Devon Cream

by Aishling Morgan

  The bell pull, he knew, would summon little Becky Arrish, the maid and now the only servant at the manor. She would bring a tray, on which would be arranged a jug of girl’s milk, toast with girl’s milk butter, tea with girl’s milk cream and an extra pat of butter discreetly hidden beneath an embroidered cloth. She would potter about the room while he ate, remarking on local gossip and asking what he wished to wear for the day. He knew it was an arrangement that would have scandalised many of his contemporaries, but as an old and rich man the knowledge gave him no qualms whatever.

  If the mere presence of a maid in his room would have scandalised them, the next part of his morning routine would have reduced them to speechless outrage. When he had finished his breakfast, Becky would remove the tray to a side table and carefully turn his covers down to the level of his knees. He would then lift his nightshirt to his chest while she unfastened her dress and blouse. While he toyed with his genitals, she would produce her large, well rounded breasts and remove the cover from the butter pat. After allowing the pat to soften somewhat in her hand, she would come over to him and kneel on the bed, allowing her naked breasts to loll into his face as her butter-smeared hand closed on his genitals.

  She would masturbate him, rubbing the butter into his cock and balls while his face was buried in the soft flesh of her breasts. It seldom took long for him to attain erection, and when he was ready he would catch one of her large and erect nipples in his mouth and suckle her, drawing her milk into his mouth until he came in her hand. Finally she would clean the worst of the butter, milk and sperm from his body then go to draw his bath.

  On this occasion, she did not appear, neither at his first tug of the bell pull, nor the second. Wondering whether she had been bedded either by Jervis or the friend he had invited down, he pulled himself from his bed and donned a dressing gown. Although Jervis made frequent use of Becky, he seldom slept with her. When he did, it annoyed Archibald, not for any moral reason but because it invariably delayed his morning routine.

  However, although Jervis was in his room, Becky was not with him. Disinclined to push in on a comparative stranger in order to discover whether or not he had bedded the maid, Archibald shook his son awake and demanded to know where Becky was. After a few grumbling curses, Jervis rolled over, to start in alarm at the angry expression on his father’s face.

  ‘Where’s the maid, I say?’ Archibald demanded.

  ‘Maid?’ Jervis mumbled.

  ‘Yes, the maid,’ Archibald demanded. ‘Is she bedded down with your friend?’

  ‘No, Father.’

  ‘Then where the deuce is she?’

  ‘I got rid of her, Father,’

  ‘Got rid of her?’

  ‘Yes, Father. After dinner last night she was insolent and disobedient, both to myself and to my friend.’

  ‘So thrash her behind! That’s what you normally do, isn’t it? How am I supposed to manage with no maid?’

  ‘Maids can easily be replaced, father.’

  ‘No, they can’t, you young idiot! Not ones who produce a quart of milk a day! Go and get her back, you fool!’

  ‘But, Father . . .’

  ‘Do as I say, or I’ll cut you off without a penny!’

  ‘But, Father . . .’

  ‘Not another word!’

  The chime of a bell from downstairs cut into their argument.

  ‘That will be Polly Endicott with the cream and cheese,’ Jervis said gratefully. ‘She can help you.’

  Polly paused at the door, then pushed it open and called out for Becky. There was no response, which was not altogether surprising as she frequently arrived while Becky was helping the squire with his morning routine. Within the house, she placed the churns in the pantry and poked her head around the door that led from the servants’ area into the main body of the house. The squire’s voice called out from upstairs, asking her to come up.

  ‘Ah, Polly, my dear,’ the squire greeted her as she reached the landing. ‘Sadly young Becky Arrish is indisposed this morning. I was wondering if you might assist me with my morning regime?’

  ‘Well, I . . .’ Polly began, recalling Octavia and Becky’s tales of what the squire expected.

  ‘In the bathroom, I think,’ the squire continued, entirely ignoring her hesitancy. ‘I find myself somewhat out of sorts this morning and feel that the normal process would prove insufficient to my needs.’

  Polly braced herself to decline the squire’s offer, only to catch sight of Jervis Maray’s head as it appeared around the side of his bedroom door. As always, his eyes were set not on her face, but on her chest. An immediate feeling of discomfort and resentment came over her, as if he had not merely glanced but had pulled her breasts out of her dress by surprise. It was a trick he had attempted more than once when she had worked at the dairy, and the memory lingered. Now, as before, her sole means of retaliation lay in denying him.

  ‘I’d be delighted to assist, Mr Maray,’ she addressed the squire, ‘but I insist the bathroom door be locked. I won’t have any impropriety.’

  ‘None whatever, I assure you,’ the squire replied. ‘Now, if you would be so kind, perhaps you would go to the pantry for a plate of butter?’

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ Polly answered, throwing a haughty look at Jervis, who returned one of undisguised envy and anger.

  On her way down to the pantry, Polly felt distinctly unsure of herself. Octavia had told her that she suspected the squire’s regime to be no more than an excuse for indulging a perverse sexual taste. Unlike Octavia, she was not sure of this. Certainly, the squire had never admitted anything of the sort. Also, he was remarkably healthy for a man of his age, which argued that the regime worked. He had not complained of stomach pains for years. However, the details she had gleaned from Octavia and Becky showed that the processes by which his symptoms were relieved were remarkably rude.

  After fetching the butter she returned upstairs, finding the squire in the bathroom, already naked and seated on the edge of the bath. Locking the door, she placed the butter dish to one side, unsure exactly what he wanted done with it.

  ‘That should prove adequate,’ the squire announced, with a nod to the dish. ‘Now, if you would be good enough to disrobe.’

  ‘Disrobe?’ Polly asked.

  ‘Certainly, my dear. It would not do to spoil your pretty dress.’

  Polly shrugged and, recalling that he had often seen her being milked, began to undress. Boots, dress, chemise, corset, petticoats and stockings were removed and carefully put to the side, leaving her in a light, fashionable pair of drawers. These ended at mid-thigh and were heavily frilled and flounced, yet the material did little to hide her bottom. During milking she always retained her drawers, and she glanced at the squire in the hope of her partial undress receiving his approval.

  ‘What is it that Becky does, sir?’ she asked.

  ‘For one thing she takes the proper attitude to dress,’ he replied. ‘Full nudity is essential to the hygiene of the process.’

  ‘I’d really rather keep my drawers on, sir,’ Polly answered.

  ‘In front of me?’ he retorted. ‘Nonsense, my dear. Now, take them down like a good girl.’

  Polly hesitated. The drawers, which had seemed so splendid when she had bought them, now seemed over-fanciful, even slightly ridiculous. She had felt the lightness of the cambric to be fashionable and slightly daring, the copious lace and ribbons to be a necessary extravagance, the tightness of the rear panel to be suited to her figure. Now the material seemed wholly inadequate, so thin as to display rude hints of her hair and the crease of her bottom. The decoration added to this, displaying her body as if to make an offering of it. The rear panel now seemed unbearably taut, forcing her to flaunt her bottom wherever she liked it or not. Yet for all her feeling of exposure, she knew that full nudity would be worse.

  ‘Come, come, my dear,’ the squire continued irritably. ‘Or do I have to take them down for you?’

  ‘No, no,’ Polly answered. ‘I’
ll do it.’

  Wishing she had declined when she had the chance, she turned her back on him and tugged open the drawstring. There was an immediate release of tension and they fell down at the back. She knew this exposed the top of her bottom crease and felt the blood come to her cheeks. Then, hardly knowing what she was doing, she had pushed them off her hips and they had fallen to the floor, leaving her standing in a puddle of lace and cambric. Bare, her bottom felt absolutely huge and, as she bent to retrieve the drawers, she briefly felt the air on the rear of her quim and knew that she had provided the squire with a sight even ruder than her bare bottom.

  ‘There now, my dear,’ the squire stated happily, ‘that wasn’t so bad, was it?’

  Polly was blushing furiously and wondering just how it could have been worse. The milking inspections always filled her with embarrassment, but Octavia was always there and she at least was allowed to keep her bottom and sex hidden. Now she was naked and there was no Octavia to reduce her shame, nor to satisfy the inevitable feelings that nudity aroused, nor to deal with any demands the squire might make for the slaking of his own arousal.

  ‘Milk is at its most efficacious when taken directly from the breast,’ the squire was saying. ‘Which forms the first of Becky’s duties. If you would be so kind?’

  With a sigh of resignation, Polly crossed the room. So she was to be suckled by him. Octavia had done it, and Becky, and she had always felt that it was only a matter of time before she had to do the same. Now, evidently, was the time. Taking one fat breast in both her hands, she leaned forwards, offering him the nipple. His mouth closed on it and he began to suck. As always it was a blissful sensation, despite her intensely chagrined feelings. Trying to imagine that it was Octavia sucking on her teat, she closed her eyes and allowed the simple physical pleasure of what she was doing to wash over her.

  Her breasts had not filled properly after the morning milking, and he had to suck hard to make her milk flow properly. When it did come, he swallowed eagerly, first from one breast and then the other. As he did it, her pleasure rose, until she was eager to get back to Octavia for relief and rebuking herself for dirty thoughts centred on what the squire was undoubtedly going to ask her to do to his cock after she had fed him. The first nipple he had used was achingly hard and had dribbled a little milk down her breast, while the other was hard in his mouth. Behind, her half-bent position left her bottom stuck out towards the door and she was glad of the key that prevented Jervis from peeping. With that came the thought that had she not locked the door, he would have been able to get himself erect, burst in, and take her from the rear before she could disengage her nipple from his father’s mouth. It was just the sort of horrid behaviour Jervis revelled in, and she shuddered at the thought, then blushed because the idea had brought a fresh twinge to her involuntary arousal.

  Archibald Maray stopped suckling her and drew back. Polly gave a sigh of relief, knowing that, had he continued, she would eventually have been forced to touch herself between the legs. She stood back and found, not at all to her surprise, that the squire was nursing a prominent erection. This, she knew, was what the butter was for, and with a fresh sigh of resignation she reached for the dish.

  ‘No, no, my dear,’ he said as her intention became evident. ‘Your enthusiasm does you credit, but I feel that this phase of the operation should be more prolonged. In order to soothe my nerves, you understand. Perhaps if you would be so kind as to lie down on the floor and massage the butter into your glorious bosom.’

  Feeling more put upon than ever, Polly scooped up two handfuls of butter and applied them to her breasts. Lying back on the floor, she began to rub it in. It quickly began to melt, and soon her breasts were covered in soft, runny butter with her nipples sticking up hard and sensitive from their crests. Milk began to come from the pressure of the massaging, forming droplets and then little runnels that trickled down the plump mounds of flesh to pool between them and moisten the floor.

  The squire watched this with mounting excitement, pulling at his cock until it was swollen and purple in his hand. Polly also found herself becoming aroused, despite her best intentions. The fat, slimy spheres of her butter-smeared breasts felt too nice to ignore. Her nipples were hard and the urge to apply a scoop of butter to her quim was rising rapidly.

  Just as the temptation was becoming irresistible, the squire came forwards to stand over her body. Straddling her, he settled his cock into the buttery groove between her breasts, then began to rub back and forth, sliding his penis and balls about in the butter so that each push nudged against the underside of her chin. She took a big, slippery breast in each hand and pushed them together, enfolding his cock in a buttery embrace. He gave a grunt and began to rub faster, fucking her breasts and rubbing his balls on her chest. She could see his face, purple with exertion, the eyes staring at the fat cushions of her breasts in a frenzy of lust. His cock was moving faster and faster between her breasts, sliding up and down in the butter while his balls slapped on their undersides. Her nipples were stiff against his belly, his motion flicking them up and down while the weight of his body forced out more milk.

  Lost to anything but the rude, open feeling of her body, Polly lifted her legs and opened her thighs, spreading her swollen quim to the air. Shame burned in her mind at the sure knowledge that she would make no resistance if he chose to mount her. Even if the horrible Jervis had burst in and used her, she would merely have groaned in despair as she let him into her body.

  Suddenly desperate to see the cock that was rubbing so vigorously between her breasts, she pulled up her head. She saw the angry purple tip poke up hard from in between the fat pillows of butter-smeared breast-flesh. It went back in, then burst forth once more. He grunted and a jet of white fluid shot from the tip of his penis. Polly gave a yelp of alarm and shut her eyes quickly, only to receive the full load in her open mouth and across her nose. A second stream caught her cheek and eye, a third her chin and neck. Then he had finished and was sinking down on top of her, his weight on her face smearing the thick streamers of sperm across it.

  She attempted a protest but only succeeded in getting yet more sperm in her mouth. He rose and collapsed to one side, leaving her torn between disgust and the need to touch her quim. Lust won, and she put her hands to her quim and began to rub, despite herself. Soiled and filthy, with her upper body smeared with butter, sperm and her own milk, she began to masturbate. Vaguely, she heard the squire telling her to stop and accusing her of being disgusting and of self-abuse. Faintly, she was aware that he was right, that she was indulging in a dirty, wanton act, that at heart she was a slut. Yet the feeling was too good for her to stop. She could feel her erect clitoris beneath her fingers. Her stiff, sore nipples were poking up through the butter that coated her breasts. She had sperm in her mouth, thick and salty and slimy, as well as in her eyes and in her hair, down her chin and over her breasts. Her vaginal muscles tightened. Her anus contracted and then she was coming even as she was called a trollop, a whore, a strumpet. Then it was over and she was sinking back in the mess, naked, ashamed but wonderfully fulfilled.

  ‘I’m damned if I like this!’ Jervis Maray growled. ‘Damn and blast the old fool! Making me eat humble pie to some damn maid!’

  ‘It would be hard to find another as pliable,’ Richard Haldon pointed out mildly. ‘To be fair, it’s a deuced rude trick you asked her to do, more the sort of thing for a Parisian tart than a country girl.’

  Jervis answered with a snort and took a vicious swipe at the hedge with his walking cane. They were some halfway along the road between Kerslake and Ermecombe, to which Jervis had been sent by his father with instructions to apologise to Becky Arrish and ask her to return to her old position. It was not a job he relished, and his annoyance had risen as they went. However, he was aware that the one thing that would rouse his father to genuine fury was any interference with the daily supply of girl milk. The same concern also added to the second reason for his anger, the difficulty of taking a su
itable revenge on Octavia Challacombe and Polly Endicott. Over the years he estimated that he must have consumed some eight to ten gallons of horse’s semen – a calculation that he had been unable to prevent himself from making. It also drove him to tooth-chattering fury and made his gorge rise every time he thought about it.

  ‘And another thing,’ he snarled to his friend as the dreadful reckoning loomed up in his mind once more. ‘I’ll have my revenge on those she-cats at Erme Head, you see if I don’t!’

  ‘And doubtless have some fine sport all the while!’ Richard responded in an attempt to sound bluff and hearty. ‘Come on, Jervis old fellow, where’s your spirit! Cheer up!’

  Jervis took another swipe at the vegetation. No simple revenge would do, as he could not risk alienating the girls altogether, nor anything more prosaic, such as having them arrested for some trumped-up charge. No, it would have to be a subtle revenge, and also one suited to the nature of the crime. Perhaps most satisfying would be to defile Polly in some way, perhaps by the introduction of his cock into her back passage. Unfortunately not only did the scheme risk severe recriminations, but she was a big, strong girl and he was unsure whether he was in fact physically capable of such a feat. No, she would have to be willing, at least to the point where his cock was pointed between her legs. Sadly, it seemed most unlikely that she would allow such an intrusion. She had never given in to his advances, not from when he had been a boy seeking to loose his virginity and she had worked at Kerslake dairy. No, for some reason Polly Endicott was proof against his best efforts at seduction, unless . . .