Her Shameful Training

by Emily Tilton

  He had withdrawn his cock, and had sunk down on the bed, still stroking her gently between her thighs. Joanna spent an instant planning the motions of her limbs and sensing his position and his lassitude.

  “Good girl,” he said again, but even as the words hung in the air, Joanna had sprung from the bed like a shot and covered two thirds of the distance to the heavy door.

  “What...” her captor said, but he did not finish, because it must have become entirely obvious to him what Joanna was doing, or what she meant to do, or whatever he had meant to inquire. She had gotten the door open and she had rushed from the room, across a little stone-paved landing and down the steep stairs that led to another door, ajar and giving out upon the daylight.

  She tried to take comfort rather than dread from the circumstance of her being naked. A rational stream of thought that seemed to flow above the animal panic with which she moved down the stairs and out the door said that in the first place it meant she had no gown, nor petticoat, nor even chemise to get caught upon anything as she fled gracefully into the green noontime of what must be the nobleman’s country estate—and in the second place it meant that if anyone disposed to aid a young woman whose honor had come into the gravest peril should see her they would know in an instant, perhaps even at some great distance across a field, or a park, or upon the other side of a hedgerow, how grave that peril must be.

  She had come into a cool spring day, at the back of a manor house where a square tower, much older than the rest of the house, it seemed, rose on the outskirts of a little wood. Joanna hesitated not at all but ran for the wood, thinking that perhaps if she could conceal herself she might wander secretly until she spied someone who appeared likely to aid a naked girl with a story of aristocratic depravity to tell.

  The rebellious portion of her mind, now fully in charge of Joanna, recognized a small, contemptible voice of opposition from the submission her captor seemed to have awakened within her, at the notion of telling her tale that way. Perhaps, that voice said, despite his and his servant’s having abducted her and removed her clothing—despite his whipping her and even despite the shameful initiation into the ways of his hard cock he had enforced upon her—the man who meant, too, to take Joanna still further into the lewd courses of his pleasure deserved better... better than her outraged modesty’s declaring him depraved.

  How could she think him anything but depraved, though, her defiance demanded? Mrs. Mund would call him that, surely, but so would the Misses Pettigrew. All the civilized world had agreed that Miss Joanna Middleton must do everything in her power to avoid the sort of depravity that had led to her very existence. Mrs. Mund and the Misses Pettigrew might disagree as to whether Miss Joanna Middleton required censure or pity, in order that she might learn to overcome her base birth, but not the slightest doubt could exist that to submit to having her cunny’s hair singed away, to sucking a man’s hard prick, even to having that thrusting penis in her cunny, in her bottom’s tiny ring... all of it must lie in the outermost realm of depravity, where abandoned females wandered helpless, set upon by demons with enormous red pricks to fuck them until they begged for mercy.

  Joanna ran for the edge of the wood, trying to forget these awful fancies and the more awful urge to return and beg for mercy not from a naked demon but from the naked man whom she must call my lord and think of as her master. If she returned now, perhaps he would not use the cane upon her poor young bottom.

  Behind her a voice called out, “Miss Middleton!”

  Joanna could not keep herself from slowing, and turning her head wildly over her shoulder, for the voice belonged neither to the nobleman nor to his valet, though when she saw the man who had called to her she saw Mark, also. Fifty yards away from her, the servant stood next to the other man, the newcomer. Joanna recognized the valet from his brown coat though to her startlement Mark held his black mask in his hand, to reveal a broad, country-bred face. The glowering expression upon that face, however, sent a thrill of hope through her body—and, to her resistant spirit’s dismay, a terrible, accompanying feeling of disappointment to her heart.

  The terrifying adventure of her abduction must be at an end, now. Joanna stopped her feet, turned around, covered her bosom and the bare triangle of her pudenda as she had not been allowed to do since her first moment of waking in the tower room. She felt the heat surge to her face at the idea that she might appear to this stranger—and to the other, older and more distinguished-looking man who now came around the corner of the manor house—to have consented to the removal her clothing and to all the lewd things that had followed. Now the nobleman himself emerged from the door through which Joanna had fled, dressed in his breeches, his mask still covering his face, and angry words issuing from his mouth that she could not quite catch from her place at the edge of the wood.

  “Come here, Miss Middleton,” called the distinguished-looking man, ignoring the nobleman. “Have no fear. Lord Stephen must prove his claim to you, now, and my man and I shall protect you.”

  Joanna felt her brow crease. Should the man not have said that they would save her? That they would take her away from this place? Then she grasped that the man had named her captor. Lord Stephen.

  The blood drained from her face so suddenly Joanna felt lightheaded, and then rushed back in a blush that she had never known despite every shameful thing she had undergone. Lord Stephen Gaithwait: the nobleman in Mrs. Mund’s drawing room in London. She knew her captor, and she had—even as Mrs. Mund spanked her for entering the drawing room without inquiring first whether the widow had company—wondered if perhaps she had caught his eye.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mark could have wished himself better able to contain his irritation with this John Eliot fellow. It could not be helped, he supposed, when the big man with his bluff, military manner had arrived just as Lord Stephen had called furiously from the tower room that Miss Joanna had escaped. The annoyance that Mark could not keep from welling up in his mind, at his master’s failure to lock the doors, he could at least direct toward the stranger.

  “Who are you?” Mark had demanded of the man, clearly a valet like himself, who had intruded himself through the kitchen door and into the little room at the base of the tower as if he knew where his lordship kept all his secrets and meant to have them out. It came of not having any servants here beyond Mark himself, when training a girl.

  Mark had suggested that expedient, in order to keep any talk of Lord Stephen’s young ladies from making its way into the village. It meant cold mutton, bread, and cheese for every meal, practically, but it had also kept their lewd pursuits sub rosa—until now, at any rate, when this servant had said, “My name is John Eliot,” then taken one look at the open door to the park of Gaithwait Castle and gone out through it without another word to Mark.

  At that point Mark had remembered he was wearing his mask, in expectation of going up to the tower room to see Joanna fucked for the first time. Cursing under his breath he had taken it off and followed John Eliot out into the sunshine, where the naked Joanna could be seen running for the wood.

  “Miss Middleton!” Eliot had called, and that had brought the annoyance and anger at both Lord Stephen and this interloper to Mark’s brow, and then his lips.

  “What do you think you’re doing, my man?” he had demanded of Eliot as Joanna turned to look at them, speaking in a voice meant not to carry to her ears. “My master will make it worth your while to keep silent about this matter—which doesn’t concern you a bit.” Mark’s thoughts turning over as quickly as he could make them revolve in a quest for his and his master’s salvation in the face of discovery, had taken him in another direction, then. “Unless you’d like your own share of the girl’s cunt, along with his lordship and me.”

  Eliot had turned to look at him with an expression that made Mark frown despite his alarm and irritation. He had broached the matter of sharing Miss Joanna as a desperate measure, thinking that if the stranger acceded Lord Stephen and Mark would
have little to fear, and if Eliot recoiled it would give Mark a chance to rush at him.

  But John Eliot, to Mark’s astonishment, had winked at him. The man had spoken gravely, though, after that. “My master will see if that’s advisable.”

  “Your master?” Mark had asked, frowning, and then the other man—John Eliot’s master, clearly—had rounded the corner opposite the kitchen, as if he and his valet had decided to flank the tower. Mark had understood in a flash: these men knew exactly what Lord Stephen had done with Miss Joanna Middleton and had come to find her. The blood had run cold in Mark’s veins for a moment, but then he had recalled John Eliot’s wink.

  “Doctor Reginald Brown,” the man had said in a Scots burr, and then turned toward the door of the tower. Mark had turned in that direction as well, for Lord Stephen’s voice could be heard as the nobleman rushed down the stairs.

  “What the devil is—” His lordship, still wearing his mask, had rushed out into the park, first looking wildly around for Joanna, then, upon seeing her, turning to face the newcomers.

  “Lord Stephen Gaithwait, I presume,” the doctor had said in a patient tone. “I am Doctor Reginald Brown.”

  Lord Stephen’s eyes had gone wide for a moment behind the mask, as if he had recognized the name. “What the devil are you doing here, sir?” his lordship had demanded in a lower though more furious voice, obviously meaning not to be heard by Joanna, who looked at them from across a short space of lawn, her eyes gone very wide—as Mark had well supposed they might.

  Doctor Brown, whoever he might have been and for whatever reason he had come, had ignored his lordship’s question, and turned to Joanna.

  “Come here, Miss Middleton,” he had called in a clear voice. “Have no fear. Lord Stephen must prove his claim to you, now, and my man and I shall protect you.”

  Together with John Eliot’s wink, the doctor’s words gave Mark good reason to ponder the singularity of these men’s advent in the little drama of Miss Joanna Middleton’s sexual training in the tower room of Gaithwait Castle. He watched Joanna, covering herself with her hands in a manner Mark found so provocative that his prick swelled against his under-linen as she walked tentatively forward, turn from face to face of the four men who now confronted her. The girl displayed great confusion upon a face that had gone bright red, and she divided her glances most between Doctor Brown and the still-masked face of the nobleman whose name she had just learned.

  Mark himself turned to Lord Stephen to see how he would respond to the strange doctor—a surgeon? a physician? a philosopher? He watched with a good deal of admiration as his master removed the black mask of light, stiffened leather with a single fluid motion, to look first at the advancing Joanna and then at the red-haired doctor.

  “I don’t allow her to cover herself,” his lordship said in an even, almost careless tone that Mark could, from his long experience of his master, tell his lordship meant to test the doctor’s intentions. “Joanna, take those hands away or Mark shall have to whip you.”

  Joanna stopped her advance at this command, ten feet or so away now from the party of clothed men. She looked with a frightened expression at Doctor Brown. Silence reigned over the park of Gaithwait Castle for a moment, in which sparrows were heard to chirp.

  Then the doctor said, “Do as your master says, if you please, Miss Middleton. Your hands away from your breasts and your vulva, so that his lordship may see them, and display them to us.” He turned to Lord Stephen. “Shall she place her hands on her head, my lord? Or at her sides?”

  “Behind your back, Joanna,” his lordship said, not able to keep a touch of amazement from his voice.

  Joanna’s face crumpled, and she bit her lip.

  John Eliot spoke next. “Do as the doctor has said, miss. If Mark here doesn’t whip you, I shall. You must learn obedience.”

  The girl emitted a sharp little cry, and closed her eyes as she obeyed, her face becoming an even deeper shade of crimson. She stood with her hands clasped behind her so that her little breasts stood out quite prominently, and the newcomers could see very clearly that his lordship had commanded the removal of the hair from her young cunt.

  “Lovely,” the doctor said. “A fine job of depilating the vulva. Have you penetrated the vagina yet, my lord?”

  Lord Stephen answered in a bemused tone. “Not yet, Doctor. I had planned to deflower her today.”

  “With your leave, I shall examine her before you do so, and also discuss certain matters with you, pertaining to training her. If all is satisfactory, I see no reason to delay her first coitus any great length of time.” He turned to Joanna and addressed her in an avuncular voice. “You have seen your master’s penis, I imagine, Miss Middleton? Had it in your mouth, perhaps?”

  The girl had opened her eyes again by then, though her blushing face remained puckered with shame and—Mark could tell—helpless arousal.

  “Yes, s-sir,” she stammered.

  “You may call me Doctor, Miss Middleton,” said the Scot a little sternly.

  “Y-yes, Doctor,” Joanna said. Mark felt a growing admiration for the medical man at this rather extraordinary display of natural authority.

  “Well, you shall have it in your vagina and your bottom soon, I think,” the doctor told her, “just as I fancy he has promised you. I am not here to prevent that, provided he undertakes to train you properly.”

  Joanna’s lips parted, but no sound emerged. Doctor Brown turned now to Lord Stephen, and continued, “It is well you have removed your mask, my lord. You have, I suspect, trained young women while wearing it, previously?”

  “Yes,” his lordship replied simply. Mark could tell from his master’s voice that Lord Stephen wavered now between fascination with Doctor Brown and annoyance at the man’s intrusion.

  “The stratagem is not, strictly speaking, one I would recommend to a natural man, though from what I have been able to learn by inquiry, you have behaved in general as a natural man would in the more important respects of training your girls—above all in having serious care for their future happiness. The mask, however, does not become you. A natural man is not ashamed to show his face to the young lady whose body he commands with his right of the phallus.”

  Mark glanced over at Joanna, to see that her brow had furrowed in a manner quite different to that of a few moments previous. Her first impression of Doctor Brown’s intentions, which had struck Mark as one of simultaneous stunned disappointment and ungovernable arousal, seemed to have changed to a kind of fascination.

  Lord Stephen for his part hesitated a moment, as if occupied by the making of some momentous decision, and then said, “Doctor, have you heard of a treatise privately printed under the name of one Anti-Brown?”

  The doctor reacted with the mere raising of an eyebrow, but John Eliot’s face betrayed a good deal more emotion: he glowered at his lordship, the color mounting to his cheeks, and when the man took what seemed an almost involuntary step forward toward Lord Stephen, Mark wondered if he might have to fight the doctor’s servant after all.

  “Peace, John,” said Doctor Brown, noticing his valet’s excitement and raising his hand to quiet it. “You will find that we must face a good deal worse than a mention of that person’s work.”

  “That rascal’s work, you mean, sir,” said John Eliot in a voice like thunder, but he receded the same step by which he had advanced.

  The doctor turned to Lord Stephen. “As you observe, I have indeed heard of that pseudonymous author. I had wondered whether you had read his work—or indeed mine. It seems we have much to discuss. Would you kindly have Miss Middleton return to her chamber, and instruct her to lie quietly upon her bed for my examination? You may restrain her if necessary, of course. We can talk over the several errors of Anti-Brown quite conveniently as I make my determination upon the question of whether you may deflower her vagina and anus with the approval of the Society for the Correction of Natural Daughters.”

  “The what?” Lord Stephen demanded rather indign
antly. At the same time his lordship uttered this inquiry, Joanna gave a sharp little cry of something between protest and need. Mark felt pity, then, for the girl’s plight as a bastard; it seemed cruel to him that she must be reminded of it that way, as if her birth had anything to do with her, really—though apparently an organization existed to assist in ensuring her wellbeing, despite the measure of wellbeing including masterful fucking and frequent sodomization.

  “My employers, who have taken an interest in Miss Middleton’s case and wish to see her properly punished and properly bestowed upon a natural man.”

  “But...” Joanna protested.

  The doctor turned to her patiently. “Yes, Miss Middleton?”

  “But Mrs. Mund... she... she...”

  “Mrs. Mund corrected you in an unjust manner, I have learned,” Doctor Brown said in a voice that mingled authority with gentleness. “Your recourse lay in writing to your friend the elder Miss Pettigrew, not in running away. John Eliot here will flog you for that, before your defloration.”

  Mark felt his eyes narrow as he watched Joanna turn to Lord Stephen in mute appeal—a circumstance Mark saw immediately must have been intended by the doctor. His lordship, who had a very serious, meditative expression upon his face now, nodded.

  “Yes, Joanna,” he said. “You must be punished for running away, I think. Go upstairs, now, as the doctor said, and lie upon the bed.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  How could this Doctor Brown claim to have come for her protection? Joanna climbed the stairs on shaking legs, her arms still behind her and the heat still in her cheeks as she contemplated Lord Stephen’s view of her wriggling bottom from below. It hardly seemed just to her that she should still find it so embarrassing to have to display herself thus. His lordship’s declaration to the newcomers, however, that Joanna had as part of her captive condition to keep herself uncovered, and the doctor’s quick acceptance and reinforcement of that erotic servility, had brought her back to an acute consciousness of her nakedness—and of the way Lord Stephen enjoyed the sight of his young lady’s maiden charms in shameful nudity, as a preface to the amorous use he meant to make of those charms with his hard prick.