The Colonel smiled and rubbed his hands together as his eyes took Thrift in. He bowed, then spoke.
‘Colonel Cruiskeen Doyle, at your service, my dear. Well, well, well, you are a pretty one, and for sale, so Mandy informs me. A Lady like you... who’d have thought it!’
‘I am no Lady,’ Thrift answered, ‘but simply the daughter of a professional gentleman fallen on hard times. My circumstances are somewhat unfortunate, it is true, and yet...’
‘Never mind your circumstances, my dear,’ he interrupted, still rubbing his hands together, ‘just so long as that ripe little cherry of yours has yet to be plucked. Let’s have a peep then, shall we!’
Fat Mandy was still in the room, and made no move to leave as Thrift, with nothing fake about her blushes, began to lift her skirts. The Colonel watched, his arms folded over the little pot belly that distended his waistcoat, the silver topped cane he carried swinging gently from one hand. With her bustle and corset on, the only possible way to uncover herself was to bend over, and with her dress bunched up, Thrift was forced to kneel on the bed as she had done for Fat Mandy to inspect her quim in the first place. Lucy came to help, undoing the gudgeons and unbuttoning Thrift’s drawers, but when the panel fell away to leave her bottom sticking out bare through the hole her emotions were stronger by far than they had been with just the women to see what was between her thighs.
Now, with her skirts on her back and her bottom protruding from the flower of her disarranged undergarments, fat and pink and round, with her anus blatantly exposed as well as the tightly sealed slit that was the target for his cock, she found herself shaking and the tears threatening to start in her eyes. She had expected to be made to suck his cock, or perform any number of lewd exercises before her supposed virginity was taken, but as something round and hard touched the sensitive flesh between her thighs she realised she was to be summarily fucked, with the others looking on.
So strained were her emotions that it was several moments before she realised that the object touching her quim was not a cock at all, but the knob of his stick, warmed in his grip. Her quim had begun to twitch at the prospect of penetration and she was snivelling anyway, in raw humiliation as her artificially tightened hole spread to the pressure, which stopped, suddenly.
‘Ah, yes,’ the Colonel sighed in satisfaction, ‘that’s the real thing, and no mistake. Not that I’d think you’d try and trick me, Mandy, my dear, but it’s best to be sure. You can always tell the real ones, because they blubber. The fakes know how good a cock feels inside them, and they don’t. Well, my dear, you’re called Thrift, I understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Thrift answered, struggling to choke back the tears. ‘May I move now, please, sir?’
‘No, no,’ he answered, ‘I rather like that view, stay as you are. So, Thrift, my dear, they say a girl never forgets her first, did you know that?’
‘No, sir,’ Thrift answered.
‘Well, it’s true,’ he went on, ‘and so a gentleman always makes sure a girl’s first is special, with plenty to remember, oh yes.’
He broke off with a nasty little snigger, then spoke again.
‘Now, do you cream well when your bottom’s smacked?’
‘Smacked? Spanked?’ Thrift echoed. ‘Why should I be spanked? I...’
‘There’s no need to play coy with me, my girl,’ he laughed, ‘I know how it is with you little hussies, playing at smack bottie because you can’t get a share of cock, and licking each others’ little cunts when you’re warm. Why, you all do it.’
‘Not at all!’ Thrift answered, but he merely laughed and went on as he sat down on the bed beside her.
‘Don’t think I don’t know!’ he chortled. ‘Cool as be damned on the outside, and your drawers open over your companion’s lap the minute there’s nobody looking, and smack, smack, smack!’
He had taken Thrift around the waist, and illustrated his words with firm pats to her naked bottom. It made her squeak, more in shock than pain, and at the knowledge that she was to be spanked in front of both Lucy and Fat Mandy. He had a firm grip on her waist though, and there was no escaping as he began to spank her properly, still talking.
‘Think we don’t know, eh, you saucy little trollops? Well we do, my dear, we do indeed. Ah, yes, smack bottie with breakfast, smack bottie with lunch and smack bottie with dinner, isn’t it, my girl, and a warm behind and a creamy cunt, for all your fuss!’
He laughed. The slaps were getting hard, making Thrift’s bottom cheeks wobble and sting, and her feet kick in pain and frustration. It was also bringing the blood to her quim. She knew she’d be getting wet, just as he was predicting, and that every other girl she’d ever seen spanked was the same, yet his words had her boiling with resentment, because it was punishment, and it did hurt, and it was completely unfair to say such things, especially when he was about to fuck her...
Her snivelling sobs turned to a full blown blubbering as she gave way to her feelings. The Colonel merely tightened his grip and spanked all the harder, laughing as he beat her, with glancing slaps to make sure her cheeks spread every time and gave a good show of her bottom hole. Her quim was showing anyway, her rude position leaving the plump, furry lips sticking out from between her thighs, to show to Lucy, and to Fat Mandy. Again he began to talk, now urgent, with flecks of his saliva cool and wet on her hot bottom skin as he spanked harder than ever.
‘Yes, my little darling, that’s what you do, isn’t it, play smack bottie with your girl friends for your fun, when you begrudge a fellow a little feel, or a few minutes in your pretty mouth, eh? Eh!? You hoity-toity little trollop! By God the boot’s on the other foot now though, isn’t it just! Not so damn precious when you need money, are you, you little tart, you little whore! By God I’ll fuck you now, there’s no waiting, and your cunt’s ripe enough, and creaming well enough too! Now do as you’re told, and suck on this, yes, before it goes in your cunt it goes in your mouth, bet you didn’t know that, eh? Disgusting, isn’t it!? Mandy, hold the little tart if she struggles, d’you hear!’
He broke off with a laugh and let go of Thrift to scramble up onto the bed, already fiddling with his trousers as he pushed his crotch at her face. She was still gasping from her spanking, and could only watch as he wrenched his clothes open to pull out a thick cock, the head red and glossy with blood, the shaft white and not merely crooked, but twisted, with great pieces of spare flesh bulging out around the collar and the veins purple with blood.
She barely had a chance to take the hideous thing in before it had been thrust into her mouth and she was sucking up the taste of man, and tobacco and some sort of pomade, a horrible combination which had her gagging immediately. As she tried to pull back to stop herself being sick he simply took her by the hair and thrust it deeper, jamming the fat knob into her windpipe to make her eyes pop and set her kicking again, and slapping in vain at his legs. He laughed.
‘Ho, ho! Doesn’t like it in her mouth, this one, eh, Mandy? And who can blame the little poppet when she’s probably never had anything bigger than a lollipop before, eh, you little tart? Eh!?’
He sighed as he began to fuck Thrift’s throat, forcing his cock in until she was gagging on it and her stomach had begun to revolt, only to pull out an instant before she was sick. She swallowed frantically, and was fighting for breath as he climbed quickly around behind her, his voice coming coarse and harsh with passion.
‘Damn near spunked in her throat then, and that wouldn’t do, eh? Not at all! Here’s where it’s needed, up her darling little cunt, although by God it’s tempting to sodomise the little tart first! That’d teach her, eh?’
Thrift gasped as he cock head pressed to her anus, and her ring had begun to spread before he pushed it down, to the mouth of her quim, pressing in, hard, until her fake maidenhead had begun to bow in to the pressure. It hurt, and she was gasping and whimpering with pain, wishing it wou
ld stop, or he’d get it over with, but he had her firmly by the hips and held her still, his erection pressed to the mouth of her quim as he once more began to talk.
‘Here it is, my dirty little darling, the moment you’ve been waiting for so long, the moment you cunt gets popped. I suppose you thought it would be some unctuous little greenhorn of a husband, didn’t you? Some damn puppy as innocent and as soppy as you are, eh? Some mewling little bastard you’d just walked down the aisle with, not old Colonel Doyle, oh no, but that’s who you get, my darling little tart, my red bummed little poppet, my...’
He grunted, and pushed. Thrift screamed, in real pain as the false skin tore wide, wrenching at her flesh and bursting the tiny blood bag, which began to trickle down her thighs as he rammed his cock home in her hole, cackling with laughter as his penis filled her and slapping vigorously at her upturned bottom. There was nothing fake about Thrift’s screams as he began to fuck her, ramming himself deep again and again as he spanked her to the same hard rhythm. It hurt far more than when Dr Molloy had taken her virginity for real, an agonising stinging, rasping sensation, that had her clutching at the bed clothes and blubbering incontinently into her skirts.
It went on and on, until at last her quim cream began to make a difference and he was sliding in and out of her well lubricated hole. She was still sobbing, then begging him not to come in her as he began to grow urgent, spanking and thrusting away as he called her a tart and a whore, harder and harder, until her pleas had broken off and her gasps had become ecstasy. At the realisation that she was enjoying it he gave one last triumphant yell and came, pumping sperm into her hole, held deep to make sure she got a good filling, and keeping it in until he was quite finished.
When he finally withdrew, Thrift was left sobbing on the bed, sperm and pig’s blood dripping from her well fucked hole. He was still chuckling to himself as he counted coins out in Fat Mandy’s hand, then, with a final slap for Thrift’s still exposed rump, he was gone. As soon as his footsteps had faded she pulled herself up.
‘You ought to be on the stage, you ought!’ Fat Mandy exclaimed. ‘What a performance! Real tears and all!’
Thrift shook her head.
‘It... everything... was real... and... and he... he came in me!’
‘Don’t you worry your pretty head about that,’ she answered. ‘If you’re from that Weathercote House, you’ll have had enough contraceptive in your porridge to keep a regiment of whores out of trouble from a year.’
‘I... but...,’ Thrift managed, ‘how... how did you know? When did your discover?’
‘When it turned out the pair of you was ruined. Oh, I get ‘em often enough,’ Mandy answered casually. ‘Not me myself, always, but in the ginnels, one or two a year generally. Good year, this year. You’re my second and third. Red haired girl I had, Kirsty. I expect you know her.’
‘Yes,’ Thrift admitted, ‘we know Kirsty.’
‘Properly little madam, but a good earner, once I’d spanked the attitude out of her.’
Lucy giggled.
‘She never said that,’ Thrift said, ‘but she got to Glasgow before they caught her. I intend to get home, if I might have my money?’
She extended her hand, forcing down the turmoil of her emotions as Fat Mandy counted out five glittering new sovereigns, half the sum that had finally been agreed for her virginity. Outside the window, a huge, emerald green cigar shape was hanging in the sky. Lucy glanced up to, and spoke.
‘You wouldn’t report us, would you?’
‘Why ever would I do that?’ Fat Mandy answered, chinking the coins in her hand.
‘Then I thank you kindly,’ Thrift responded, attempting to curtsey as she struggled to adjust her clothing, ‘for you have shown a worthy generosity of spirit. Now, I must wash and compose myself, and then Lucy and I should eat. Following that, if I were to bring her back later this evening for a thorough spanking, perhaps you know some men who would pay to watch?’
‘A spanking, why?’ Lucy demanded.
‘Because I wish it,’ Thrift answered, ‘It will greatly soothe my feelings. Mandy?’
‘Always call to see a pretty girl whipped,’ Fat Mandy answered, ‘but I can’t charge more than a shilling a head, not for what there’s always a fair chance of seeing about the town at no cost. Now if you were to give her a proper belting, or two dozen of the cane, then have her put upstairs for gentlemen to enjoy, well...’
‘No!’ Lucy stormed. ‘We have plenty of money now, Thrift, and you said you wouldn’t be cruel to me! I... I...’
She was about to cry, but Thrift told her brusquely to shut up, grabbed her by the arm and upended her, to plant a dozen firm swats on the seat of her dress. Fat Mandy chuckled at the sight, with Lucy on the edge of a tantrum by the time Thrift had finished, and pouting furiously as she was led downstairs and out into the street. Thrift turned on her the moment they were around the first corner.
‘In all honesty, Lucy, have you no sense at all? Now I’m not even washed!’
‘You... you’re going to take me back to back to that horrid place to spanked, in front of a load of leering men!’ Lucy wailed.
‘No!’ Thrift answered. ‘Don’t you recall what Kirsty said? That the fat Madam she was with tried to turn her in! It could only be Fat Mandy. If she thinks there is more money to be had from us working, she may wait, so we must go, now! The Emerald Isle is in, look!’
Lucy looked up to where Thrift was pointing. Only a section of green airship was visible between the narrow houses, swinging gently at her moorings, twin gantries already extended to her gondola. Lucy put her hand to her mouth, and was babbling apologies as Thrift hurried her through the alleys, back toward the escalators. They reached the little circular area and chose what seemed to be the right street, only to find it blocked, by one of the younger men they had met in the field, and with him two immense constables.
The boy pointed, right at them. A whistle blew. Thrift ran. Dismay was already filling her head at the realisation that in her corset she had no chance whatever of escape. She heard their boots pounding on the cobble, a yell of triumph, and she realised that Lucy had been caught, that Lucy had run not after her, but at their pursuers. Then she was in the cobbled yard, and had turned a corner, and a second, into an alley that was little more than a gap between two houses. She ran through, into a yard hung with washing, and out again, the sounds of the police whistles ringing out behind her.
Two constables ran past the end of the alley she was in. She stopped, darted forward again, out into a wide street thronged with people. Struggling to hide her ragged breathing, she slowly, walking purposefully on, racked with guilt for abandoning Lucy, yet determined to win free. The escalator station was as before, and she rode up the hill without interference. The booking office was as before, and no questions were asked as she bought her ticket, the clerk’s voice a mere background drone as her ears strained for the sounds of heavy boots and shrill whistles.
None came. She rode the elevator up to the airship in silence, walked out on the gantry, curtsied to the steward who welcomed her into the professional lounge, mentioning casually that the rest of her party were already aboard. She took a seat by a window, to peer down over the rooftops of Kendal far below, just in time to see a tiny blonde figure in a deep red dress being hustled into a black van.
She closed her eyes to stop the tears and began to pray. Time passed, impossible to judge, then came the announcement of their departure, a final warning, and the faint jolt as the airship left her moorings. The two great Collins engines had come to life, lifting the ship high above the town and the hills around, Thrift still starring down, until a discreet cough from behind her made her jump. She turned to see a steward in an emerald green uniform jacket holding a note pad. He spoke.
‘Would Miss care to order dinner?’
‘Please, yes,’ Thrift answere
d, struggling for composure, ‘and tell me please, what time are we due in?’
‘Ten-thirty, Miss, Phoenix Park Mast.’
‘Phoenix Park Mast? I’m not sure I know it... Not the Empire mast? This is the Emerald Isle is it not?’
‘Oh, no, Miss, this isn’t the Emerald Isle, this is her sister ship, the Emerald Green, home bound, for Dublin.’
Chapter Nine
Great Britain, June 2005
For a long moment Thrift could only stare at the steward, then out of the window at the landscape far below. Sure enough, they were moving west, with an elongated lake she realised would be Windermere below them, the water glittering blue in the bright sunlight and dotted with tiny white pleasure craft. Only when the steward spoke did she recover from the shock.
‘Am I to suppose that Miss has boarded the wrong airship?’
‘No, no, not at all,’ Thrift answered quickly as she realised that she was far safer than she would otherwise have been. ‘I’m going to Dublin, of course, but I had thought this was the Emerald Isle.’
‘An easy mistake to make, Miss,’ he answered with a condescending smile.
Thrift hid a sigh as she began to study her menu. Lucy would tell everything, she was sure. Maybe not immediately, but after a few strokes of Miss Scarsdale’s cane it would come out, all of it, including the information that Thrift was on the Emerald Isle, bound for London. By that time, with any luck, the Emerald Green would have docked above Dublin.
‘Will your family, or companion, be joining you, Miss?’ the steward enquired.
‘I... ah...,’ Thrift began, struggling for the best explanation, only to be brought up short as a deep voice spoke from behind her.
‘It’s quite all right, my man, she’s with me. Honeymoon, don’t you know?’
Thrift looked round in horror, already knowing what she would see, the red and whiskery face of Colonel Cruiskeen Doyle. For an instant the steward looked surprised, before resuming his expression of bland diffidence as the Colonel went on.
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