His Bride's Shameful Training

by Emily Tilton

  “What is the meaning of that, Miss Leticia?” she asked. “Celia seems unable to speak despite her country origins. You are to remember that your future husband’s word is law to you, and to your ladies’ maid. If he chooses that you should undergo it, however shameful what he does to you and makes you do in the garden of Cupid, you must obey, for your shame belongs to your lord and master. Even Mr. Graves, who was no baronet, deserved and got that respect from me. When he decided I must have my bottom rooted, though it seemed so strange and uncomfortable, I obeyed him as I had promised. I lay upon the bed and did my best to give my husband the pleasure to which he was entitled, whenever he chose to take me to Cupid’s garden. The manly plough does not give the same pleasure, when a husband roots a young bride’s bottom, but that does not make it any less her duty to receive him there.”

  Leticia’s brow had a deep crease in it now, and she wanted to shut her eyes tight again, but something about the housekeeper’s voice seemed to keep her from breaking their mutual gaze.

  “It’s… it’s that he wants the doctor… after I am married…”

  A look of understanding broke out upon Mrs. Graves’ face, and she nodded. Leticia felt a bit ashamed of how gratified it made her to win that small amount of approval, but she supposed that in her current position it represented all she might hope to receive.

  “Ah, I see. Very wise. You shall have your bottoms trained specially. Alright then, I shall take a look so that I may report back to Sir Henry on my impressions—the impressions of a widow, you must understand—of how you shall respond to that training. I must also examine the marks of your punishment, and, Celia, we must pay due attention to your maiden furrow as well. I wish both you girls over the side of the bed, next to one another, bottoms up and knees spread.”

  Part of Leticia truly meant to protest what seemed to her this unpardonable liberty from a servant, even an upper servant like Mrs. Graves. But Sir Henry had obviously authorized that liberty, just as he had authorized Celia to take so many similar freedoms with her mistress’ person. Mrs. Graves did whip the maids, with Mrs. Stewart’s permission: somehow Leticia felt certain that with her future husband’s authorization the woman would not hesitate to whip Leticia, too.

  Something in Mrs. Graves’ manner, also, and the strange but somehow enticing way she spoke of gardens and ploughs and thickets, seemed to have had an unexpected effect on Leticia: just as the woman’s fondling hand had awoken the need between the debutante’s thighs, so it seemed her talk, of assisting Sir Henry and Dr. Brown in training Leticia in her matrimonial duties, could rouse the warmth and wetness. Indeed, far from discouraging the feeling there, Leticia found that the lingering sensation, the bodily memory of the training iron’s agonizing kiss upon the bud of her clitoris, seemed to make her cunny respond all the more to Mrs. Graves’ mortifying freedoms.

  Leticia did hesitate upon the bed, though Celia had risen to her feet immediately—as if the maid knew far too well the way Mrs. Graves responded to any failure of obedience. But Mrs. Graves’ eyes narrowed as she looked down upon her nakedness, and she spoke severely.

  “Miss Leticia, I assure you that I have Sir Henry’s permission to discipline you, if I must. I should be sorry to have to add to your punishment, but I shall not waver. Rise now and bend over the bed, as I instructed. This is for your own good, so that you may be the bride Sir Henry deserves, and you may please him in such a way as to earn his favor. I shouldn’t wonder if he buys you a new silk gown, should you take well to his ploughing tonight.”

  Leticia gave a little sob at the demeaning thought, but she scrambled to get up from the bed all the same. Yes, it would be lovely to have new clothes—Mama hadn’t allowed her to buy anything in ever so long—but to earn them… by conducting herself properly when her bridegroom chose to… to fuck her… Leticia’s cheeks burned with shame again, as they had so often since looking into the terrible journal. How could the wicked things in that story truly be happening to her, here in the bustling, cultured world of London?

  As soon as the mistress had risen from the bed, Celia bent over it: with yet another flush, over her whole body, Leticia realized her maid must know precisely what sort of posture Mrs. Graves preferred when she took a girl in hand for instruction as to her proper conduct. The country girl bent over toward the head of the bed, to give her mistress room to bend beside her, her little face against the counterpane, between outstretched arms, wreathed in her golden hair, now completely disheveled from the neat bun in which it had begun this wicked day.

  The prostration of Celia over the bed, however, though it made Leticia’s breath catch in her throat, was nothing to the way she arched her back to lift her well-punished backside, or the way she spread her knees a foot apart, going up on her toes a little, to show the bare pout of her cunny. How could Leticia do the same thing? All the shame that she had thought lost at Dr. Brown’s and Sir Henry’s hands seemed to flow back into her.

  “There, Miss Leticia,” said Mrs. Graves. “I’ve taught Celia to be a good girl, as you can see. I’ve caught her at her naughtiness more than once, and she’s paid the price, as she did today—and as you did, too. But now that Sir Henry plans to make a woman of her, too, this posture will stand her in good stead. Mr. Graves used to make me place myself just so when he took me to Cupid’s garden. You, too, must learn it now, for it serves just as well for an inspection of your tender places as it does for a man’s rightful enjoyment.”

  “But…” Leticia protested, hardly knowing how to order her thoughts in the face of the images with which Mrs. Graves had filled her mind. “But when Sir Henry…”

  The housekeeper nodded. She seemed much more inclined to gentleness now that both girls had shown the intention of obeying. “He ploughed your maiden furrow another way, you mean, Miss Leticia? With you upon your back?”

  Leticia nodded mutely, biting her lip and feeling she would never understand these matters, or why they made her tummy flutter and her pussy get so warm.

  Mrs. Graves merely continued to nod, and said, “Men have their ways, as I said, Miss Leticia. I do not know how Sir Henry will enjoy you girls tonight, but you will learn as he trains you that the paths along which a man conducts a young woman to the garden of Cupid are many, and some are more shameful, and even more uncomfortable for the girl, than others—such as the vigorous rooting of your bottom, when a husband does that as a punishment, and plants his seed in that infertile soil. All, however, must be traveled, when the man who cares for you commands it. Now bend yourself over like Celia, and I will examine you.”

  Trembling, Leticia turned and stepped the little distance forward necessary to go down upon her face, turning as she did toward Celia, whose own face was turned toward hers.

  “I’m sorry, miss,” Celia whispered.

  Leticia felt a tear well up in her left eye. “I am sorry, too, Celia,” she murmured. Her nose twitched and her lip quivered with the terrible indignity of Mrs. Graves’ tactile inspection of her punished bottom, her newly opened cunny.

  “Is it not…,” the maid said then, as Leticia let out a little whimper of submission. “Is it not nice, though?”

  Leticia did not want to smile, but she found she could not help herself.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  An hour later, Mrs. Graves brought the girls to Sir Henry’s bedchamber, clad in dressing gowns under which they wore no chemises.

  “By your leave, Sir Henry,” said the housekeeper, “I’ll put them over the side of the bed for their journey to the garden of Cupid.”

  “By all means,” said the baronet. “Did you find them fit to make that special voyage here in my bedchamber tonight?”

  “Indeed, yes, Sir Henry. Both these girls seem well chastened by the discipline you and Dr. Brown provided, and eager to submit their tender furrows and their young bottoms to the rigors of married life with a master such as yourself. I shouldn’t wonder, though, if you and the doctor found it necessary to reapply that training iron to their
little buds of joy, from time to time.”

  Sir Henry looked at Leticia, and then at Celia, standing at the foot of his bed with downcast eyes and red cheeks. Celia had to enter men’s bedchambers in the course of her duties, to be sure, but Leticia had quite probably never crossed the threshold of such a masculine sanctuary. To know she had come there for fucking, and would stay there from henceforth as long as Sir Henry chose, to serve his cock’s pleasure, must mortify her most extremely—not to mention her knowledge that Celia Deaver’s maidenhead was the principal subject of her future bridegroom’s interest this evening, rather than her own sweet, newly open cunt.

  “Why is that, Mrs. Graves?” he asked, keeping his eyes upon the girls’ faces to see how they would receive the housekeeper’s judgment.

  “It would be easier if you allowed me to show you, Sir Henry,” the woman said. “May I?”

  “Oh, certainly,” he responded, wondering exactly what she meant though the general purport of her request seemed quite clear and quite interesting.

  “Off with those dressing gowns, girls,” Mrs. Graves said in a stern voice. “Over the side of Sir Henry’s bed just as you were in Miss Leticia’s chamber. Present those naughty furrows to the man who will care for them.”

  Leticia raised her eyes, then, to give Sir Henry a beseeching look.

  “Do as Mrs. Graves says, darling,” he said, however, nodding. “You too, Celia. I wish you both naked and ready for me this instant.”

  Celia had already begun to shrug the simple white robe from her shoulders. Leticia glanced over to see her maid complying, and with one more half-reproachful look at her future husband she did the same, her beautiful green silk dressing gown falling to the Persian carpet with a sort of sigh to reveal the lovely body of the girl he meant to train to the cock with the utmost rigor.

  Mrs. Graves took a few steps over toward them, so that she could lay a hand on each bottom, and hold them possessively for a moment, a smile on her face half lewd and half beatific. Leticia closed her eyes at this indignity, while Celia’s brow merely furrowed deeply.

  “A brace of lovely doves, are they not, Sir Henry? You will enjoy the delights of all the amorous groves of Venus and her naughty boy tonight—save I gather the darker joys of their forbidden places? I say forbidden only as it is held for girls who have not come under the protection of one such as you.”

  Sir Henry chuckled. Celia had shut her eyes tightly at the mention of darker joys, so both girls now stood with crimson faces and veiled sight, both biting their lips and breathing through flared nostrils.

  “That is correct,” said the baronet, after pausing to see whether one of his young consorts would attempt to sneak a covert glance at him, to learn from his expression what he intended, where their untried anuses were concerned. “I have engaged with Dr. Brown to train their bottoms specially, after Miss Leticia becomes Lady Vexin. My charmer will earn her new title with her compliance in that sensitive area above all, and must expect to visit that twilit bower, her smallest flower well rooted upon my manhood, with great regularity.”

  Mrs. Graves nodded, fondling the girls’ bottoms as she listened, making them whimper softly in counterpoint to the lascivious words they heard as the housekeeper explored the very place under discussion. Sir Henry could see that Mrs. Graves meant to leave mistress and maid in no doubt whatsoever of the submission to be demanded of them, when the time came for bottom-fucking.

  “And Celia Deaver?” she asked. “This bottom is perhaps less accommodating than Miss Leticia’s, I find. You will have the little flower well trained, to allow for your pleasurable possession? Girls, assume the posture I specified, if you please. Sir Henry and I should have a good look at the region to which we refer now, and then I shall show him why I believe you will need the training iron again.”

  She propelled them forward with her hands upon their backsides. The girls’ eyes flew open in alarm, and they stumbled toward the bed, half falling upon it while Mrs. Graves maintained a firm command of their sweet punished bottom-cheeks.

  “There,” she said. “Now, present yourselves. Higher, Miss Leticia. That’s it. On your elbows, both of you. Bottoms high and knees well spread. Sir Henry is the master of your young charms now. Do you see, Sir Henry? Miss Leticia’s bottom is full and nearly ready for rooting, while Celia’s is much smaller. I don’t doubt though that the doctor can assist you in training her to receive that which you care to give, just as Mr. Graves trained me.”

  Sir Henry watched with his cock as hard as an iron bar: Mrs. Graves’ fingers moved downward to caress each shaven cunt urgently for a moment under the guise of adjusting the girls’ posture, and Leticia and Celia both cried out with shame and arousal. When the housekeeper stepped back, she wiped her fingers delicately upon her apron.

  “Are they very wet?” Sir Henry asked, forgetting for a moment to use all the delicacy Mrs. Graves seemed to enjoy so much.

  She looked a little sharply at him, but then the woman nodded seriously. “They bedew themselves most fully, Sir Henry. More indeed than I believe a well-bred young lady should, though perhaps a country girl like Celia will naturally show her wild nature. That is why I think you must give them that treatment regularly, severe as it may seem.”

  At that Leticia cried out, “Please… Sir Henry, please don’t listen to her! Mrs. Graves, how could you?”

  “Hush, Miss Leticia,” said the housekeeper. “Your husband will be your master, and he will decide how you and your servants are to be trained.”

  Leticia, on her elbows now upon the bed with her long, lustrous brown hair mostly hanging to the right, turned her head wildly to the other side, to try to look Sir Henry in the face. Celia, stretched over the bed to her mistress’ right, merely pressed her face to the counterpane between her hands, the flaxen hair falling all about her visage. “Please, Sir Henry,” his girl repeated. “Please, not the training iron, ever again? I… we… we will be good!” Her lovely face had become a mask of woe.

  “I fear Mrs. Graves is correct, darling,” the baronet replied in a level tone. “You must expect to have the iron applied whenever you disgrace yourself and succumb to temptation. Mrs. Graves, did Mr. Graves often have to whip you for illicit journeys to the garden of Cupid?”

  “When I was young,” the woman replied gravely, “yes, sir, I fear he did.”

  That made Celia lift her head and crane her neck for a glimpse of the senior servant, the country girl’s jaw hanging open at this interesting intelligence. Now both naked girls looked behind them at the housekeeper and the baronet in a most provoking manner. Sir Henry, his prick throbbing in his trousers, knew he must put a stop to it, but the arousing quality of his young ladies distressed rearward glances, made him regret the necessity.

  “It is natural,” Mrs. Graves continued, “for a girl who has discovered the pleasure between her thighs, put there by providence for her husband’s use in training her to give him the joy to which he is entitled, to try to steal that pleasure when she is alone, or with another girl in bed. A man such as you, Sir Henry, must not shrink from such correctional measures as will put a stop to the immoral practices young women get up to with their drawers down.”

  Leticia’s face and Celia’s now wore identical expressions of alarm, cheeks flushed and lips parted.

  “Eyes forward, girls,” Sir Henry commanded.

  “Quite right,” confirmed Mrs. Graves, clearly beginning to be carried away by the authority he had lent her over his pair of fucking pieces. “You girls must learn that your private regions belong to Sir Henry now, and he will do with them as he pleases.” The housekeeper looked back at the baronet, as Leticia and Celia obeyed, turning their faces down toward the bed. “You will have Celia now, as she is? Her maiden furrow is ready for the plough, I judge.”

  “I will,” Sir Henry confirmed solemnly, wondering how this little scene of the housekeeper’s suppressed erotic longings would unfold now that the obvious next step must be his undressing. He supposed that he
wouldn’t mind fucking in front of Mrs. Stewart’s senior servant, since Mrs. Graves had shown herself so amenable to the carrying out of Sir Henry’s unique scheme for managing the sexual education of his future bride and her maid. He did feel, however, a certain constraint in the circumstance that instead of employing his usual freedom of language when enjoying a girl or two, he must in the housekeeper’s presence continually remember to speak of flowers and trees rather than cunts and pricks.

  It seemed, however, that this concern also represented a matter of some moment for Mrs. Graves herself, and perhaps even of more moment than the prospect of seeing Sir Henry’s rampant penis and watching it thrust through Celia’s maidenhead, for she said, “I imagine you will wish to speak the sorts of rough, manly words that Mr. Graves employed when he enjoyed himself with his plough in my young field.”

  The housekeeper looked at Sir Henry for a moment in a way he could not interpret until he understood that she must hope that he would deny the proposition—as if by declining to say fuck and cock and cunny as he rode first young Celia’s backside and then her mistress’ he might enjoy the felicity of Mrs. Graves’ supervision of the lewd acts.

  “I fear I will not be able to help myself, Mrs. Graves,” he replied, feigning regret. He laid a hand possessively upon Leticia’s well-whipped bottom, and his charmer gave a little whimper at his touch. “You see how lovely they are: the sight naturally excites those animal spirits with which mankind is blessed, to propagate the species. Those spirits, a naturalist might say, inevitably flow out from between masculine lips when ploughing the warm, wet furrows to which he has laid just claim, even as they flow out, in a very different way, from his plough when the summit of his felicity comes upon him.”