by Emily Tilton
But as the anger in her mistress’ face seemed to grow stronger, the brown eyes narrowing and the nostrils flaring, all the sympathy drained from Celia’s heart. She turned her eyes back to Miss Leticia’s thigh and began to carry out her duty roughly, forming her own face into a hard mask. Sir Henry meant, she knew, to put Celia in charge of some important part of Miss Leticia’s sexual training. Celia would perform that office faithfully, even if it meant using the training iron on her mistress’ naughty clitoris.
No, Celia thought, especially if it means that.
Now the doctor was taking the straps from Celia as she removed them from Miss Leticia’s limbs, and placing them back into his bag, winding each one carefully around his hand to compress its size as much as possible. Sir Henry put his clothing back on, while Miss Leticia, released, lay back on her bed, her eyes now closed and the blush beginning to recede from her cheeks. She looked so lovely in her nakedness that it stirred Celia’s ire anew: what right did such a cruel young lady have to lie there so alluringly after her first fucking, surely meditating on how to take her revenge upon her innocent maid who had been denied the pleasure of a hard cock where she needed it most? Celia knew somewhere in her mind that her thoughts lacked order, but that knowledge did not prevent their advancing into vehement emotion. When Sir Henry had dressed completely and Dr. Brown had all his things, the maid tried her own power of humiliation.
“Shall I wash the cunny then, Sir Henry?” she asked with a mixture of innocence and brusque servant-ly officiousness. “You wish it clean, I suppose? You will want to fuck Miss again later, I imagine, after you fuck me.”
“Celia!” Miss Leticia cried. Her voice seemed to waver for a moment between rage and grief, but when she spoke again her tone had turned icy. “You shall not speak of me in that—”
But Sir Henry, chuckling, interrupted her.
“Oh, indeed she shall, darling,” he said. “I find Celia’s manner most appropriate and, more important, most arousing. Yes, dear Celia, please do wash the cunt thoroughly. I wish it well cleaned for the fucking it will have tonight. Leticia, darling, if you persist in protesting the way I manage your matrimonial training in this tiresome fashion, I must give you the iron again.”
“Might I suggest you use the anal plug I shall send you this evening, as we just discussed?” Dr. Brown asked with a smile. “You would accomplish two ends at once, that way.”
Celia looked at Miss Leticia, who had her lower lip caught between her teeth now. Tears had formed in the corners of her eyes. The maid felt no sympathy now, though, but only arousal: perhaps Sir Henry would allow Celia to put the plug in her mistress’ bottom. The thought seemed to set new fire to her aching pussy.
Chapter Twenty
Sir Henry spoke to Mrs. Graves instead of Mrs. Stewart concerning the future sleeping arrangements in Curzon Street, finding her just outside the door that led to the servants’ region below stairs. The baronet came upon her in an aspect of attentive repose, as is awaiting a command from her employer—or perhaps as if straining to hear something of what took place in Miss Leticia’s bedchamber.
Sir Henry had not previously noticed it, but the woman’s full figure appeared to great advantage, really, in her severe black dress, and the bun in which she had composed her jet-black hair suited the sharp but not stark lines of her face. If she should prove the sort of unacknowledged assistant in his schemes for which he sought, Sir Henry reflected, he could hardly find a more appropriate partner among the matronly set.
“Mrs. Graves,” he said. “I hope you will not mind me discussing with you what one might term a delicate matrimonial matter.”
“Of course not, Sir Henry,” replied the stern-faced housekeeper. “Mrs. Stewart is accustomed to tell me everything concerning her household arrangements. Having seen and understood the doctor’s visit to Miss Leticia, I believe I am well equipped to assist in whatever project you may have in mind for the girl’s improvement.”
Sir Henry saw in the woman’s eye a glint that made him confident he had chosen well in his planning for the future prosperity of his own much less conventional household arrangements. Mrs. Graves, he knew, regularly disciplined the maids, but he had not felt certain until that moment of the nature of the woman’s interest in ensuring by means of the strap that the Stewarts’ London abode ran so very smoothly. It did not surprise him that Mrs. Graves had an interest in the proper correction of young women greater than what pure efficiency might require: a matron like Mrs. Stewart, with her hypocritical, repressed views upon erotic matters, would inevitably choose such a servant in whom to vest her authority.
“Ah, capital,” Sir Henry said. “I wish it known, then, that Celia Deaver will from henceforth be attached to Miss Leticia in the capacity of ladies’ maid, and that her duties will involve a close attendance upon her mistress.”
“Of course,” said Mrs. Graves. Her brow furrowed slightly, for that matter surely did not seem delicate to her.
As Sir Henry continued, however, the housekeeper’s eyes widened and her brows lifted, though she gave no sign that she found his words discreditable in the least.
“Both Miss Leticia and Celia will henceforth sleep in my bedchamber, in accordance with Dr. Brown’s advice,” he said in a low, confiding voice, making it clear to Mrs. Graves that he placed the greatest possible trust in her discretion.
“Ah,” said Mrs. Graves, nodding slightly. “I see, Sir Henry. May I take it, then, that you and Miss Leticia are engaged to marry?”
Sir Henry smiled. “Yes, indeed, and I shall inform Mrs. Stewart of the engagement in a few moments. I wish you, though, to ensure that the rest of the household understands Miss Leticia’s being brought to my bed as following from the best medical advice, upon the unusual circumstances of her shameful conduct yesterday.”
The housekeeper nodded again. “The girl has been properly disciplined, I gather,” she said with satisfaction. “And Celia also?”
“Indeed, yes,” Sir Henry affirmed. “The implement you prepared for us proved most effective in teaching them the error of their ways.”
“And they were caned as well?”
Sir Henry nearly laughed at the eagerness in Mrs. Graves’ voice that the woman clearly labored with great difficulty to conceal. He kept his lips formed into a tight smile, however, and nodded.
“They were. I flogged Miss Leticia and the doctor himself disciplined Celia.”
“Should I…” the housekeeper hesitated, and Sir Henry sensed in her long-repressed needs scarcely held in check.
“Yes, Mrs. Graves?” he asked.
“Should I examine their bottoms?” the woman asked in a voice whose feigned dispassion made him cough to keep the incipient chuckle back. “To ensure that all is sanitary?”
“I think you should, Mrs. Graves,” Sir Henry replied seriously. “I should warn you, though, that upon the doctor’s medical advice I introduced Miss Leticia to her marital duties just now—and I should inform you that the doctor has advised me similarly to introduce Celia as soon as possible. You will wish to examine not only the girls’ bottoms but also their pudenda—in Miss Leticia’s case, to ensure that she has taken well in that region to the matrimonial act, and in Celia’s case to verify that in your opinion she is ready for that act.”
He studied the housekeeper’s face as he delivered this salacious news in the guise of the most solemn sort of hygienic pronouncement. Mrs. Graves obviously had not anticipated the extent to which the baronet meant to gratify those cravings she could never admit to having. She swallowed hard, and a small crease developed in her brow, as she received a license to gratify her own forbidden, but natural, impulses, in the name of discipline and health. Sir Henry had not the slightest doubt that Mrs. Graves had grown very wet in her well-concealed, very modest drawers.
He went on, placing an even more serious expression upon his face. “I believe Dr. Brown would find it most appropriate, too, Mrs. Graves, if you were to provide some instruction to Miss Leticia a
nd to her maid. My intention is that my household shall be run along lines that many might find untoward, but which I hasten to assure you Dr. Brown recommends as healthful for young women like the ones with whom we have to deal here in Curzon Street. I gather than Mr. Graves died some years ago?”
“He did,” Mrs. Graves confirmed, nodding sagely, the calm of her demeanor having returned. “But I am glad to say that I have not forgotten the ways of the bridal chamber.” Her eyes opened a little wider. “You say, then, that the doctor recommends employing Celia as an assistant of sorts, in training Miss Leticia in connubial matters?”
“Precisely,” Sir Henry replied. “To that end, any assistance you yourself might give, as having so much wisdom, would aid greatly in ensuring their future happiness and mine.”
“I see,” Mrs. Graves said. She swallowed again, and the baronet felt sure she struggled mightily with the inward conflict created by the enticing proposition he had laid before her. “And whatever I shall see fit to do, with Miss Leticia and with Celia…”
Sir Henry smiled. “Whatever you see fit to do, or however you decide to instruct them, I am certain Dr. Brown would find it of great benefit to Miss Leticia’s well-being. It would be sensible to have dinner sent in to Miss Leticia’s chamber, and perhaps you should dine with them. You may bring them to my own chamber afterward.”
“I think that very sensible indeed, Sir Henry,” replied the housekeeper, and vanished through the servants’ door with alacrity, as if scarcely able to conceal her wanton desire even from the baronet any longer, let alone herself.
Sir Henry returned to his own chamber well satisfied that he had brought about an occasion excellently suited to divert him as he contemplated the pleasurable exertions of the evening ahead—as well as to assist in the training of Leticia and Celia. Indeed, when he went to his peephole Mrs. Graves had just made her entrance into Leticia’s bedchamber, to find Celia naked upon her knees in front of her naked mistress. The baronet’s future bride still lay upon the bed, her legs now dangling over the foot and her knees spread so that her maid could wash her cunt with the cloth that Celia had wet from the basin that sat next to her upon the floor.
If Mrs. Graves found the arrangement of naked, punished beauty untoward or outside the bounds of conventional morality, she said nothing about that compunction. Sir Henry could see that he had indeed found in the woman the sort of Briton, born of the lower middle class, taken early into service in a comfortable household, who believed that the aristocracy could do no wrong. If she found two naked young ladies, one of them washing the other’s recently deflowered cunt to the specification of a man who for all his honorable intention to marry one of them intended to have them both at his erotic disposal in perpetuity… well, if the man had not had a Sir in front and a bart in back, Mrs. Graves might have called for the constabulary.
As it was, however, she spoke in a stern tone, but not in reproof of the girls’ nakedness or of what the maid did that caused the mistress to sigh and fidget as she remembered—for how could she not, Sir Henry reflected—the agony of the training iron and the overwhelming pleasure she had known in her first fucking.
“Celia,” she said. “I hope you are cleansing Miss Leticia’s private parts very thoroughly.”
Leticia’s eyes had been closed, her face already a little red at the sensations Celia’s warm, wet cloth had brought to her cunny and presumably still smarting clitoris, but they flew open at the sound of the housekeeper’s voice.
“Mrs. Graves!” she exclaimed. “I did not ring… and… Sir Henry… this…”
Mrs. Graves nodded, and though she did not smile she did speak in reassuring accents.
“Do not fret, Miss Leticia,” she said, stepping close to the bed so that she could look down upon the lovely girl. “Sir Henry has told me all, and I have promised to help instruct both you and Celia in the duties you will now have toward him, as well as ascertaining that no permanent harm has been done by the punishment you received today, or by your first journey to the garden of Cupid, Miss Leticia, in the arms of your handsome bridegroom.”
Celia’s jaw had dropped, and she had ceased to move the wet cloth over Leticia’s sweet, bare vulva. The maid clearly could find nothing to say—nor of course should she, for despite her rather saucy ways the code of the servants’ life dictated that she not address Mrs. Graves unless the housekeeper directly addressed her.
Leticia, for her part, had blushed so deeply that her lovely breasts bore a rosy stain. Her lips moved still, but no words emerged. The metaphor of a voyage to unknown erotic lands of amorous flowers and trees seemed to have left her speechless, especially since she could have no way of knowing for certain that Mrs. Graves knew that the journey had in fact been accomplished by Sir Henry’s cock thrusting hard inside her shaven cunt.
“Celia,” said Mrs. Graves brusquely, “have you finished cleaning Miss Leticia’s pudenda? Shall I have a look?”
“Yes, ma’am?” Celia said uncertainly. She swallowed hard and looked down at Leticia’s cunny. “I was washing her down here for a few minutes before you came. All the… all the blood is gone, now, anyway.”
From his excellent position at the peephole Sir Henry could see Leticia shoot a meaningful look up at Mrs. Graves to see how the housekeeper would react to the news that the mistress’ maiden blood had needed washing away. Leticia frowned a bit, then, as she clearly noticed how very easily Mrs. Graves took the fact in stride.
“I shall inspect your work, then,” she said. “And then I must examine your bottoms, girls, to see that no risk of infection exists from the marks left by the cane across them. I will also have a good look at your clitoris, Celia, and make sure that the special procedure Dr. Brown performed has not harmed you—or in fact whether you should have the treatment applied again, before Sir Henry takes you also to the garden of Cupid.”
Sir Henry smiled broadly at this repetition of what it now appeared must be Mrs. Graves most favorite metaphor for the matrimonial act. He counted himself extremely fortunate to have found a servant who adorned the fucking of a sweet young cunt by a hard cock with such a flowery appellation: he meant to make very good use of the phrase himself, in the future.
Chapter Twenty-One
As Mrs. Graves placed her hand upon Leticia’s cunny, the debutante felt that the world had tilted upon its axis. How could the stern housekeeper who, Leticia knew, whipped the maids for the slightest indiscretion, mean that Sir Henry had entrusted any of these mortifying matters into her care? What even did the woman mean by the garden of Cupid? Surely she could not intend to refer to… to fucking, could she? And yet what else might be meant?
And… and Mrs. Graves did not now examine Leticia’s cunny as much as she fondled it, making Miss Leticia Stewart whimper with renewed need.
“Did the doctor put that hot iron here, then?” the housekeeper asked softly. “Did he hurt my poor girl?”
Leticia gave a little sob of arousal, and she heard Celia, down between her knees, do the same, as if the very sight of Mrs. Graves touching Leticia there awakened a like fire in the country girl’s own cunt.
“Yes, Mrs. Graves,” Leticia whispered. “It hurt so very much.”
“Well,” said the housekeeper, “men do have their ways, do they not?” Her fingers moved further down, to explore the still uncomfortable and yet terribly needy new openness where Sir Henry’s cock had thrust into his intended bride. “And then the manly plough entered here, in your maiden furrow, to make your garden grow, though I wonder at how Sir Henry bared you. Your brown curls had grown into such an inviting thicket, had they not? I could not help looking, when you were in the bath, Miss Leticia, and now your bridegroom has given me permission to touch his property as I like. As I say—and as I learned from Mr. Graves, God rest his soul—men have their ways.”
Mrs. Graves’ knowing fingers explored the territory that it seemed she conceived as fertile land, ready for a husband’s ploughing. Leticia cried out, her hips rising to meet th
e housekeeper’s lewd caress.
“You’ve done a fine job, Celia, in cleaning your mistress. She is ready to be ploughed again tonight, once Sir Henry has opened the gate to your own earthly paradise, though it will hurt you at first to take his plough. You were a farm girl, though, and you know of how the earth must be broken to its tilling, in the spring.”
These words, so salacious and yet so strangely innocent, fired Leticia’s blood most extremely. She moaned under the ‘inspection,’ felt she would soon spend again, wished for that release even in this shameful way.
But Mrs. Graves tutted and took her hand away. “You shall not find your solace now, Miss Leticia. The lord of your naughty garden is Sir Henry, and he is training you to adore him properly: to worship his manly plough just as I worshipped Mr. Graves’ when he was alive to take care of my womanly needs. It is not my right to allow you the acme of delight. Perhaps if you obey Sir Henry properly this evening he will permit you to know the balm of consolation, or perhaps he will forbid it. That is not for me to decide.”
She had spoken this last in a soft, almost comforting voice, but now she spoke sharply.
“I gather you girls will have your bottoms rooted, also, upon the manly staff? A husband such as Sir Henry, I am certain, will not hesitate to train you properly. Celia, what did the doctor and Sir Henry say of this? Will you have to receive him there tonight?”
Leticia felt terribly, obscurely grateful to hear the humiliating question directed not to her but to Celia. Her face blazed as hot as the sun, though, and she had to close her eyes so as not to see Mrs. Graves looming over them.
“N-not tonight,” stammered Celia.
“He wishes to save Miss Leticia’s bottom for the wedding night, then, I suppose,” came Mrs. Graves’ response. Leticia could picture the woman nodding wisely.
“N-no, Mrs. Graves,” the country girl said, sounding so miserable that Leticia had to open her eyes again to see what aspect the housekeeper’s face had assumed: she found it severe, the gray eyes narrowed suspiciously. To her dismay, Mrs. Graves turned that gaze upon Leticia, now.