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- Herausgeber: Erotic eBooks
- Kategorie: Erotik
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011
An exchange of intimate letters exchanged between a handsome, lusty young gentleman of some thirty summers and a mischievously pretty beauty who had just completed her nineteenth year., recording their true amatory and disciplinary experiences of an Arabian harem and an English girl's reformatory establishment.
The letters reveal the exploits Charles, who finds employment in a country mansion for wayward girls, and the impetuous and mischievous Lizzie who makes herself privy to all the pleasures and punishments of the royal harem. Flouting all conventions of modesty and decorum, the two regale each other with tales of frolics and orgies, all the while exciting one another to paroxysms of pleasure.
"Birch in the Boudoir" is a classic Victorian erotic novel, published in 1905. It contains graphic sexual descriptions and themes.
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Birch in the Boudoir
Anonymous
A Word To The Reader
You will readily believe that the letters you are about to read were never intended for publication. They were lately exchanged between a handsome, lusty young gentleman of some thirty summers and a mischievously pretty beauty who had just completed her nineteenth year. As the letters themselves will show, both these friends are persons of the finest breeding and the most amiable liveliness of mind.
I have known handsome Charlie and pretty Lizzie for long enough to assure you that the events which this correspondence relates are utterly worthy of belief. After several months of my urging them, they have at last placed these papers in my hands with full permission to communicate them to the world. They make one stipulation, with which any sensible man or woman must concur: the full names and titles of my young friends are not revealed.
Do you deplore their reticence? Let me tell you then that both Charles and Lizzie are persons of some consequence. So, alas, the most fearful scandal might result from a too impetuous revelation of their identities. Let me say only that the father of our hero is entered in Burke’s Peerage, while our heroine was presented at court in the second summer of the new King’s reign. If you have the curiosity and diligence, you may thus infer their names from the peerage, the court circular, and the details of the letters themselves.
I will not detain you a moment longer than need be from the amorous frolics and ingenious orgies which these two friends witnessed. Yet I must say a word as to how these remarkable letters came into being.
My friend Charlie, a scapegrace lad from youth, is unacknowledged by his noble father and so lives by his wits. As the first letter relates, he was reduced to seek employment at a country mansion where wayward girls were taught the arts of the sewing room and the discipline of the stable. By the example of Miss Martinet, he first observed the amorous effects of chastisement upon a frisky young lady.
What of our beautiful Lizzie? She had accompanied her father, who was Britannia’s plenipotentiary in an Arabian territory. A noble Pasha, of European education, made her chivalrously welcome. As the Ambassador’s daughter, she was safe from all harm, yet as a woman she was permitted to assist at the pleasures and punishments of the harem. Imagine her surprise and delight on finding that the seraglio was well stocked with English girls as well as with those of warmer colours!
Charlie and Lizzie enjoyed the close mutual attachment which might exist between brother and sister. As a penniless adventurer, it was vain for him to hope that her family would accept him as her suitor. So, when they parted from one another, they agreed to exchange letters, detailing all those amusing incidents of a sexual and disciplinary nature which came their way. The close link of chastisement and erotic excitement was a topic they had discussed often and with great fascination.
You may imagine how interesting their correspondence proved to be! Yet I have no wish to mislead the world. I strongly advise that these letters should not be read by the prudish or the narrow-minded. They will be shocked by the mere sight of a girl opening her legs for a succession of lovers; what will they say when a pretty pupil takes her master’s passion in her mouth? Could they endure the sight of a young wife taking her lover’s tool surreptitiously in her bottom? They will approve, perhaps, of the whipping of Tania and Vanessa. Yet with what horror will they then see the two naked girls make love together, lying head to tail, using fingers and tongues!
With that word of warning, I will detain you no longer. Charlie and Lizzie shall speak to you now, telling their stories with the lively enthusiasm of youth.
Letter 1
Greystones, 23 April 1904
My dearest Lizzie,
Of course you’ll say I’ve been neglecting you, my sweet. Or will you think me downright lazy? “Where is the letter he promised?” you wonder, and a frown wrinkles that beautiful brow of yours!
But that is nothing compared to the astonishment with which you will read the address from which I write. Greystones! What can your very own Charles be doing as assistant in a reformatory for wayward young women? For, alas, I am only the assistant here. It is “Miss Martinet,” as the girls call her, who rules the establishment.
Let me explain, my love. On that dreary day of our separation, when your family escorted you from our last rendezvous at the Grosvenor Hotel to the boat-train at Victoria, I was at my wits’ end. Bereft of you, and well-nigh penniless, I went back to my rooms in Jennyn Street, paid off the cabbie, and mounted the stairs. I mixed a hock and seltzer, lit a cheroot, and pondered on the beastliness of life. So lost in gloom was I that I did not for a time notice the envelope which the porter had laid upon the table. It bore the Imprint of the family lawyers, Raven and Raven, of Gray’s Inn Walk.
My first reaction, you may imagine, was to think that it must be a communication from the father who, far from acknowledging me, never had the courtesy to marry my mother. What the deuce, I thought, can the old skinflint want of me now? Ain’t he cut me off without a sou already? And ain’t that the worst a cove can do to his own flesh and blood?
Had the day been colder and the fire lit, I should have tossed the envelope into its flames. Yet, as it lay there, nothing was to be lost by looking over the contents.
What do you think, Lizzie? It was from old Silas Raven himself, in his crabbed lawyer’s script! He presented his compliments to me-the first time the old devil had ever done so-and begged my attendance at his chambers at my earliest convenience. There, he promised, I should learn something to my advantage.
Now, my sweet, all that tosh is a lawyer’s way of telling a fellow that there’s a pocketful of sovereigns waiting if only he’ll have the goodness to fetch ’em. I was down the stairs quicker than old Gladstone’s hand up a whore’s skirt, for I had scarcely known where my next meal was coming from. I hailed a hansom cab, clambered aboard, and off we went to Gray’s Inn Walk, with harness a-jingle and hooves clopping.
If you never meet Silas Raven you won’t miss much-he’s a spiteful old devil of the prosecuting kind. A ghastly grimacing phiz, like a dose of rigor mortis. To my amazement, though, he had set out a tray of glasses and a bottle of fine old Madeira on his desk before my arrival. Hallo, says I to myself, here’s a rum go and no mistake!
As the old loon went drivelling on, it appeared he was talking about my Uncle Brandon, an eccentric old bird, who was my Guv’nor’s brother. I knew little enough of Uncle Brandon, whose life was vaguely described as “rackety” and who had spent much of it in foreign parts.
When Silas Raven, our cadaverous old brief, informed me that my revered uncle had gone to a better place and left me possessed of his entire estate, I could scarcely believe my ears. That Uncle Brandon’s drinking and whoring had made him ripe for plucking I never doubted. Yet I had no idea he had even heard my name, let alone make me his sole heir.
My first impulse was to milk old Silas Raven for a few hundred sovereigns on the spot. Yet it was not to be. The close-fisted senior partner of Raven and Raven read my thoughts. He favoured me with a grin that would have looked unbecoming even on a stoat.
“There is-ahem!-there is a condition attending the legacy of your late uncle. Should you fail to fulfil it, the entire inheritance is to be forfeited and the moneys applied to the Shoreditch Refuge for Penitent Magdalens.”
Did you ever read in story books, Lizzie, how a fellow’s blood is said to run cold? I never knew the meaning of it till that moment. What need had Penitent Magdalens of the money compared to my own? The senile old curmudgeon grinned at me like a skull.
“You will become possessed of the funds held in trust when you have spent six months in gainful employment, precisely according to your late uncle’s instructions. Should you fail....”
Gainful employment? I was not even sure, just then, quite what the term meant. A chap who bets a sov or two on the nags, or lays a wager at baccarat, may gain. Then again, he may lose. I need not have worried, however. My Uncle Brandon had left me no choice.
“Gainful employment!” sneered old Silas Raven. “On Monday next you will take up your post as Assistant Director of Greystones Female Reformatory on the Sussex coast. You will remain thus occupied until further instructions, confided to me by your uncle, are given you.”
“Look here!” said I crossly, “suppose they won’t have me at this place, wherever it is? Dammit, it ain’t justice to bilk a fellow of his inheritance when he can’t do what’s ordered.”
“Have no fear,” answered the old swine softly, “your uncle was a benefactor of the Greystones charity. Arrangements are already made for you.”
“The devil they are!” said I, quite taken aback.
“Very uncongenial to a shiftless young man of your habits, no doubt!” he murmured, “yet make no mistake, sir! Fail to fulfil the condition and I will see you cut from your uncle’s will!”
He would too, I never doubted that! So I left his chambers, descended the steep wooden stairs of the old building, and turned away under the broad trees of Gray’s Inn Walk, which were just then coming into early leaf.
All the way back to Jermyn Street in the cab I tried to puzzle out why a randy old uncle I had never seen should leave me all his spondoolicks, and on such conditions. What could it possibly matter to him if I spent a few months supervising the girls of Greystones, or working at some other profession, or doing nothing at all? Why not leave a chap the load of oof, as they say, and be done with it? Why blight his life by taking him away from the London season and sending him off to the seaside, where he might die of tedium?
Lizzie! Lizzie! How I wronged the frisky old fellow! Had I known what was to befall me at Grey-stones, I might almost have heard his laughter ringing out in the celestial spheres at my fury.
Fifty sovereigns was forwarded by old Silas Raven to see me safe to Pinebourne-on-Sea. Next morning, I received a letter from the Directress of Greystones, known to one and all as Miss Martinet. I was expected on the following Monday. The dogcart would be sent to the station to meet the three o’clock train.
Pinned to the letter was a list of useful clothing, including riding apparel for supervising the equestrian discipline of the girls. A further note, which made my brows rise slightly, referred to “instruments of correction.” Such implements were provided by Miss Martinet for her colleagues. However, if I possessed a particular type of cane, birch, or whip, and if I preferred to use this, I might bring it with me. Naturally, the note added, it must be inspected and approved before I was authorised to use it on the bare bottom of any delinquent young woman.
I very nearly choked to death on my breakfast toast. With great care, I re-read the sentence. The words were still there -“bare bottom”- I had not fallen victim to hallucinations after all.
That was Saturday morning. Already my regrets at being parted from the London season were diminishing, and it seemed to me that Monday could not come soon enough. Believe me, Lizzie, it was not the thought of tanning the bare backside of a schoolgirl of fourteen or a runaway young wife of twenty-five which thrilled me. I was possessed by thoughts of what else might happen once I was privileged to see them slip their knickers down and pose for me.
By noon on Monday my bags were packed and secured, all my possessions crammed into them, as I waited with impatience for the cab that was to take me to Victoria. The half-past-twelve train was prompt to the minute. Seated in the dining car, I watched the houses of Pimlico and Balharn speed past. Soon we were out in the countryside of Croydon and Purley, trees and hedges flashing by.
By breaking into old Silas Raven’s fifty sovs, I sported a bottle of Chateau Rothschild and a first-rate spread. I sniffed my post-prandial brandy and smoked a cigar as we pulled in towards Lewes under the graceful curve of the Sussex downs. By three o’clock I stood on the platform at Pinebourne, breathing in the clean sharp air of the sea, which lay just beyond the town.
I knew Miss Martinet at first glance. She was quite tall, and smartly dressed with a look which one calls “handsome.” Nearer thirty-five than forty, she wore her brown hair in a somewhat old-fashioned coiffure. Her manner was well educated and pleasant. She might equally well have been a young widow or, as proved to be the case, a lively minded spinster with a predilection for bending wayward young women to her will.
We drove together in the dogcart, exchanging pleasantries. Pinebourne was an agreeable place, I supposed, with its tree-lined shopping streets and its elegant, broad-paved Marine Parade. The freshly painted pier, the bandstand, the ornamental gardens with their yellow blooms in flower, lay beside a quiescent sea.
Would you imagine Greystones as some grim fortress of vengeance, Lizzie? How wrong you would be! Though surrounded by a high wall, which the nimblest damsel would never scale, the house and grounds were delightful. The house itself accommodated thirty penitent Magdalens, as old Silas Raven might call them, though their misdemeanours were more varied than the term implies. This extensive villa was light and airy, fronting onto ornamental grounds. Beyond the kitchen gardens at the rear stood the stable block with its little clock tower. To one side of the grounds rose the smooth turf of the downs, whose cliffs fell sheer to the tide. On the other side there was a gentle slope, where the resinous smells of warm pine led down to the rippling waters of the bay.
I took tea with Miss Martinet, who, because of my uncle’s charitable interest in Greystones, treated me more as a guest than as an employee. Presently, however, she began upon one subject which had already crossed my own mind.
“You will find,” said she, “that in such a place as this there are certain romantic passions which develop between some of the girls. A few of these are genuine affections, others are basely criminal. I cannot advise you whether to permit or punish such infatuations. It must be at your discretion. Whatever your decision, you may depend upon my support.”
“I shall be grateful for that, ma’am,” I said, swallowing my tea hard. The cup rattled nervously in the saucer, as I sat on the edge of the little chair in her drawing-room.
“Some girls,” she continued, rather self-consciously, “are also liable to develop crushes or passions upon any man in the establishment. You, I am sure, will best know how to deal with that. They are also given to inventing stories about his activities. Have no fear, though, your word in such matters will always prevail with me.”
“I shall strive to be worthy of such trust,” I gasped weakly.
“As for the other matter,” she murmured, “whatever course of action you feel to be necessary in matters of chastisement must be a decision for you alone.”
As she spoke, Miss Martinet looked at me across the tea table with a new depth of meaning in her clear grey eyes. “I shall not interfere with your wishes in the matter,” she went on, “except to assure you that the use of the rod is, paradoxically, the kindest form of correction in the end. A single severe punishment may save a wayward young woman from evil ways and repeated penalties later on.”
“Tm obliged, ma’am,” says I, awkwardly, “deuced obliged for that.”
Miss Martinet smiled kindly at me. “Then we understand one another,” she said quietly. “I knew that if your Uncle Brandon chose you as his heir he was certain that you would fit in with our way of doing things at Greystones.”
Now, Lizzie, it may be that Miss Martinet understood, as she put it. I’ll be damned if I did! Still I sensed, don’t you see, some good sport ahead-just the kind that you and I love to hear of! Beyond the lace curtains of her upstairs drawing-room, the sun shone upon waves that were green as glass. Distantly, from the bandstand on the Marine Parade, came sounds of regimental brass.
“Tomorrow morning,” said Miss Martinet, “you shall make your inspection. It was your uncle’s wish that we should make you welcome here. I and the girls were, upon his instructions, to offer you every facility. Every facility.” She looked at me, as she repeated those words, with that same depth of meaning which had made my heart beat faster a few moments before.
Ah, Lizzie! Tomorrow morning! What tales shall I have to tell you when I take up my pen tomorrow evening? For the present, as the lamp burns low, I bid you a loving goodnight and remain,
Your own adoring Charles
Letter 2
Greystones, 24 April 1904
My dearest Lizzie,
How differently must we think of my Uncle Brandon after my adventures today! You might easily believe he had owned Grey-stones-Miss Martinet and the girls included-and that it was a private seraglio with Miss M. as a duenna!
After breakfast my hostess led me across the sunlit lawns to the brick stable with its white cupola and clock. “We have two groups of girls at Greystones,” she said proudly, “first, the more refined young ladies who are taught sewing or embroidery, and second, the young women trained to be stable-girls.”
“Oh, aye,” says I to myself, “buxom young trollops well made for vigorous riding and saddle work!”
“Before you proceed to deal with our young ladies,” went on Miss M., “you must first prove yourself with these saucy Amazons. That was always your uncle’s rule.”
“Was it, by Jove!” I said. “Then I shall strive to be worthy of it!”
To speak well of Uncle Brandon is to win Miss M.’s heart. Do you suppose, my sweet, that she had such a lech for the old fellow as to supply him with young fillies to ride at Greystones?
“I shall put two young women in your charge at first-Maggie and Noreen,” said she. “They need nothing less than a man’s absolute authority. For that reason, your dear departed uncle wished you to aid our good works.”
I smiled at the old fellow’s singular notion of good works. A moment more and we entered the main stable door, viewing a well-kept interior of red tiling, white-painted rails, and neatly piled straw. Miss Martinet pointed out Maggie and Noreen to me, marking the beginning of my remarkable acquaintance with them.
I will not burden you with more than the briefest description of the two girls. Maggie was to prove a casual and careless young slut compared with the staring insolence of Noreen. What shall I say of Maggie? Her golden-blond hair hung straight and loose to her shoulders and was parted on her forehead in a long fringe. She was twenty-three years old, I learnt, the pale oval of her face marked by features which were firm and perhaps a little crude. Yet you would admire her blue-green eyes and the lashes which she darkens so skilfully. Maggie is a bewitching combination of the brazen slut and the innocent child. She is firmly built, though not tall. Her lack of height gives her a coltish, almost stocky appearance. Yet her thighs are taut and her hips firmly covered without being fat. Her breasts are softly hung and Maggie’s bottom-cheeks have the trim maturity of womanhood. Though she wears no wedding ring, I’ll wager that Maggie’s cunt has been well ridden.
Noreen, by contrast, has an impudent stare and a resentful manner. This pleases me, rather, for it will offer ample pretext for discipline! Noreen is a trollop of nineteen with no claim to refinement. Would you picture her to yourself? You may do so easily. Imagine quite a tall, firmly made girl, her dark-brown hair worn straight and lank to the level of her collar and cut in a level fringe on her forehead. Add to this a set of strong, fair-skinned features and brown eyes of lazy malevolence. Men who like a well-made filly to strap between the shafts of love’s chariot would stiffen at the sight of Noreen in her tight working pants and singlet. Firm young breasts and straight back are damply outlined by clinging blue cotton. Now observe her from the waist down: her belly is quite flat, her pubic mound a gentle swell. Her thighs are taut and lightly muscled, as if from work or exercise. Noreen’s bottom is certainly quite big-cheeked but without any surplus fat.
“Deal firmly with them, Mr. Charles!” said Miss Martinet softly. “Be worthy of your Uncle Brandon! Remember, you are absolute master here. Not a word shall be heard against you from these girls!”
There were two grooms and several stable-boys to assist me in my task, which seemed to be no more than doing as I liked with the two girls! A room had been set apart for me at one end of the stable, and it was well appointed with a humidor of cigars and a decanter of fluid which looked, smelt, and tasted like the finest old malt! From this point of vantage, I settled down to watch Maggie through the open door.
The young blonde was laying out the saddle harness for inspection by the grooms. In doing this she was also in the public view. On that side the stable wall is the boundary of the Greystones estates, the windows looking out onto the road, though securely set in stone and not to be opened. Men and women who stroll past can watch Maggie at work.
Perhaps it was this which made Maggie such an exhibitionist. First she found a black wig in a cupboard and fitted it over her own blond hair. It was not an improvement, though she paraded in it, her jaw slack and her tongue running on her lips. Taking it off at length, she ducked her head and shook it to and fro vigorously, her blond hair flying then settling at last into place.
The stable lads began to play with her. “Want a good gallop, Mag?” they called, as they seized her. “Take your pants right down, then!” She replied to them banteringly in a voice which was surprisingly soft and lilting. She tried to escape by climbing over the harness rail. Her legs were too short arid the boys caught her as she was astride it. One gripped her wrists and pulled her down so that she was lying forward along it as she straddled.
All this was done in play, Lizzie. Yet you may imagine the faces of the men who were passing by and who now pressed close to the windows to observe these proceedings. Because Maggie lay forward, astride the rail, the men outside the window could stare at the weight of the soft young breasts hanging like delectable fruit in her tight, blue singlet. The wooden rail showed her pouched love-lips through the straining tightness of her denim trousers. Taut but maturely filled out, the firm cheeks of Maggie’s backside faced these spectators. There was such wrestling between her and the stable-lads! One of them stole a kiss from her lips, another smacked her arse playfully several times through the tight, thin denim.
In the end it was Maggie who freed herself. Then, chewing insolently upon some sweetmeat in her mouth, she went to the stable-boy who was her favourite and took him by the hand. Now, it seemed, she was ready to pay any price for true love. She led the youth behind a screen which stood conveniently at one end of the stable. I heard the undoing of her waist and the whisper of Maggie’s knickers being pushed down to her knees and then to her ankles.
“Lie down and let me play with it first, you wicked boy,” she said teasingly in her soft Celtic lilt. “None of the schoolgirls can do it as well as I, can they?”
“Head to tail, Mag!” he gasped, “please! Let us lie head to tail!”
“Ah!” whispered Maggie, “you rascal! If I do that you will make me take it in my mouth!”
“Do it, Mag!” gasped the lad again, “do it all the same!”
His long sigh of contentment suggested that the coltish young blonde, with her curtains of light golden hair, had obeyed him in this matter.
“I must kiss you between the thighs, Maggie!” he murmured, “while my fingers stiffen those strawberry nipples on your white breasts. Was that nice when I kissed you there, Mag? Ah, how that makes you shudder-the tip of my tongue running in the love-slit between your thighs. Lie still, Maggie, and let me do it again. What a soft little cry! Anyone would think I had put you to the torture!”
I listened in stupefaction, my dearest Lizzie. Was this the way in which our English reformatories were run, I asked myself? Small wonder that such young whores as Maggie took their sentence with equanimity.
“Now your backside, Maggie!” sighed her adorer. “Did you see how the men admired you through the window each time they had a view from the rear as you bent over in your tight riding jeans? What would they like to do to you, Mag, if they had you as a slave girl? Suck softly, Maggie! Run your tongue about the cherry top! Now let me press your pale seat-cheeks apart and admire what lies between. Ah, yes, Maggie! If you were my slave girl, I should be pitiless in threading my shaft into that tight, dark hole as well. That frightens you a little? The thought of it makes you stiffen? To tell you the truth, Mag, the thought of it makes me stiffen too!”
So the lover’s aria continued behind the stable screen. As I listened, I looked out across the green, ’sloping lawn towards the hedge which marked the steep fall of the cliff to the waves. It was the only side on which Greystones might seem unprotected. Yet no young damsel had ever been hardy enough to attempt a descent by that route. Nor, of course, had any randy swain ever managed to climb up by that way to woo his beloved in her reformatory bed! As I looked across the lawns and saw the pier and bandstand of Pinebourne glittering in the sun beyond, I could not help wondering what the respectable burghers of the town would feel if they knew the truth of the reformatory regime of which their lawmakers were so proud.
Just then the grooms returned. Maggie, who had not nearly completed her chores, was sentenced to be chastised for her dilatoriness. When the first groom came to tell me that Maggie was made ready to be caned for idleness, I could hardly find an answer! Imagine how eagerly the men who had watched at the window while she worked at the harness display would have taken this opportunity! I could scarcely believe that it was my own voice saying, “Ah... yes... indeed. To be sure. Perhaps, though, on this first occasion, you would be good enough to deal with her for me.”
A broad smile crossed the groom’s face. All the passion which he had pumped into Maggie’s mouth, the love with which he had spangled her thighs and backside, did not restrain his zeal for chastising her. We went into the main part of the tiled stable, where a padded leather bench stood at the centre of the floor. Maggie was stripped to her singlet, made to kneel at one end of the bench and lie forward along it. Her discarded pants and knickers (a pair of stretched cotton briefs) lay discarded on the table. They had tied her blond hair in a short pony-tail, and I was pleased at that. It enabled me to watch more clearly her blue eyes and fair-skinned features. I nodded to the groom, who made the preparations required by the Greystones regulations. Maggie’s wrists were strapped to the far end of the bench, her waist buckled down, and her legs belted tightly together just above the knees.
All this will sound so severe, Lizzie, that you will scarcely credit how much pleasure there was for Maggie in her punishment. Yet such was the truth, as I discovered when I made my inspection of her before she was bamboo’d.
I squatted down behind her and studied the area which offered itself as a target to the groom. Maggie’s buttocks, firmly and fully presented by her posture, were stretched hard apart. Both the rear pout of her vaginal purse and her anal cleft were in full view. I teased our blond shop girl gently. “You’ve been making love, haven’t you, Maggie?” I stroked her down the length of her cleavage, between the fair-skinned sturdiness of her buttocks, tickling the rear of her vaginal pouch and finding it moist. She was far away by now, her mouth open a little, and her blue-green eyes blank, as if she could not hear.
Can you guess the truth, Lizzie? Any of the other shop girls punished in this manner-Pat or Jennifer or the rest-would have trembled at the ordeal. Maggie, however, was a lover of that delight known to us as “Birch in the Boudoir.” Even a prison caning was the occasion for her pleasure. It is true, is it not, that certain girls, like the slave, Janina or the Grecian nymph, Sarita, have found pleasure under the rod of their Turkish masters? Maggie was a worthy novice!
Already I could see that her pale, firm thighs, in all their stocky power, were squeezing rhythmically together. It was impossible to prevent, except by ordering her legs to be strapped apart. To tell you the truth, my curiosity was so great that I could not bear to do that.
“No wonder the men watched you as you set out the harness display, Maggie,” said the first groom, “if you were misbehaving like that!”
But the young shop girl had no shame, Lizzie! I vow she continued with the thigh-squeezing and the buttock-clenching as if she could not have stopped it for dear life.
The groom cut the air with a trial swish of his bamboo. Our young blonde masturbatrix stopped, frozen in a moment of apprehension, and then resumed her labours of self-love.
“Thirty strokes across your bare bottom, Maggie,” I said softly, and I nodded to the groom to begin the punishment with the long supple bamboo.
How the first stroke of the cane rang out across the firm, pale cheeks of Maggie’s bottom! She gasped, cried out, but never ceased to squeeze her love-lips hard between her thighs. Again the cane lashed across her seat, and again. She gave a soft cry but it was hard to say whether pain or pleasure drew it from her. The groom was quite pitiless with her. Believe me, any true disciplinarian who had watched Maggie displaying herself at the window would have approved that. Six times the cane raised a weal across the cheeks of Maggie’s bottom-and twice across the backs of her thighs. She cried out with the hurt and with the pleasure of her own thigh-squeezing at the same time. In truth the vicious prison bamboo was a smarting agony across the bare cheeks of her backside. Only the swelling balloon of pleasure in her own lions enabled her to endure it with such insouciance.
After the first fifteen strokes, the groom handed the cane to his colleague for the rest.
“Almost at the summit of your climb, Maggie?” asked the second man. “I shall let you get there before I cane. Then fifteen wicked strokes across your backside, with no distractions!”
Mag cried out again, begging him to bamboo her in her present state. But he waited until her thighs seemed to beat quickly in their squeezing, like soft white wings. He stood, undid her legs, and strapped them again with knees wide apart. Then he caned the impudent blonde shop girl without compunction.
I was conscious that the lads she had romped with earlier had their eyes pressed to every chink and keyhole in the place. Under the second groom’s attentions, Maggie screamed and her green eyes brimmed over. Unlike his predecessor, he was a moralist and no libertine. His righteous anger brought thin ruby trickles from the new weals across her bottom-cheeks.
At last Maggie lay limp and gasping, her behind blushing and marked by swollen stripes. I stroked her blond hair, calming her. “Come to my room tomorrow morning, Maggie,” I said gently. “You’ll be tanned now until the grooms are satisfied with you. Tomorrow, I’ll treat you to some softer discipline of my own.”
Was it pleading or was it gratitude she showed? Maggie, the randy young bitch, brazenly licked my fingers in anticipation! Had she much to be grateful for? It depends which groom was the harder to satisfy. Was she given to the gentler of the two? He would surely allow her to ride the rubber dildo while his rod merely stimulated her passion. But Maggie the young shop girl with her golden-blond hair touching her collar and fringed on her forehead, might well provoke a gentle, affectionate lechery.
Yet the other groom seemed more fiercely provoked. Was it by the rather hard, crude features in the pale oval of her face, or the blue-green eyes with their mascara’d lashes? Did her slight stockiness, the firm young thighs and buttocks, move him even more?
[...]
