The last of her pee dribbled out as she came slowly down from orgasm. She was still gasping from the rhythm of his cock inside her, and when his hand found her mouth she made no resistance, but lapped up the little pool of her own pee that had collected in it without hesitation.
‘You gorgeous little whore!’ he grunted and then his cock jerked and she felt his sperm erupt out from around the mouth of her vagina.
‘Hell!’ he swore, but made no move to pull out, instead finishing off up her until he was fully spent.
Octavia could think of nothing but how wonderful her recent orgasm had been, and hung limp in her straps, heedless of the sticky come that was running from her vagina. She was faint with reaction and pain, sore, stiff and yet in absolute heaven.
‘You’d better douche,’ Jervis told her when he had recovered his breath. ‘Here, I’ll untie you.’
Once she was unfastened and had helped him wash his cock and balls, he went indoors, leaving her seated on the rim of the fountain feeling weak but happy. She was aware that his coming inside her held the risk of pregnancy, but accepted this as further proof of poorly expressed devotion. As with many of the words he used, ‘douche’ meant nothing whatever to her.
A month later, Octavia awoke to an odd sensation in her stomach. There was no real pain, but she felt sick, rather in the way she had occasionally felt sick after taking too much cider. Yet she had drunk no more that a quart the previous evening and had no headache. Her belly also felt oddly tense, as it had done for some days. Outside, the first flush of dawn showed as a dull glow through the curtains, and Polly was sleeping peacefully in the bed at her side.
Leaving Polly to sleep, she went out to the window and threw the curtains wide, revealing the pale blue of dawn over the grey-green of the moor. The window was open and she took a deep draught of clear moorland air. The queasy feeling in her stomach remained, combining with the heavy feel of her milk-laden breasts to create an overall sensation of discomfort. Turning back to Polly, she shook her friend by the shoulder.
‘Come on, lazybones, milking time,’ she said with an attempt at jollity.
Polly groaned and opened her eyes, then sat up slowly.
‘Is the kettle on?’ she demanded sleepily.
‘No,’ Octavia answered. ‘I only awoke this moment. I haven’t even set the fire. Actually, I don’t feel very well.’
‘I dare say you’ll be as right as rain after you’ve been relieved of your milk,’ Polly answered. ‘After all, your production’s up two ounces, and it’s to be expected to hurt a little in the mornings.’
‘No, it’s my tummy,’ Octavia answered.
Polly looked at Octavia’s bare tummy, then up. Their eyes met and Polly’s mouth came a little open.
‘Oh, you couldn’t be,’ Polly said softly. ‘I thought you should have started your monthly by now. Tell me you haven’t been careless with that Jervis Maray?’
‘What do you mean?’ Octavia asked.
‘You’re pregnant, you silly girl!’ Polly declared. ‘I knew it would happen!’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Sure? You’re sick in the morning and you haven’t had your monthly and your tummy’s swollen and you’re making more milk: yes I’m sure, certain sure. Oh, Octavia, why couldn’t you be more careful?’
‘But doesn’t that mean he’ll have to marry me?’
‘No, it doesn’t, as I’ve explained many a time before. A decent man would marry a girl he put the stick up, but all he has to do is say it’s not his and that’s that.’
‘But he’s a gentleman. You say so yourself.’
‘A gentleman maybe; a decent man, never. Oh, Octavia!’
‘Do you want to punish me?’
‘A fat lot of good that’ll do now! No, I should have done it harder when I had the chance, but I never could be rough with you; I care too much.’
‘I’m sorry, Polly.’
‘Well, we can at least try,’ Polly said, suddenly determined. ‘When you take the milk over to Kerslake, you’re to tell him, and ask that he makes a decent woman of you.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t!’ Octavia answered. ‘Not if he might turn me down.’
‘Then I shall tell him myself, and demand that he makes an honest woman of you!’ Polly stormed, and flounced from the room, indicating that the conversation was at an end.
Polly stood at the gate of Erme Head Farm, her jaw set in anger and her eyes wet with tears. Octavia was within, but she felt herself unable to face her friend and bring the bitter news she had received at Kerslake Manor. Jervis Maray had simply laughed at the suggestion that he marry Octavia, as Polly had been sure he would. At her pointing out that Octavia’s grandfather had been a wealthy and respectable furrier he had responded by saying that the Marays could trace their ancestry back to the conqueror. From his social elevation, he had said, there was little difference between the family of a furrier and a family of gypsies. In any case, marriage was out of the question. Polly had begged, threatened and even cursed, but to no avail. Jervis Maray had just laughed all the louder.
Her gaze swept the fields and moor, seeking solace in their beauty. None came but, as she spied Georgie the carthorse grazing placidly in his field, a vindictive idea for revenge came to her. Working quickly before she could change her mind, she went to the dairy and took up one of the small copper pots in which they put their cream. With this in her hand, she walked down to Georgie, who greeted her with a friendly snicker.
Polly gave him a pat; then, setting her jaw in determination, she sank into a squat. His penis was directly in front of her, a thick tube of dark wrinkled flesh huge beyond any conceivable human proportions. For a moment she hesitated, unsure whether she could do what she intended. Then, conquering her self-disgust, she reached out and gently took hold of the massive cock.
Her fingers failed to meet around it and it squirmed in her grip, making her want to let go. Ignoring the sensation, she held out the copper pot and began to stroke the horse’s penis to erection. Soon it was hard, a rigid bar of flesh some two feet long with the dappled red and dun glans thrust fully out of the thick foreskin.
As she tugged at the horse’s cock, Polly found herself struggling with her emotions. The anger that had compelled her to the act in the first place was paramount, but only just managed to override the intense shame at what she could not help but think of as an unspeakably rude act. To counter the shame, she told herself over and over that she was not doing it for some perverse pleasure, but in order to discomfit the horrible Jervis Maray. Yet she could not deny to herself that Georgie’s cock felt masculine and virile in her hand, deliciously masculine and virile.
She began to tug harder, sure that the only way to stop herself doing something really terrible was to make him come as quickly as she could. He stamped a hoof and gave a little snort, then abruptly his cock seemed to swell in her hand and a jet of semen erupted from the tip. She winced as the hot come splashed over her hand, but a good measure had fallen into the copper pot. More was coming, spurting and then dribbling into the pot until she at last felt that there was no further excuse for having her hand on the horse’s penis.
That evening, as she prepared a new batch of the blue-veined cheese of which Jervis Maray was especially fond, she made a dramatic alteration to the recipe. In addition to the girls’ milk, it contained a substantial measure of Georgie’s sperm.
For three months, life continued without dramatic incident. The milking round went on in its efficient routine. Octavia’s belly continued to swell until it showed quite clearly. Polly, although aware that she was merely putting off the inevitable, insisted that Octavia wear loose smocks. She also continued to add a measure of Georgie’s sperm to each batch of cheese, thus achieving at least a degree of revenge, albeit a private one. In the village, Mrs Arrish continued to tyrannise the younger women and girls, ably assisted by Mrs Apcott and Mrs Athwell.
One Friday in early September, she and her friends had planned an outing to Exet
er and it had been ordained that May Arrish should come with them to help carry the numerous parcels that they would undoubtedly collect. May, however, had failed to meet them in the square and Nat Grant, who drove the carrier’s cart, had been ordered to wait while the erring girl was collected. Mrs Arrish’s hand was already itching in anticipation of the spanking she intended to give her youngest daughter, only to find her husband alone in the house.
‘Have you seen our May?’ Mrs Arrish demanded.
‘Not since soon after you told her to be at the carrier’s cart,’ he answered. ‘I imagine that’s where she’d be to now.’
‘Well, she’s not,’ Mrs Arrish answered.
‘Down to Eliza’s?’ Mr Arrish suggested.
Grumbling freely and flexing her spanking arm, Mrs Arrish made her way to Eliza and Judy’s cottage. Mrs Athwell and Mrs Apcott followed, both full of righteous indignation and eagerness to see May Arrish get her spanking. Judy Arrish opened the door to the cottage, looking somewhat flustered and with a large milk stain on the front of her dress. Judy explained to her mother that she had been making a pudding and had spilt some milk when the doorknocker went, but that she had not seen May.
They returned to the square, only to find that Nat Grant had left with the cart, depriving them of their trip. After a set of angry but pointless recriminations and remarks on what they intended for May’s bottom, the three of them started back towards the Arrish’s house, only to discover Tom Apcott coming towards them along the moor road.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen my May?’ Mrs Arrish asked hopefully.
‘Certainly I have,’ Tom answered. ‘I passed her not a half-hour ago, walking out along the track towards Erme Head. Going up to the farm, as like as not.’
‘To Erme Head Farm, you say?’ Mrs Arrish demanded. ‘After the last time, I’d have thought she’d have learned her lesson.’
‘Then you shall have to give her a sharper lesson,’ Mrs Athwell supplied.
‘Exactly what I intend, Mrs Athwell,’ Mrs Arrish assured her friend.
Tom Apcott’s help was enlisted, and presently the group were on their way to Erme Head Farm by cart. At the bridge over the Erme they noticed a flutter of yellow cloth in among the woods, but entirely failed to recognise May as she and her male companion beat a hasty retreat into a dense birch thicket. Some way further, shortly before the farm became visible, Mrs Arrish called a halt.
‘I know their mischief,’ she stated firmly. ‘If we come up the track, they’ll see, and May’ll take off across the moor. There’ll just be Polly and that Octavia there, and when we get back home May’ll be sitting in the chimney corner with some old crams for an excuse. Not that that’ll stop her getting a sore behind, but I don’t think all this running up to Erme Head is proper and I should like to have words with the three of them together.’
‘So what do you propose to do, Mrs Arrish?’ Mrs Apcott demanded.
‘What I propose,’ Mrs Arrish replied, ‘is to walk up over the moor and come round to the farm from the side. That way, the first they’ll see of us is when we rap on the front door.’
‘Over the moor?’ Mrs Athwell asked doubtfully.
‘Exactly that, Mrs Athwell,’ Mrs Arrish continued. ‘It’s not so very far, when all’s said and done and, as I see it, it’s our duty.’
‘Very true, Mrs Arrish,’ Mrs Apcott agreed.
Mrs Athwell gave a reluctant nod.
Puffing, blowing and with frequent pauses, the three women made their way up the hill. Finally they arrived at the ridge which overlooked Erme Head Farm from the south, only to stop and stare down in open disbelief. Below, in one of the small, high-walled fields that surrounded the farm was Octavia Challacombe’s carthorse. Beneath the carthorse, in a kneeling position with a small vessel of bright copper in one hand, was Polly Endicott. The girl’s other hand was curled around the carthorse’s cock, which was blatantly erect. There could be no doubt of what was happening – Polly Endicott was masturbating the horse.
Mrs Arrish was the first to recover her wits. With an indignant bellow, she started down the hill, closely followed by the others. The effort it had taken to reach the top of the hill seemed forgotten as they marched purposefully down, aiming directly towards the place were Polly was committing her obscene act.
Intent on the job in hand and with her back to the hill, Polly took no notice whatever until she was alerted by the creek of the gate that led into the horse’s field. She then turned suddenly, looking at the three matrons with an expression of guilty horror. Mrs Arrish, unable to find words to express her feelings, shook her parasol at the erring girl and redoubled her efforts at walking. Polly hurriedly dropped the horse’s cock and stood up, wiping her hands on her pinny in a urgent and hopeless gesture.
‘Why, you . . .’ Mrs Arrish managed. ‘Shameless trollop!’
‘Brazen hussy!’ Mrs Athwell added.
‘Filthy strumpet!’ Mrs Apcott put in.
‘No . . . it’s . . . I . . .’ Polly stammered, unable to tell the truth and still less able to tell the only lie she could think of.
Abandoning words, Mrs Arrish covered the last of the ground that separated her from Polly. Grabbing the girl’s wrist, she dragged her over to where a lone hump of granite protruded from the ground. Polly put up no resistance as she was turned across Mrs Arrish’s knee. Indeed, if anything, she assisted in the process, as if aware of her guilt and eager to expiate it. With her arm twisted hard up behind her back, Polly was prepared for spanking, Mrs Arrish lifting each layer of skirt and petticoat, then opening the panel of the drawers. Polly’s bottom appeared, big and white and fleshy, with a hint of hair visible down between her cheeks. She was ready for spanking, and lifted her bottom in acquiescence even as Mrs Arrish raised her hand to deliver the first slap.
Down it came, hard across the fat cheeks to make them wobble and spread, exposing the dark hair of the cleft and drawing an agonised squeak from the victim. Mrs Arrish did not wait for Polly to regain her composure, but continued to spank, delivering slap after slap with all the force of her brawny arm, until the unfortunate Polly was kicking and thrashing across her lap. Mrs Apcott and Mrs Athwell watched the display with expressions of righteous indignation, each occasionally flexing her own spanking arm in preparation for their turn. Mrs Arrish carried on spanking, until Polly’s bottom was an all-over furious red and marked with purple blotches. The girl had lost all control or sense of dignity and was kicking and blubbering, often with her legs wide to show off the plump swell of her sex and the puckered brown spot of her anus. Only when Mrs Arrish’s hand was stinging too severely for her to continue did she stop, pushing the red-bottomed Polly off her lap with a disgusted gesture.
Polly stayed kneeling, bottom bare and open, gasping with shock. For a moment she tried to rise, only to have her wrist taken firmly in the grip of Mrs Athwell, who had sat down on the granite outcrop. Polly gave a moan of despair as she was once more put across a knee, then began to blubber and kick with renewed energy as Mrs Athwell set to work spanking her. Then, despite the power of the big woman’s slaps, Polly’s struggles began to lessen and her yells to turn to sobs, then to short, panting gasps. Mrs Athwell stopped in mid-smack and released Polly’s arm. The punished girl rolled off and sat down hard in the grass, looking up forlorn and miserable through tear-stained eyes.
‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘I won’t do it again, I really won’t!’
‘No you won’t,’ Mrs Arrish assured her. ‘Not when we’ve finished with you. You don’t suppose a few pats on your behind are all you’re getting, do you? And don’t think we don’t know what happens to a girl when she’s spanked. We’ve seen it before, all of us, but there are ways around your dirty little habits. Why, my girl, we’re not halfway through with you, yet!’
Mrs Arrish took Polly by the ear, pulled her up and began to march her across the field. Polly squealed and protested but went without any real fight. Behind came Mrs Apcott and Mrs Athwell, exchanging outra
ged remarks on Polly’s behaviour but both happy at the prospect of a really good punishment. As they arrived at the farm gate, Tom Apcott caught up with them. At the same moment, Octavia emerged from the house, looking round in shock at the visitors.
‘What’s happening?’ she asked.
‘Your friend here’s being taught a sharp lesson, and you too, like enough,’ Mrs Arrish snapped.
‘Why?’ Octavia blustered.
‘As if you didn’t know!’ Mrs Arrish stormed. ‘Dirty behaviour with a horse! Why, it’s disgusting, that’s what it is! Now into the barn with the pair of you!’
The girls were frog-marched into the barn, neither giving more than token resistance. Inside was a low-beamed space half-filled with bales. Various implements hung from hooks or over the beams, and it was to these that Mrs Arrish nodded.
‘Now, Mr Apcott,’ she declared, ‘if you’ll be good enough to strap this one up to a beam, we’ll have her stripped and ready in a trice.’
Polly submitted meekly as she was prepared for punishment. First Tom Apcott opened the front of her dress and pulled it down off her arms and shoulders. He then told her to cross her wrists and strapped them together with twine, leaving a double loop sticking out from the binding. Through this loop he put a rusting meat-hook, the chain of which he threw over a beam. As he pulled on the chain, Polly had no choice but to go with the pressure and was quickly standing on tiptoe with her arms high over her head, entirely helpless. Tom Apcott attached the chain to a convenient nail and stood back.
‘There we are, my dears,’ he announced. ‘As secure as you could wish.’
‘Thank you, Mr Apcott,’ Mrs Arrish replied, then turned to Polly and continued. ‘Now let’s have those clothes off, my girl. After what you’ve been up to, I reckon it’s best you be stripped bare.’
Polly nodded feebly. Mrs Arrish stepped forwards and began to open the buttons of Polly’s dress. The front was then tugged down, exposing her ample chest, barely constrained within a cambric chemise, then a fine corset with a facing of rich green satin. At the sight of such an obviously expensive garment, Mrs Arrish gave a disapproving look, while Mrs Athwell clicked her tongue. Remarks were passed on Polly’s extravagance as Mrs Arrish went to work on the corset laces. Mrs Apcott stepped forwards, took hold of Polly’s dress and pulled it hard down. Mrs Athwell joined in, tugging open the lacing of Polly’s chemise to let the big breasts burst free of restraint.
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