With their income entirely dependent on his largesse, they had little choice but to accept his changes or abandon the entire process. None wanted to abandon it, although only Octavia was prepared to admit to the full enjoyment of Jervis’s attentions. He had also prepared an album of photographs taken at the party. This included such gems as Eliza about to be spanked across the fat man’s lap, Becky squirting milk from her breasts and Octavia licking the come from a man’s erection. These could be relied upon to provoke both embarrassment and arousal. Jervis displayed them often and occasionally made half-joking threats that if the girls did not behave, he would have them put on open sale in London.
On the occasions when Richard Haldon was present, Polly would be spared at least a measure of humiliation, and she came increasingly to rely on him. The others teased her and on one occasion spanked her themselves when they thought she had got off too lightly. Nevertheless, she drew closer to Richard and increasingly came to control their relationship.
Conditions remained the same across the summer, while what little news filtered through to them from the outside world spoke of unrest, war in Europe and finally of war between Great Britain and the central powers. The girls took little notice, expecting such things to pass by with no great effect, only to arrive at Kerslake Manor one morning to discover Becky and Eliza putting dust covers on the morning room chairs and Jervis in uniform.
‘Are you going to join up?’ Octavia asked him.
‘I have already accepted a lieutenancy,’ he replied.
‘What about the milk?’ Polly asked.
‘Duty calls, my dear,’ Jervis replied, ‘although I suspect Richard will continue to take a little. They rejected him on medical grounds – flat feet or some such problem.’
‘Oh,’ Polly answered weakly.
‘I leave for London this afternoon,’ Jervis continued, ‘but there is time for a last glass, I think. Come on, out with them, all four of you! And get into a line: this is an officer you’re with, now!’
Somewhat sheepishly, the four girls undid their dresses and exposed their breasts. When they were lined up, Jervis pretended to inspect each in turn, fondling their breasts and then applying his mouth to their nipples. Each fat globe was squeezed until he had taken a mouthful, then put down with milk dribbling from the stimulated nipple. Pretending some arbitrary dissatisfaction, he had all four of them touch their toes. Their skirts and petticoats were then thrown up and their drawers pulled open, exposing a line of four bare female bottoms. To each he applied six firm strokes of his swagger stick. With their bottoms decorated and their quims starting to warm from the attention, the girls began to push out their bottoms.
Each was rewarded. Jervis thrust his cock into the nearest mouth, which happened to be Becky’s, and held her by the hair until he was erect. He then moved down the line, inserting his cock into each mouth until he reached the end. Only then did he go behind and make use of their cunts, taking each in turn by the hips and fucking her until she had began to squeal with delight. He finished as he had started, with Becky, then withdrew and ordered them to masturbate. All four reached down under their disarranged clothing and up to their quims. As they began to stroke, Jervis declared his intention of buggering the last of them to come. Immediately their attention to their quims became faster and more direct, with fingers rubbing clitorises and probing vaginas while he nursed his erection and eyed the four nude rear views, each with a tight brown bottom-hole winking at him.
Polly came first, then Eliza, and Becky and Octavia climaxed together soon after. Jervis gave his moustache a thoughtful twirl, then declared that Eliza’s orgasm had been fake. To the sound of her high-pitched denials, he came up behind her, pushed his cock into her vagina and then applied the juice-smeared tip to her anus. She gave a deep groan of despair as his cock-tip rubbed her own lubrication into her anus, and accused him of only picking her because, of the four girls, she was the only one he had never sodomised before. Jervis merely laughed and pushed his cock at her reluctant sphincter.
Eliza gave a little cry of pain as her bottom-hole was forced, but held her position, wide-eyed and gaping as the full length of his cock was pushed into her rectum. Once it was in her she stopped protesting, but allowed him to bugger her with long, even strokes. The other girls came to hold her as she was buggered, her sister cuddling her head while Octavia and Polly held her around the waist and stroked her breasts. She began to cry out again as Jervis’s pushes became rougher, but held her place until he at last came up her bottom.
The culmination of their sex seemed to break a spell, and the girls became moody and somewhat detached, although Jervis remained the same as ever. Together they helped to mothball all but the servants’ quarters of the manor, which were to be tenanted by Becky for the duration of the war. General opinion held that it would all be over by Christmas and that things would then return to their normal routine.
Finally the time came for Jervis to leave and they walked out to the carriage sweep together, the girls quiet and morose, Jervis boasting happily of his military abilities.
‘Do come back,’ Octavia managed as he climbed into the car.
‘Don’t worry, I can look after myself,’ he announced cheerfully. ‘Now be a dear and start her up for me, would you?’
‘Are you going to actually fight?’ Polly asked, the disbelief showing clearly in her voice.
‘Think of me what you will,’ Jervis stated rather coldly, ‘but I am not one to desert king and country in time of need. No, I will play my part and make whatever sacrifice may be necessary to keep the Hun in check, even if it means laying down my life.’
7
1916
In his well-appointed Parisian quarters some hundred miles from the hell of the Western Front, Captain Jervis Maray sat staring blankly at the wall. An idle glance at the clock on the mantelpiece showed the time to be approaching four o’clock and his expression changed from one of vacancy to a thin smile.
At a reception the previous evening he had been introduced to Genevieve d’Arch, a rich and fashionable young woman who claimed descent from one of the oldest noble families in France. She was very different from the sturdy, full-breasted Devon girls he was used to, being slender, delicate and curiously catlike in her movements. Nor did she have the brash, openly lewd manners of the Parisian prostitutes, which Jervis found both vulgar and unchallenging. Instead she was fiery yet coquettish, strong yet vulnerable, poised and cool but with a hint of wantonness beneath. He had been entranced from the first, and her amused, somewhat cynical acceptance of his suggested liaison had turned his desire to a desperate craving.
She had agreed to allow him to take her to La Demoiselle Angevine, a smart but just slightly racy restaurant in Montmartre. Her choice suggested to him a willingness to dally, as did her assurance that she would need no chaperone.
Returning to his quarters, he bathed, shaved and dressed in the immaculate dress uniform that his batman had laid out. A glance in the mirror showed that he was everything a lady of hopefully questionable virtue might want. A scarlet jacket, black trousers with a scarlet stripe, perfect boots, cloak, top hat, cane, all went to create a perfect ensemble. Genevieve d’Arch could not fail to be impressed.
Nor was she, giving him arch looks and sidelong glances from the start, until Jervis’s cock had become uncomfortably hard in his trousers. He dined lightly, not wishing to spoil himself for more vicious entertainment. Langouste followed oysters, quail in aspic followed the langouste and sorbet followed the quail. All of this was washed down with suitable wines, Champagne, Alsace, Claret and more Champagne. At last they left, flushed with drink, enervated, and in Jervis’s case ready for more intimate pleasures. Only then did he discover that Genevieve’s flirtation was simply that and no more.
When he offered to escort her back to her apartment, she took his arm and allowed herself to be led into the half-shadows of a small park. Yet when he attempted to place his hand on to one sleek buttock, she resisted, pus
hing him away with a silvery laugh and a playful slap. Again he tried, this time reaching for her pert breasts, but again his hand was slapped.
‘What’s this?’ he demanded. ‘You’ve been playing the trollop all evening!’
‘I like to flirt a little,’ she responded coolly.
‘Flirt, by God!’ Jervis swore. ‘You’ve done more than flirt!’
‘Not at all,’ she answered. ‘It was a pleasant evening, but I cannot imagine why you should think me obliged to your advances.’
‘I thought you wanted me!’
‘No, I think not.’
‘What? Come on, girl! I mean, by God, I want you and, by God, I mean to have you!’
‘Oh, my, you English!’ Genevieve laughed, skipping back from his clutching hands. ‘So what will you do? Go down on your knee and beg me to give in to you, then fumble and grope while all the while you hate yourself for what you are doing?’
‘Not I!’ Jervis answered.
‘Oh but you will,’ she went on. ‘You are all the same. Do you not think that English officers have not approached me before?’
‘I dare say they have, but not this one! Dammit, girl, you’ve got me as randy as a polecat!’
‘Then so you must stay. Go back to your barrack and play with your little cock – or, who knows, your man might take you in his mouth, if you ask him politely!’
Jervis’s anger exploded at her words. Lunging forwards, he grabbed her wrist and threw himself backwards on to a bench. Genevieve gave a squeak of alarm as her balance went. She came down hard across his knee and with one expert motion Jervis had twisted her arm high up into the small of her back. Again she cried out, in shock and pain, then outrage as he wrenched her skirts high up over her back. Her bottom was revealed, a tight ball of flesh wrapped in black lace drawers that finished just below the cheeks in a ruff of lace. Her protests took on a fresh note of outrage as he tore these roughly away to bare her bottom. It was small, and beautifully rounded, with the cheeks jiggling as she struggled.
Then, with her bare moon stuck up to the night sky and in tune to her squeals of pain and protest, she was soundly spanked. He paid no attention to her demands to be put down, nor to her kicking legs and the little fist that she was beating against his boot. Instead, he gave her bottom a hard, methodical slapping until both cheeks were hot and flushed a deep red in the soft orange light of the distant street lamps.
Her angry complaints slowly turned to sobs and whimpers and her wriggles to an erotic squirming. As she began to stick her bottom up, Jervis laughed and stopped the spanking to slip a hand between her thighs. Her quim was wet and he slid a finger into her vagina with ease, drawing a passionate yet humiliated sob from her. Pausing only to suck her cream from his finger, Jervis went back to spanking her, slapping the little soft buttocks alternately. She sobbed and cocked her legs open across his knee, exposing her sex to him. He laughed and turned his attention to the tender backs of her thighs, then laughed again as she once more began to squeal and buck over his lap.
Finally, he tired of the sport, by which time the whole of Genevieve’s bottom and upper thighs were a deep, blotchy red. He let go of her wrist but she made no move to escape, instead lying limp and beaten over his knee with her bottom raised in mute acceptance of whatever further punishment he might choose to dish out.
With the back of one finger, he traced a slow line over one buttock. The skin was hot, dry and rough, just as well-smacked bottoms always were. Her crease was open, showing a thick growth of dark hair that obscured the details of anus and quim. Once more he applied his finger, touching her sex, flicking her clitoris, slipping into the wet hole of her vagina, tickling the tight dimple of her anus. She made no effort to stop him, but shivered at each intimate touch. Unlike the crests of her buttocks, the crease was beaded with sweat, and felt moist and warm. This, coupled with the strong girl scent from her gaping quim, gave Jervis a new and cruel thought.
Pushing her from his lap, he stood and began to unbutton his fly. Genevieve fell to the ground and remained there, front down, with her bottom still showing and her legs cocked slightly apart. She turned her face to him as he extracted his penis. Her make-up was smudged around the eyes, but still exaggerated their size and lustre, giving her a vulnerable, hopeful look as she eyed his cock.
He went to stand over her, setting his legs to either side of her prone body so that he was facing her naked bottom. For a moment he stood still, letting the effects of the evening’s Champagne tell on his bladder. The fluid started to come and he pinched his cock, allowing the pressure to build. Then, with a feeling of exquisite power, he let go and a stream of urine burst from his cock to strike Genevieve’s hot, naked bottom.
Genevieve said nothing as she was pissed on, nor did she make any attempt to move. She simply lay inert, breathing heavily and evenly as Jervis systematically soiled her body and ruined her clothes. The only sound was the spattering noise as he urinated over her bottom, into her quim, down her legs, then up her back and finally into her hair and over her face. Only then did she move, turning her head and opening her beautifully painted mouth to catch his stream full into it.
Jervis began to grin as the piss filled her mouth and started to bubble out at the sides and run down over her cheek. Her excitement was evident, and what had begun as a determination to teach her a lesson by leaving her soiled and spanked in the park took on a new aspect. Letting the last of his urine dribble out into her face and then shaking his cock over her, he stood back, awaiting her response.
She swallowed her mouthful, in plain view, making sure he saw. Then she rose dripping, to her feet and adjusted her clothes to at least a semblance of decency. Only her drawers had avoided the soiling, and this because they had been torn off and now lay near by, a limp rag of black lace. She picked them up and turned to make an inspection of them in the lamplight, then climbed into them and fastened their one remaining button in the small of her back.
She turned and came towards him. Saying nothing, she took his hand. Sensing the mood, Jervis allowed himself to be led across the park and across a street, then down a narrow alley that led between high apartment buildings. Genevieve let herself into the rear of one of these and indicated that he should follow. Together, they climbed to the fourth floor and entered her apartment, a well-appointed set of rooms with a view across the park. Jervis nodded in appreciation, only for Genevieve to take his hand again and lead him into another room.
‘You have used me well,’ she said softly. ‘You have used me as I like to be used, as I need to be used. Few men will do it, fewer understand. Perhaps you will.’
For a moment he was unsure of her meaning, and then she had drawn back a thick curtain to reveal a tiled area with a large machine set at the centre.
‘My favourite toy, the clysopomp,’ she announced, as if showing off a pet dog or a new dress. ‘It is a naughty little device for putting water up even naughtier girls’ bottoms. Say you will play with me, Captain Maray?’
‘Gladly,’ Jervis growled, stepping forwards to inspect the thing.
For a space he admired the device, struck immediately by the devious wickedness of the thing and deep in admiration for whoever had invented it. It consisted of a curiously shaped bench of mahogany, black leather and bright brass, well padded and with straps on each of four legs and in the middle. Not only did this allow its victim to be immobilised, but the shaped padding and central strap clearly acted to keep the back down and the bottom high. This effectively forced the victim to flaunt her bottom, while the wedge-shaped end kept her thighs well apart and her quim and anus vulnerable. The other end was flat and angled somewhat downwards, supporting the girl’s stomach but then narrowing so that her breasts would be dangling free and pushed out to either side.
The bench stood on a broad, heavy stand, evidently designed to prevent it from overturning, however vigorously the victim might struggle. At one side this stand extended some way beyond the feet of the bench, and in the corner that wo
uld be by a victim’s head stood a peculiar tower. This was in the same dark mahogany as the bench and stand, and consisted of an open framework within which was enclosed a large vessel of thick glass. The top of this bore a wide lid and a valve, while the side was calibrated to indicate the volume of whatever liquid it might hold. At the bottom a tap led to a thick rubber tube and then a complicated device with a handle and various taps. The function of this was not immediately apparent, save that it obviously controlled the flow of the fluid in the reservoir. From its end another tube led out, thinner, longer and terminating in another tap, several leather thongs and a round brass nozzle. This was hung on a hook, around which several loops of the tube were twisted. Further hooks supported a variety of instruments, again of no clear purpose.
It was clearly intended for the erotic torment of hapless sexual playthings, and evidently involved the flooding of orifices with water. By comparison, the milking frames of which he was so proud were crude and unimaginative, and he determined to have a clysopomp shipped to Devon to be copied even before Genevieve had finished explaining its function.
‘. . . this tap is to quickly halt the flow,’ she was explaining, ‘while this one regulates the rate of flow up my bottom. It should not be too fast, nor too slow, but just right, to allow me to feel myself fill without provoking pain.’
‘I dare say I can work it,’ Jervis said. ‘Strip off, give yourself a quick scrub down and we’ll pop you on it, shall we?’
She gave an excited nod and stepped through to the bathroom. Jervis extracted a cigar from his pocket humidor, lit it and followed her. Genevieve had just begun to peel her pee-soaked clothes away, and Jervis propped himself against the door frame to watch. Her tastes were expensive, her gown of heavy, dark green silk, her corset black and lacy, as was her underwear. Only the garters showed a hint of colour, being of the deepest blood red. She was quickly down to her stockings, then bare. She was as fine as he had imagined, slender, firm and taut, with a round boyish bottom and little, apple-like breasts.
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