting back the panic. What would happen to her then?
Princess had passed out of sight by the top of the hill, and Blossom ran through the rhododendron groves alone. She caught sight of a carriage as they set off around the walled garden and her heart surged with excitement. Then she realised it was only Connie and Mrs Treadwell, still struggling to complete their first lap. Connie was bathed in sweat, her broad back and bottom welted now. Mrs Treadwell reined her mount over to the side to let them thunder past.
Panic was truly setting in now. Surely they should have caught up with the other cart by now? Then, as they rounded the last corner of the garden wall, she saw them up ahead. Lord Alex must have seen his rival, too, for the lashes fell like a boiling rain across her back and bottom. Not that Blossom needed the encouragement. There was no more thought of reserving strength, the final slope was far too close. Blossom just put her head down and ran.
‘That’s it girl! We’re gaining on them! Come on, Blossom, giddup, girl! We can take them on the slope!’
For all the pain in every screaming muscle, Blossom felt a sense of exultation seize her. Every time she glanced up the target was closer. Now it was only a matter of yards ahead. Blossom knew how difficult it was to run down the slope full tilt. No one else had had the chance to practise it like she had. Her master was right; they would take the other sulky on the slope.
With perhaps five yards of lead, Princess hauled her cart over the lip of the long downhill slope. She was so close now that Blossom could see the beads of perspiration gleaming in the sunlight on the girl’s dark skin. Gulping what air she could, she followed as fast as possible, meaning to overtake her rival as soon as Princess slowed.
The black girl did not slow. There was a roar from the crowd as the two carts emerged into view, but Blossom was barely aware of it. Her eyes widened as she watched Jack Campion’s pony-girl hurtle down the slope. Surely they would upend at the first bend. Blossom sprang after them, long legs eating up the ground now that gravity had removed the weight of her load.
The other cart did not go over, not at the first bend, nor the second: incredibly it did not slow. It was as if Princess knew that switchback descent as well as Blossom did herself. The prodigiously endowed pony-girl fairly galloped down the slope, slowing just enough to navigate the turns before her powerful thighs sprinted on again. Not only could Blossom not catch her, it was all that she could do to keep up without tipping over her own cart at this phenomenal rate.
The final lakeside stretch was a formality. Blossom’s legs no longer had the strength to make up several yards of lead. In fact, her powerful, perfectly conditioned thigh-muscles, felt about to buckle beneath her. Lord Alex must have realised that the game was up, too, for he scarcely bothered to whip her bottom as she staggered, gasping for breath, along the shore.
Blossom did not see Princess canter through the ribbon held up by the stable-lads. She heard the roar from the watching crowd, though, and that told her that Jack had won his bet, as she staggered, head down, over the last few yards of the course.
The Tune of Birch and Leather
‘Amelia! Amelia! Pay attention to your aunt.’ Jamie’s voice cut into Amelia’s reverie.
Like everyone else in the crowd, she had watched the final stages of the race with rapt attention. So exciting had been the final descent that she had even forgot the discomfort of the back-board, and the maddening rubbing of taut rubber over her clitoris, and the throbbing of her tortured nipples, for a moment. The two front runners had hurtled down the slope, careening around the corners in the winding drive so precipitously that it seemed they must overturn. Jack Campion’s girl had held her lead somehow, her breasts bouncing as she hurtled down the hill, her dark sweat-soaked skin gleaming in the September sun.
No more than a few paces behind had hurtled Blossom. The tall girl’s breasts had jiggled as she ran in great loping strides. It seemed she must catch the shorter girl. But Amelia could see that Blossom’s gait was ragged now, her long legs less steady. Amelia felt a surge of secret satisfaction, knowing that Lord Alex was going to lose.
A great cheer rang out as Jack’s mount breasted the ribbon. Blossom limped in a few yards behind.
‘Oh, heavens,’ Lady Alicia said in a voice that sounded secretly delighted, ‘Alex has lost his fabulous thoroughbred filly!’
‘How did he take the slope so fast?’ wondered Jamie.
‘The sly dog must have been practising,’ Lady Alicia said, ‘it is the only way. He must have found a similar slope somewhere.’
At that point the cracking of a crop on flesh drew the company’s attention. Rose pulled into view, hauling the Reverend Dawes. The bu
xom redhead limped down the slope, the welts on her back and bottom visible even from a distance. Amelia watched the Reverend whip her mercilessly as she stumbled on. Great heavens, she thought as she watched, appalled, that man really is a brute.
Somehow Rose managed to stagger the final furlong, only to sink to her knees as she crossed the line. Then there was a wait. The hubbub of conversation in the crowd resumed, though Amelia kept watching as the pony-girls were unharnessed and sponged down by the stable-boys. The sight made her shiver. How terrible it must be, she thought, to be treated like an animal that way. The awful compelling sight of the naked girls provoked a more insistent tingling in her loins, and she shifted carefully, trying not to make her bloomers squeak.
After several long minutes, Connie appeared, pulling Mrs Treadwell’s sulky down the slope. She seemed less exhausted than Rose had been, but she descended slowly and cautiously. Clearly neither rider nor mount felt confident. Wondering how far back Justice Ormorund had fallen, Amelia looked over to her left, to Holly Hill. The Justice was trotting Belinda dejectedly down the incline. It seemed he had abandoned the attempt to complete the course altogether. He arrived at the finish line the wrong way, at the same time as Mrs Treadwell and her girl.
‘It is customary to give the ponies some minutes to recover,’ Lady Alicia said as she looked into Amelia’s eyes, ‘before presenting the Silver Cup and… what not. We usually like to provide some amusement for the company. Stand up, please, my dear.’
Amelia’s mouth went dry as she saw her aunt produce the evil little paddle, and slap it into her palm with a sickening crack.
‘Jamie, dear, would you mind peeling those rubber bloomers off?’
For a moment Amelia very nearly bolted. It was insane. Pinioned in her back-board bondage, where was there to go? What on earth could she do? It was not the fear of the nasty thing in Lady Alicia’s hand, though that was real. It was the shame. Amelia heard a score of conversations trail away, and knew with sickening certainty that the eyes of half of Hatherby were now firmly fixed on her latex-encased rear.
Hall of Infamy Page 23
