Schooled for Service

by Lady Alice McCloud

  He laughed again and gave Thrift a lewd wink, which set her blushing hotter than ever. Lucy was already stammering an acceptance, and Thrift put her thoughts of money aside in favour of eating, and of being able to keep company to reduce the chances of anybody else realising who they were.

  It was all too easy to give in. Once he had shut the garage up they allowed themselves to be escorted into the town, where he chose an inn and ordered dinner, thick steaks served with chipped potatoes and peas, crude fare, but delicious beyond anything Thrift could remember after so long without, and the food at Weathercote. She ate heartily, and drank two flagons of the thick, dark beer he brought for them, then went on to ice-creams with crystallised cherries on top.

  The meal left her full, and too grateful to feel anything worse than resigned to what he clearly intended for them. As was plain from his conversation, he knew not only that they were from Weathercote, but why girls were sent there, which for all his generosity and hearty manner was something he clearly felt entitled to take advantage of. Thrift made no effort to disabuse him, telling herself that it was a necessary sacrifice, and that he would simply report them if she didn’t go through with it. As they walked back up the hill through the warm summer darkness he took their arms, and treated himself to a squeeze of her bottom as they were ushered into a white painted cottage directly opposite the garage.

  Indoors, there was no hesitation. He simply locked up behind them, took a bottle of whisky and three glasses from a sideboard and set them upstairs. There was single bedroom, large and untidy, smelling of man and oil. Thrift remained standing, feeling apprehensive as he poured the whisky and passed them each a glass. He then made himself comfortable on the bed, pushed down his trousers and the undergarment beneath to expose a set of dark, fleshy genitals, and settled back with his glass, nodding.

  ‘There we are, girls, just what little wantons like best. Don’t stint yourselves.’

  Thrift swallowed, half-wanting to do it, half-scared, but to her surprise Lucy climbed straight onto the bed and took the big, flaccid cock in her hand, a little shyly, but with every evidence of pleasure. Sitting down on the bed, Thrift watched, feeling confused but also aroused as Mike sipped at his whisky with his cock growing quickly in Lucy’s hand. Mike spoke to her.

  ‘Show a little meat then, love. Once you’re in the nudie, you can swap round.’

  Before she could stop herself, Thrift’s fingers had gone to the hem of her dress. She began to lift it, struggling to make the motion elegant as it came up, with her heart hammering faster and faster as her underclothes came on show. Shrugging it off, she found her hands shaking as she began to undo the laces and buttons on her chemise and drawers, holding off the moment she had to show bare flesh as long as possible. Mike watched, his eyes only occasionally straying to where his cock was growing fat in Lucy’s hand, then spoke just at the point any one motion was going to leave Thrift showing herself.

  ‘You’re good. I love a tease. Titties first, then ta-ra-ra-boom-de-yay!’

  He laughed, and Thrift’s blushes where making her face burn as she shyly opened her chemise to bare her breasts to him. Mike’s tongue flicked out to moisten his lips, while his cock was suddenly on the edge of erection, filling Thrift with both shame and pride. She left the chemise on but open, and turned, knowing it was what he wanted and with the awful, vulgar expression he had used singing in her head.

  ‘Stick it out,’ he ordered, ‘show some cunt.’

  Thrift swallowed hard and hung her head, but pushed out her bottom, which felt very big and very round inside her drawers. She reached back, fumbling for the last button. It came open, her shaking fingers slipped on the edges of her waistband and the garment had fallen, exposing the full, naked globe of her bottom to his stare. Her quim showed, she knew, and was shamefully wet.

  ‘Ripe and ready, like a little fat apple,’ he sighed. ‘Pull ‘em open, love, let’s see Brown Billy.’

  For a moment Thrift hesitated, and then she had pulled her bottom cheeks apart, showing off the rude little hole between. Mike gave a pleased sigh, leaving Thrift wondering if she was to be sodomised again as she stood, to step out of her drawers. He was fully erect, his cock a straining, glossy pole, only no longer in Lucy’s hand but her mouth, her eyes closed as she sucked on the bulbous head.

  ‘Your turn to undress, you wanton little baggage,’ Mike said, ‘let’s see if your bottie and bouncers are as big as your friend’s.’

  Lucy came up, her eyes glazed with reaction, and she began to undress obediently. Thrift sat down, hesitating only a moment before taking the big, hard cock in her hand as she struggled to tell herself that what she was doing was necessary, and no pleasure. It was a lie, and she knew it too well, the urge to take the horrible, glorious thing in her mouth just too strong...

  She went down, rolling sideways even as her mouth filled with plump, meaty erection, so that she could watch Lucy undress. As always, the blonde girl was shy, but as always, she did what she was told, following the same lewd routine as Thrift, first baring her breasts, then her bottom, with her hips pushed out to show the rear view of her quim. Mike blew his breath out at the sight, swallowed the rest of his whisky and nodded at his cock.

  ‘You can suck on my balls, love.’

  Lucy got down, her face pink, but her nipples stiff and her mouth coming straight open, to suck in the fat, wrinkled ball sac, mouthing on it as Thrift sucked cock. Mike gave a deep groan, shuddered, and suddenly Thrift’s mouth was full of come, salty and slimy, making her gag, only to have him take her firmly by the hair and force her head down. She was choking as his cock head squeezed into the back of her throat, still pumping sperm, which exploded from her nose as her whole body went into aching, wrenching spasms. At last he let go, and she came up, gasping for air with sperm and spittle and mucus running from nose and from her mouth.

  ‘You suck nice,’ he announced, ‘better than the tarts down the ginnels.’

  Thrift didn’t answer, still choking, nor Lucy, who had come off Mike’s balls and was wearing the expression of sullen submission she always did during sex, even when she was made to come. Mike lay back for a moment, then swung his long legs off the bed and reached for the whisky bottle. He poured, Thrift watching and wondering if he wanted more, and whether she would be able to sneak a rub of her quim if not.

  ‘I’ll be ready again in bit,’ he said, rising from the bed. ‘Have some fun with each other while you’re waiting, and it won’t be so long.’

  Lucy made a face. Thrift spoke.

  ‘We must do as he says, Lucy.’

  It was a lie, and they both knew it, losing no time as they came together, kissing, cuddling close, their hands quickly on each others bottoms. Thrift closed her eyes, imagining they were back in the dormitory, being made to perform together for the amusement of Kirsty and the twins in an effort to fight down the last of her shame, and excuse what she wanted to do. Mike wasn’t going to tell her, but she had to, and even as she and Lucy moved head to tail there was no question where her tongue was going.

  Nor Lucy’s, they had been taught too well. Thrift was on top, and the instant she had settled her bottom in Lucy’s face she was being licked, just the way they had both been made to so often, her anus cleaned before attention was turned to her quim. It felt glorious, too good to hold back from, and she quickly sat up, letting her bottom spread in Lucy’s face. A little sharp tongue began to probe her bottom hole, pushed deep in, as they had both tongued Kirsty so many times.

  Mike was staring, his mouth open as if unable to believe what he was seeing. Thrift barely noticed, too aroused to care as she began to play with her breasts and hair, and to wiggle her bottom in Lucy’s face, lost in the ecstasy of having her anus licked. Lucy’s tongue was well in, and wriggling in Thrift’s open, wet hole, showing an eagerness that had to be more than mere obedience. Thrift reached down, to find her qu
im, revelling in what was being done to her, and in how good it felt to be sat firmly in her friend’s face as her ring was licked out.

  She began to rub, indifferent to Mike, to her surroundings, feeling strong and wonderfully alive, because for once she was the one sitting up, she was the one in control, she was the one with another girl’s tongue inserted deep in her bottom hole where it belonged. As she began to come, she was wishing she’d been tougher, and managed to assert her natural breeding, to make not only Lucy and Elizabeth, but the twins, Sally-Anne and even Kirsty, all six of them, one after the other, acknowledge her, Thrift Moncrieff, by kissing and licking her anus...

  Thrift screamed as she came, rubbing at her bump, clutching at her boobs and pinching at her nipples, and squirming her bottom in Lucy’s face. Fluid sprayed from her pee-hole, all over Lucy’s breasts. She screamed again, and her fantasy shattered as she hit her peak, with the realisation that with girls like Kirsty it would always be she who ended up with her face smothered in bottom, but the only effect was for her to go straight down on Lucy, eagerly licking quim as she took hold of her friend’s bottom cheeks.

  She barely noticed Mike as he climbed onto the bed, lost in the joy of sex with Lucy, nor as he straddled them from behind, lowering his balls in Lucy’s mouth. Only when the full, hard bulk of his cock was eased up into her gaping, juicy quim did she realise he was ready again, and she was being fucked on the instant. She managed a brief, weak plea for him not to come in her, but he took no notice, pumping away hard, so that his front was smacking on the flesh of her bottom and each push knocked the breath from her lungs.

  Then Lucy had begun to lick Thrift’s quim as well as Mike’s balls, and it was simply too much. Thrift buried her face again, licking eagerly at Lucy’s neat little bump as she squeezed and fondled the trim bottom cheeks. She could see Lucy’s bottom hole, a tight pink star between the soft, open cheeks, and she paused to kiss it and briefly stick her tongue in as for a moment the power of Mike’s fucking lessened. He grunted, and began to fuck her hard again, only to pull out, jerking his cock over her upturned bottom as she went back to Lucy’s quim, grateful she was not to be made pregnant as hot sperm spattered down on her bottom cheeks.

  Lucy began to come, her quim contracting in Thrift’s face, her bottom hole pulsing, to squeeze out bubbles of saliva. Thrift kept licking, right on the little bump, although Lucy was doing the same to her, making it hard to concentrate, then impossible. As Lucy’s orgasm began to die, Thrift was coming again, and she at once pulled the soft pink bum cheeks in her hands wide and stuck her tongue up the little hole between, in penitent ecstasy for what she’d done before, even as the fluid from her pee-hole was spurting full in Lucy’s face.

  Above and behind her, but seemingly at an immense distance, Mike Hutton called her a wanton slut.

  Thrift woke to find Lucy already sucking Mike Hutton’s cock, with the covers pulled back so he could watch as her head bobbed up and down on his erection with her face set in her familiar expression of mild resentment. The resentment grew rather more marked when he came in her mouth and forced her to swallow, but it left him thoroughly pleased with himself, and in good humour as he set them to making breakfast.

  He stayed the same as they ate and drank mugs of hot, strong tea, laughing and joking about the girls’ behaviour the night before in a manner that quickly had Thrift blushing and warm between the thighs. Despite what she’d done, Lucy was also nervous, but accepted Mike’s promises that their secret was safe with shy smiles, and an unexpected kiss when they left. Only as they walked back down the hill did Thrift voice her concerns.

  ‘I am not at all certain we should trust him. Sally-Anne was betrayed in the same manner, after a night of giving a man pleasure. Let us hurry, and no nonsense today, we must change our appearance without delay, and for that we need money. If I am to pretend to be of the professional class I will require a dress of respectable quality and at least some style, a corset, some proper petticoats, gloves and a bonnet. You also should acquire new clothes, both to reduce the risk of identification and to help you pass as my companion.’

  ‘I shall do my best,’ Lucy answered, ‘but... but it not easy!’

  ‘You seemed to find it a great deal easier after two flagons of ale,’ Thrift answered.

  ‘I... I had never even touched a man’s pego before,’ Lucy answered, blushing, ‘but... but I suppose I felt I should, and it not so very different. Besides, when I am back at Weathercote the opportunity would be lost. Yet to ask for money!’

  ‘I understand,’ Thrift answered, ‘but we must be strong. Remember we are British, Lucy, and a British Lady does not shirk her duty, however unpleasant. Who said that?’

  ‘Queen Margaret,’ Lucy answered promptly, ‘but I’m not sure she was thinking of pulling men’s pegos for money when she said it.’

  Thrift giggled despite herself, and took Lucy’s arm. The town was ahead, and she knew from the night before that there were no gates to mark enclaves for the different classes, but it was quite evident which streets were which. Taking a right turn at the bottom of the hill, she led Lucy on until they were in a select area and had begun to get disapproving looks from passers-by.

  She stopped outside a shop on the corner of one of the better streets. The discreet window display, showing bolts of cloth but no garments, suggested a quality ladies’ wear shop, as did the name - Misses Bretherdale and Greenholme - given without further explanation.

  ‘Now, here is a possibility,’ she said. ‘First, your little task, then the shopping expedition. I think a deep red would suit your colouring. Being auburn, I will need something more subtle, yet of richer fashion, obviously, blue perhaps, although I don’t suppose I shall ever be able to wear dark blue again without thinking of those horrid woollen dresses. Yes, a delicate blue, and brocaded, perhaps in tones of old gold and black if they have a suitable silk.’

  ‘How much would such a dress cost?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘I do not know,’ Thrift admitted.

  ‘But surely...’

  ‘A lady does not discuss such vulgar matters,’ Thrift responded. ‘Were I here as... as I should be, Miss Challis and I would simply enter the shop, make our selections and have the bill sent on. My father’s secretary would deal with it.’

  ‘Might we not do that then?’

  ‘Possibly... yes, perhaps, but what of my current dress, which is hardly suitable?’

  ‘Say you had an accident, out in the country, and ruined your dress, so had to borrow one from a farmer’s wife?’

  ‘Perhaps, yes...’

  ‘For that matter, as you were at Weathercote House by accident, for the cost of a single telephone call you need merely speak to your parents and arrange to have the money forwarded to a bank, for clothes, and for an airship ticket also.’

  ‘Can this be done?’

  ‘Of course! Are you entirely innocent of these things?’

  ‘Certainly I am. Money is the most vulgar of subjects. My mother would be deeply shocked at such a request for one thing...’

  ‘A little thing, surely?’

  ‘By no means! Also, might not Miss Scarsdale have notified the local banks with just such an eventuality in mind?’

  ‘There is that, yes.’

  ‘I suspect it would prove to be the case. In a shop though, perhaps we might manage. We will say... yes, that we fell in a lake while boating...’

  ‘There are no lakes near Kendal.’

  ‘Don’t be foolish, this is the Lake District.’

  ‘Yes, but...’

  ‘We were on a drive, and stopped to go boating. A minor disaster occurred and we have driven back in unsuitable clothing. Questions might be asked, for instance, why we did not simply return to our hotel, but I think not. If there is one thing I do know about money, it is that shop keepers prefer to have it than not. Come.’


  They entered the shop, to find two women in identical green dresses regarding them superciliously.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ Thrift intoned, deliberately stressing her accent and returning the stare with one haughtier still.

  As with the labourers, the woman’s expression changed immediately, but from supercilious to obsequious. An hour later Thrift left the shop in a smart blue dress of brocaded silk, worn over a bustle, a corset and three petticoats in the proper manner. It felt odd, proper in a sense, yet impossibly restrictive after so long in lighter clothing. Even then it was not the height of fashion, with the dip in the rear of the bustle very much last year, and cut of the bodice a trifle peculiar, and yet she was sure it would allow her to pass as the daughter of a professional family without difficulty. Lucy wore a simpler dress of dull red satin, with a plain corset underneath, and both were in bonnets and gloves, with parasols to add a final touch.

  The difference in the attitudes of the people in the street was immediately evident. Both men and women who would previously have cut them immediately now made courteous gestures or passed a polite word. Signs showed the way to the airship mast, which they made for, Lucy speaking as they approached the ornate iron gates which closed off the escalator to unsuitable people.

  ‘Might we not get our tickets the same way?’

  ‘No,’ Thrift responded. ‘That would mean travelling quality, and I am quite likely to be recognised, which would be awkward.’

  ‘Why would it be awkward? We would be on our way...’

  ‘Do as you are told,’ Thrift answered, irritated by Lucy’s questions and unwilling to admit how much pleasure she had taken in watching her friend suck the mechanic’s penis. ‘And in any event, we must discover how much the tickets cost, or we will have no idea of the extent of your task.’

  Lucy began to pout, but made no further protest. They passed through the gates without difficulty, and the escalator took them up to the mast, five hundred feet of black iron lattice work decorated with a frieze of the Lakeland hills and other suitable motives. No airships were in, but a notice board showed the time tables of the various lines, four in all, and to Thrift’s delight she saw that Nolan Air’s Emerald Isle was due in from Dublin that evening, and leaving for London at five past eight. Beneath the tower was an engine house, from which the lift cables ran, a booking office, and a lounge where those waiting to depart could rest and refresh themselves. There were two windows in the booking office, one for the quality and one for the professionals. Thrift chose the second, feeling distinctly odd as she approached the window, behind which a long-face man in a black coat was consulting a screen. He turned at her approached.