Polly could only turn her head away and pretend to busy herself with the fastenings of her boots. She had known Octavia had no corset but had expected combinations, or at the very least drawers. The sudden and casual revelation of Octavia’s nudity was not only shocking but somewhat disturbing. The girl was slim, but had large breasts and a small, meaty bottom, the sight of which gave Polly a feeling she had last experienced after spanking one of the other girls at Kerslake dairy. Mr Linnel had told her to do it and she had taken her normal pleasure in leaving her work mate snivelling and red-bottomed over her lap. Yet, when she had given the girl a comforting hug afterwards, there had been a strong and deeply embarrassing urge to let her hands wander to her victim’s well-smacked behind. She had resisted, yet had for once been thankful for the leering presence of Mr Linnel. Without it, she was sure she would have given in to her improper urges. Now it was the same, and she felt her face and neck flush hot as Octavia bent to retrieve the dress. The position gave Polly a brief flash of Octavia’s sex, with the twin lips peeping out from in between the thighs in a thoroughly rude manner. Suddenly the urge to touch was overwhelming, yet with it came an unbearable sense of shame.
‘Aren’t you going to put on a nightdress?’ Polly asked, desperately hoping that if Octavia covered her body it might be possible to resist temptation.
‘Oh, it’s too warm for that,’ Octavia answered. ‘Aren’t you going to undress?’
‘I . . .’ Polly began and then stopped.
‘Don’t be shy of old Lias,’ Octavia laughed. ‘He’s put down the best part of a peck of cider. He’ll be out till morning. Come on, I’ve never seen another girl in the altogether and you’ve ever such big breasts.’
Polly could find no answer. It was too much. She had watched Octavia sucking on a cock, she had seen her naked, she had glimpsed the most intimate view a woman could possibly provide. Now Octavia wanted to see her naked and had remarked on the size of her breasts in the most casual and indecent manner imaginable. She wanted to do it, to strip and then to touch, to hold Octavia in her arms and stroke her neck and hair, to kiss her and cuddle her and have her friendliness returned. Yet the sense of guilt that her desire brought was too strong to allow such open intimacy. It could simply not be done, but something else could – something that would provide a similar intimacy of contact in the guise of punishment.
‘Mrs Arrish said you might need spanking from time to time,’ she declared boldly, ‘and it seems now’s as good a moment as any.’
‘Spanking?’ Octavia responded uncertainly.
‘Spanking,’ Polly said firmly. ‘Now, come across my knee and let’s not have any fuss over it. It doesn’t do to kick and struggle and you’ll end up just the same.’
Octavia hesitated, and Polly found herself hoping that it would be necessary to drag the naked girl wriggling and kicking over her knee. Then Octavia gave a little smile – half doubt, half pure mischief – and stepped towards her.
‘That’s a good girl,’ Polly said gently, as Octavia draped herself across her lap. ‘Now give me your arm and push your behind well up. This won’t take a minute, but you do need it.’
The words were cool, firm yet gentle. Inside, Polly was boiling with emotion. Octavia’s body felt warm against her thighs, even through her thick skirts and petticoats. The girl’s natural scent was evident, too, a musky, feminine smell that reminded her irresistibly of her own excitement when she played with herself. Trying desperately to remain detached, she caught Octavia by the wrist and twisted her arm up into the small of her back, thus immobilising her for her spanking. Octavia responded by obediently pushing her bottom high so that the cheeks parted to reveal the brown dimple of her anus.
Despite the fact that she herself had ordered it, Polly found something extraordinarily lewd about the way Octavia was behaving. The girl was about to be spanked, and to be obedient and contrite was suitable, if hardly normal. Most girls writhed and squealed and kicked until the beating had subdued them. Some did as they were told, accepting punishment with meekness or even serenity. There was nothing meek or serene about Octavia; indecently eager would have been a better description. Polly found herself shocked, and determined that the spanking would be a hard one, even if only because that would go some way to soothe her own feelings.
‘Do it, then, spank my naughty bottom,’ Octavia giggled.
Polly set her mouth in a determined moue and landed a firm slap across Octavia’s rear. The cheeks bounced and the girl squealed, just as it was supposed to be. Yet as Polly planted a second, harder slap, she felt not the satisfaction of dishing out a righteous and well-deserved punishment, but guilt, as if it was she who was being naughty. Determined not to show her feelings, she set to work to punish Octavia soundly.
As the flesh of Octavia’s bottom bounced in the dull yellow glow of the candle, Polly found the excitement welling up inside her ever more strongly. Octavia had a pretty bottom, firm and sweetly rounded, while there was something delightful in the way she responded to the smacks with little squeaks of pain punctuated by sighs. It was impossible not to enjoy spanking her, to really enjoy it.
Octavia’s bottom began to pink, then to redden. Her squeaks became louder as Polly warmed to the task, but so did her sighs, until it was so obvious that she was enjoying being beaten that Polly was forced to stop.
‘This is supposed to teach you a lesson!’ Polly snapped.
‘I’ve never been spanked by a woman before,’ Octavia sighed. ‘It feels all lovely and warm.’
‘Lovely and warm!’ Polly exclaimed. ‘It’s not supposed to feel lovely and warm, my girl, it’s supposed to hurt!’
In response, Octavia stuck her bottom high and wiggled it. Polly gasped, then went back to work, harder than before, bringing her hand down again and again on Octavia’s bottom until the girl had once more began to squeal in genuine pain. Yet it was hopeless; the harder she beat and the more she pretended that she was simply dishing out a punishment, the more she knew that there was something deeply sexual about the spanking. Yet all she could do was spank harder and harder, knowing that if she brought Octavia to tears, she might be able to resist what was otherwise certain to happen afterwards.
With all her force she laid into Octavia’s bottom, deliberately aiming slaps to catch the tender flesh of the thighs and in between the buttocks. Octavia’s cries became sharper and louder and she began to kick her legs about, also bucking her bottom and clutching at Polly’s skirts with her free hand. Polly’s hand had begun to sting, yet she kept on, spanking and spanking until her victim had been reduced to a squealing, writhing tangle of wildly thrashing limbs and wobbling, bouncing buttocks. At last the spanking seemed to be working, and Polly found herself smiling as she waited expectantly for Octavia to start to bawl, then to beg.
It didn’t happen, and Polly was finally forced to stop by the stinging pain in her own hand. Octavia’s bottom was in a fine state. The cheeks were cherry red and covered with purple blemishes and the sheen of sweat. It was truly a well-spanked bottom, in a condition that normally left a girl tearful and with her thighs spread to show her sex in an absolute abandonment of dignity. Octavia had her thighs apart but she was not crying, only breathing deeply and evenly. She was also moving her hips up and down, as freshly spanked girls often did in an instinctive effort to lessen the pain. The movement always made a dirty display of the girl’s vaginal and anal charms, especially as the anus opened and closed in a lewd, winking motion. Yet with most girls it seemed pathetic, the helpless and miserable response to a sound beating. With Octavia, it was simply wanton.
As Polly released Octavia’s wrist, the spanked girl rolled on to the floor. Her arm had been twisted cruelly into her back, yet she made no complaint about it nor about the severity of her spanking. Instead she settled herself unsteadily on to her knees and looked up, her large, clear hazel eyes meeting Polly’s. For a moment, their gazes held and then Octavia had risen and moved to lie full length on the bed, face down with her re
d bottom uppermost.
‘That’s better, isn’t it?’ Polly said. ‘Would you like a kiss better and a cuddle?’
She had tried to keep her voice even, to make it the offer of comfort to a justly punished girl rather than a proposition. It failed and, as Octavia nodded in response, Polly knew it was going to happen.
Octavia had begun to make odd little whimpering noises and was clenching her hurt cheeks and pushing her bottom up, making it quite clear where she wanted the kiss. Polly bent down and, with a hopeless awareness of how rude she was being, she planted a gentle kiss on the roughened, red surfaces of Octavia’s bottom, first on one cheek, then the other. Octavia sighed and wiggled her rear.
‘Cuddle me, then, but not with your clothes on,’ Octavia said softly and Polly was completely lost.
Working with quick, nervous motions, she began to undo her dress. The buttons came first, each tweaked open to allow her full breasts to push out and apart. They felt huge in her chemise, great fat globes of sensitive flesh topped by nipples more sensitive still. With a few urgent tugs she opened the laces of her chemise and pulled the sides apart, letting them fall out, big and pink and bare in the soft light. Rising, she made quick work of her remaining buttons, then slid her dress to the floor.
Octavia was now watching, half-turned and smiling up at Polly’s naked breasts. Polly continued to strip, now more urgent than ever, fumbling at the drawer-strings that held her petticoats up, desperate to get ready before her embarrassment and guilt overcame her. Her cambric petticoat dropped around her ankles, then her flannel one, leaving her in a pool of ruffled material as she struggled with her combinations. Octavia was bright-eyed and open-mouthed, with her gaze riveted to Polly’s breasts, then her belly, then the lush thatch of her pubic mound as the most intimate garment fell away and was kicked aside.
Naked but for her stockings, Polly sank down on to the bed and into Octavia’s welcoming arms. They came together, their mouths meeting, then their tongues. Eager hands began to explore, touching necks, flanks and bellies; growing bolder and moving to breasts, thighs and bottoms; finally abandoning all restraint and going to each other’s vulvas. Their kissing became more passionate as fingers delved into the damp crevices of each other’s quims. Polly began to rub, her fingers slippery and wet on Octavia’s clitoris.
Locked together, tongues entwined and bodies pulled close, they masturbated each other, rubbing and fingering until each had forgotten everything except the other’s hot, excited body. Octavia came first, her thighs locking on Polly’s hand in orgasm and her hips thrusting out to grind her vulva on to her lover’s fingers. Even as Octavia came she continued to rub at Polly’s clitoris. Polly felt herself coming and clasped Octavia tight into her arms as it happened.
Not a word was spoken as they lay together in the happy afterglow of orgasm. Polly felt wonderfully relaxed and happy, yet with a burning sense of shame and guilt in the back of her mind. Only the comforting embrace of Octavia’s arms kept her from running away from what she had done. Yet, when her new lover once more began to kiss her neck and gently stroke her breasts, she made no move to resist but responded with her own gentle, soothing touches to the girl’s well-smacked bottom.
2
1898
Octavia awoke to the gentle warmth of Polly’s body, as she had done every morning for the previous three years. The relationship between the two women had blossomed rapidly after their first night together. In the morning Octavia had happily declared that Polly was to be the housekeeper. Lias had been grudging at first, but had accepted the change in conditions when she had promised that she would still suck his cock. Polly had been grateful for Octavia’s support, although embarrassed by what she had done.
Since then the two girls had been lovers, and if the arrangement was not exactly how Mrs Arrish and her friends had pictured it, then it appeared to be from the outside. Polly had slowly learned to cope with her emotions at being in love with another woman, but had always been careful not to let the secret out. Octavia, as ever, had accepted the situation with innocent delight. Lias continued as before, working hard and grumbling in a good-natured manner, but happy as long as he had at least some of Octavia’s attention.
Octavia stretched and padded over to the window. Outside was a cool dawn, with low pink clouds set against a sky of chalk blue. A large pig looked up at her from the sty below, its eyes full of hope. Beyond the wall, Lias was harnessing Georgie to the cart, and he also turned his face up to hers. She smiled to both Lias and the pig, then turned back to the room, where Polly had begun to stir.
‘Get up, slowcoach,’ Octavia chided playfully. ‘You’re going down to the village, remember. Lias is almost ready.’
Polly sat up, rubbed her eyes and then smiled at the sight of the naked Octavia. Octavia answered the grin with a moue of mock resentment and turned to display her bottom. It was thoroughly bruised and flecked with tiny cuts, as they both knew, the marks being the result of a trip to gather firewood that had got out of control.
They had been cutting the limbs from a great beech which had fallen in a gale. The trunk had crushed a stand of birch, leaving the area strewn with twigs ideal for making instruments of chastisement. Octavia had never been birched, and had responded with giggling enthusiasm when Polly had described the use to which the twigs could be put. Inevitably they had decided to test a clump out and soon Octavia had been kneeling on the damp ground while Polly whipped her. After the initial shock of the sharp, cutting pain, Octavia had become more and more excited, until she could resist no more and had reached back between her thighs to masturbate. Polly had continued the beating. Octavia had begged for ever greater severity as she approached orgasm and, by the end, her bottom had been a flaming mess of purple flesh and abrasions. Afterwards, they had cuddled and Octavia had applied her tongue to Polly’s quim. Only one thing had soured their pleasure. As Polly had been coming, a crack in the woods had broken her concentration, spoiling her orgasm and presenting the alarming possibility that they had been watched.
‘Well, you did want beating,’ Polly said in answer to Octavia’s pretence of unhappiness. ‘Now do fetch my green dress out. Lias’ll fret if we don’t hurry.’
Octavia obeyed and helped Polly to dress. Downstairs, they made a hurried breakfast of ham and eggs and then emerged into the yard, where Lias was waiting with grudging patience.
‘About time,’ he greeted them. ‘The rate you two go, half the morning’ll be gone before we get to the market. And don’t go showing your titties at the window like that, Octavia Challacombe, you’ll get the pig all excited.’
‘Don’t be rude, Lias,’ Polly answered.
‘Give me a cuddle, then,’ Octavia said as Polly made to climb into the cart.
Polly turned and held her arms out. Octavia hugged her friend and their lips met in a long, sensual kiss. Excited by the soft feel of Polly’s body, she pushed her tongue out. Polly responded and Octavia let her hands slide down to cup her bottom. Squeezing the plump cheeks, she treated herself to a leisurely feel. Polly began to moan softly into Octavia’s mouth and put her own hands lower, only to hear Lias’s voice cut in.
‘There’s a time and place for that,’ he said, ‘and it’s not now.’
Octavia pulled back, laughing, and allowed Polly to climb into the cart. Lias gave her a gap-toothed grin and flicked his reins, sending Georgie into a slow walk. Octavia watched as the cart moved away, waiting until it had reached the ford over the Erme and then turning back to the farmhouse.
Polly jumped down from the cart as Lias brought it to a stop. Unlike Octavia, she craved human company, and greatly looked forward to the monthly market in Ermecombe. It was a small affair, with a dozen or so stalls and carts selling produce from local farms, but with the village serving such a large area of moorland it had persisted. Lias was intent on selling hams and other produce from Erme Head Farm, while Polly intended to purchase necessities and perhaps a few things not so necessary.
Passing out
cheerful greetings to old friends and acquaintances, she made quickly to the stall at which she knew Sophie Causey would be selling haberdashery. Despite being considered soft and flighty, Sophie had done well for herself and could be relied upon to have pretty things that otherwise could not be obtained nearer than Exeter. Sure enough, as soon as Sophie saw Polly approaching the stall, she was motioned inside the house.
Within, she was shown a variety of pretty undergarments in styles that Sophie assured her were worn by all the best people in London. With little resistance, Polly allowed herself to be persuaded into buying a new corset, which she packed away, and new drawers, of which she was so proud that she changed into them. They were different to the design she was used to, equally voluminous, but with a buttoned panel at the rear in place of a simple split.
As she eased them over her bottom beneath her skirts and petticoats, she was conscious that they were a little taut across her cheeks. Nevertheless, they fitted and, when Sophie had helped her to pull the drawstring in tight, they felt comfortably snug rather than tight. Feeling thoroughly pleased with herself, she left Sophie’s, intent on discovering if any pretty material might be found for a new dress. Then, as she passed the Arrishes’ house, she paused to examine a display of ironmongery.
‘Polly Endicott,’ a stern voice called out.
Polly turned and an immediate thrill of fear ran up her spine. Mrs Arrish was standing behind her, with Mrs Apcott and Mrs Athwell to either side. Their faces were stern and serious, not at all the expressions she would have expected. Unless, that was, she had done something terribly wrong, and there was only one thing it could possibly be.
‘Oh, good morning, Mrs Arrish, Mrs Athwell, Mrs Apcott,’ she managed weakly.
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