Hall of Infamy

by Amanita Virosa

  either side were mostly oak, though hornbeam soon became more common.

  ‘It is a remarkable estate still, is it not?’ Jamie said, waving at the woods. ‘All this is still within the walls. Of course, it used to be truly vast in the old days.’

  Amelia concentrated on keeping her balance. The path was a rough farm track. The sun-baked clay that had given some solid footing for her heels was rapidly becoming sandy. Glancing round, she noticed that silver-barked birch trees had begun to make an appearance, lining the pathway. Amelia had always loved the delicate grace of the birch, but today their beauty gave her no pleasure. Instead they seemed ominous and tainted.

  ‘One wonders how long these groves have been maintained,’ Jamie mused as they followed the path upward. He led them from the main path. It was brighter here, for the birch foliage was light, the trees were small, and the afternoon sun was shining. The woods were full of birdsong, but for all this the place seemed terrible to Amelia. Just as in the Whippery, the very brightness of the groves only increased their sense of menace.

  The birches here seemed to be shrubs rather than trees, for the most part consisting of regular-sized evenly spaced bushes. Jamie instructed the cousins and the maid to take a trug and pair of secateurs each. Then he led Amelia to one thicket of birch.

  ‘These are coppiced so we can reach the shoots,’ he explained. ‘Not usually a long-lived tree, the birch, but these beauties are ancient. The coppicing lengthens their lives.’ He pulled a long limb free and indicated for Amelia to snip it off. ‘It makes you wonder, doesn’t it—’ his face was rapt ‘—how many birch rods has this old stool provided for Hope Hall?’

  Amelia cut the next bough that he indicated and placed it in the trug.

  ‘It must be hundreds, anyway,’ Jamie continued. As he imparted this cheering information, he patted Amelia on her behind. ‘Think about all those well-flogged bottoms while you are cutting.’

  ‘Easy girl, easy. That’s it, good girl, Blossom. Looks like you’ve had a good run. Time to rub you down, now.’ The stable-boy led her back into the same stall in which she had passed a restive night. There he began unbuckling the harness of brown leather straps, which was all she wore.

  ‘Whoa, whoa, easy, girl.’

  Blossom swayed, her legs like jelly, as the last part of the harness came off. He steadied her with a hand on her elbow.

  ‘The master worked you hard this afternoon, eh?’ He gave her a smile as he perused her naked body, gently touching one of the welts which Lord Alex’s driving-whip had left across her back. Guiding her down onto her knees, he unbuckled the bridle and eased out the bit. She gave a little sob of relief.

  ‘Just rest easy there, Blossom, girl.’

  Dick hung the harness with a lot of similar tack and went out of sight, leaving her kneeling naked in the straw. It occurred to her that, for the first time since she had arrived at the stables yesterday evening, she was neither chained nor bound. She could see the invitingly open double doors of the stable-block a tantalisingly few feet away, and the mad thought entered her mind, just for a moment, that she could make a run for it.

  The idea was absurd. Where would she run to, naked and friendless? How far could she run, in any case? Lord Alex had had her harnessed to his sulky and made her race around the estate all morning, flogging her enthusiastically every time she had flagged. Blossom had been made to run until she could barely stand, let alone flee.

  There was something else that kept her trembling, naked in her stall, more potent than exhaustion and more powerful than fear. Blossom had not liked her name being changed, yet she had accepted it. It was galling to be treated like an animal, yet it was strangely seductive.

  Lord Alex had proved that he could be a brutal master as he had flogged her to ever greater efforts, yet he had taught her that he was her master. Something strange had stolen into her soul out in the park. Blossom knew now that she belonged to Lord Alex. It was not the place of property to run away.

  So the open door and the freedom from restraint held no appeal; it made her feel unsafe and uncomfortable. The urge to escape was deeply unappealing, yet it tugged away at her. She turned her face the other way. The stall was open with three sides formed of rough-hewn planks. It was too small, she realised, to hold any but human ponies. This fact increased the feeling of enclosure, and she turned right around until her back was to the open side, until her heart stopped hammering.

  ‘Good girl.’ Dick had returned with a gleaming steel bucket full of water. ‘No, not like that.’ He caught her hands and pulled them back, then gathered up her long mane of brown hair.

  Blossom understood. She bent and put her face into the water, drinking directly from the bucket. The water was indescribably delicious, the coldest, sweetest, most soothing drink she had ever had in her life. All too soon, the hand in her hair pulled her head back and out of the bucket.

  ‘Whoa! That’s enough, girl. That’s enough – time for your rub-down, now!’

  If the water had been bliss, what followed was more like torture. Dick produced a rubber curry-comb, a brush that looked like a hedgehog made of stiff rubber spines. He proceeded to scour every inch of Blossom’s body with it.

  ‘Easy, now – stop wriggling, you bad girl. Hold still or it will be the worse for you.’

  ‘Oh, ouch, please, ooh!’

  ‘No talking!’

  The currying turned into a wrestling match as the rubber spikes abraded the soft flesh of Blossom’s breasts.

  ‘Looks like you have a handful there, boy!’ A deep male voice boomed around the stable.

  ‘Aye, Mr Blackstock. She’s a big girl and she’s wriggling like a salmon, but the master said I was to curry her proper!’

  ‘Here, lad, I’ll hold her while you scrub.’

  ‘Ooh… ow… mercy.’

  ‘Stop talking or I will put the bit on you, girl!’

  Blossom fought against Mr Blackstock’s iron grip as the curry-comb began to scour the tender flesh of her inner thighs. Dick scrubbed, Blossom wriggled and kicked, and Mr Blackstock held her down with consummate ease. Eventually she somehow recovered control over herself again, and ceased struggling and crying, gritting her teeth as the rubber comb bit into her calves.

  Blossom’s whole body was an angry scarlet now, the colour of a well-smacked bottom, and her skin felt as if it had been rubbed raw. When Mr Blackstock finally released her, she collapsed, sobbing brokenly into the straw. She wiped the tears from her face and tried to get her breath back. The two men were standing over her naked body, watching her in silence, and awareness of them grew as the pain of the currying faded to a not unpleasant glow.

  ‘Damned pretty filly, if you like them big and leggy.’ There was a thickness in Dick’s voice and, though she kept her eyes downcast, she could see his hand stroking his groin.

  ‘Not a bad-looking piece, I’ll give you that. We’ll have to have some entertainment later, when you’ve cleaned her up.’

  ‘Are we allowed?’

  Mr Blackstock gave a harsh barking laugh that made Blossom flinch. ‘By God, yes, boy, as long as we don’t interfere with the training. After all, this job has to have some perks. Don’t worry, that business with Davy was just her ladyship’s little joke. If she fancies giving you a dose, she’ll think up another reason. You see, lad, when her ladyship takes a fancy to your arse… Let’s just say she generally gets a little of what she fancies!’

  Blossom peeked up. Dick’s usually florid face had gone pale. Mr Blackstock laughed again.

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about it too much. It looks to me like she’s more interested in young Davy.’

  ‘That’s it, Clara, good long limbs – they’ll make a birch that will fetch you properly, my sweet.’

  Amelia tried to ignore Jamie’s relaxed and amused voice, and concentrate on her doleful task. It was not easy.

 
‘Betsy, what on earth is this? Great heavens, girl, you should know how to cut a Hope Hall rod by now! This little twig is only good for one thing. Do you know what that is?’

  ‘A – a bosom birch, sir.’

  ‘That’s right. A little bitty titty-teaser. Now, I will have no waste. Strip those leaves off and get those titties out, and we shall demonstrate to the girls why it is advisable to cut their switches good and long.’

  Amelia glanced down at her trug in alarm, trying to gauge if any of her leafy boughs might be adjudged too small, and trying to quell the sensation of near-panic that gripped her vitals. She decided against the branch that she was going to cut and reached out to take another, more substantial one.

  ‘I say, Jamie, well met. What a glorious day!’

  The voice of the newcomer made her hand freeze for a second, and Amelia was not able to stop her outstretched arm from trembling slightly.

  ‘Glorious indeed, Reverend. Ah, you have trugs with you, I see. I suspect that you are on the same mission as we.’

  Amelia swallowed bitter bile as the two men chuckled behind her.

  ‘It really is remarkable. However many dozen birches I put up each winter, I always seem to get through them and need to come and cut more by the end of spring.’ He sighed theatrically. ‘The wickedness of the world, Jamie, makes constant demands on my store of rods.’

  Amelia laid the cut branch in the trug, which was on the ground, conscious that in bending she must display her bottom to the watching men. However, she need not have worried.

  ‘I must own that your nursery-maid is possessed of an extraordinarily well-developed pair of breasts,’ the Reverend said crisply. ‘However, one wonders if she has some reason, other than sheer exhibitionism, for displaying them so wantonly?’

  ‘Indeed so, Reverend. She has been cutting light, for which there can be but one remedy. Amelia, Clara, leave your tasks and come over here.’

  Amelia turned at last to find what she had half-expected and much dreaded. The Reverend Dawes’s glittering gaze immediately locked onto her eyes. It was only for a moment, but for that moment she was sure that her heart had altogether stopped. It was only with a real effort of will that she could obey Jamie’s instruction and walk towards that terrible gimlet gaze.

  Fortunately for Amelia’s progress, the prospect of Betsy’s bared breasts drew the Reverend’s attention away. The nursery-maid was blushing crimson. The top of her apron had been let down, the buttons of her uniform undone and the top two clasps of her corset unfastened. Her breasts had done the rest, pushing forward and out of the constraint of her clothes. Betsy kept her head bowed as she proffered the bundle of birch twigs, freshly stripped of their leaves, in a visibly trembling hand.

  ‘Old Banks, the woodsman, has kept these coppiced for forty years to safeguard the Hall’s supply of rods. I’ll not have his work wasted by cowardly trollops who seek to save their skins by cutting twigs before they are grown to size!’ Jamie declared.

  ‘Quite right. Faith, Rose, watch and learn and note well the size of limbs required, unless you wish to receive the same.’

  The Reverend’s presence had so compelled Amelia’s attention that she had scarcely been aware that he had not arrived alone. Now she ventured a glance at his companions. A lovely girl with long blonde hair and a demure expression stood next to a robust-looking young woman with a shock of red curls. Both wore smart black maids’ uniforms. Neither girl replied, but both kept their eyes downcast, and Amelia saw the redhead swallow glumly.

  ‘All right, Betsy.’ Jamie took the proffered twigs at last. ‘Cup them with your hands and lift them up for me. Thank you.’

  The nursery-maid paled. She cupped her breasts and pushed up from below. The woodland seemed to have gone very quiet, as if even the birds in the trees had stopped to watch. Amelia stared at the white expanse of flesh. Betsy’s breasts were flawless, the snowy rounds only interrupted by the deep rose of her nipples. Whether her breasts were shivering, or the quivering of her supporting hands transferred the motion, they trembled in the dappled sunlight as Jamie raised the rod.

  Swithk!

  The birch twigs whispered through the fresh air and bounced across the proffered breasts. Betsy’s face contorted with pain. She jammed her eyes closed and shook her upper body vigorously, bending almost double as she did so.

  ‘Back into position, Betsy. There’s a good girl.’

  ‘Ooh, ah, s-s-sorry, sir.’

  By the time the nursery-maid managed to regain the ordained position, a tracery of fine red lines had bloomed on the milky flesh of her breasts. The rosy nipples seemed to have grown, too, pushing out more prominently than before.

  Swithk!

  A high-pitched gasp of pain escaped from Betsy’s lips.

  ‘I think that fetched her,’ the Reverend Dawes said conversationally. He casually took out his cigar case and opened it. Betsy was bent double again, her antics providing evidence for the truth of his observation. She shook like a wet dog and gave a series of little grunts of pain. It was a full minute before she could stand and proffer her breasts again. Her nipples were jutting out like pink thimbles now, and the crimson tracery was so vivid that her breasts looked as though they were constrained in a film of crimson lace. The welts were fine, the skin remained unbroken, but the nursery-maid’s birched bosom looked sore. Amelia’s own breasts tingled in sympathy as she stared. She watched a tear trickle down Betsy’s cheek.

  Swithk!

  ‘Ooh!’ Betsy doubled up once more.

  Jamie peered disdainfully at the bundle of twigs, half of which were now broken. ‘Good Lord, you must have titties like iron, Betsy.’ He threw the makeshift birch rod down, shaking his head. The young man shrugged in the direction of the Reverend Dawes. ‘Breasts like old boot-leather. I doubt she felt a thing.’

  The object of this observation clutched her breasts, hopping from foot to foot and shaking her head from side to side as she hissed with pain.

  ‘Adjust your dress now. Make yourself respectable,’ Jamie ordered dryly. ‘Come along, you wanton girl, we do not have all day.’

  It was not difficult to understand the reason for the delay. First Betsy had to regain control of her body. The tears were coursing freely down her face and the tracery of tiny welts bloomed angrily on her breasts. These she was kneading, as if she could somehow massage away the pain. When, at length, Betsy regained control, she had to stuff her breasts back into the tight grip of her corset, not something easily or painlessly accomplished. The maid winced and grimaced as she struggled with her stays, until Jamie gave a sigh and helped her force the garment closed.

  ‘Aiee…!’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, be quiet, girl. And button yourself up.’

  Betsy obeyed, but she did so slowly and with considerable wincing, and for the remainder of the afternoon, Amelia noticed, the least movement of the nursery-maid’s arms would cause her face to crease with pain again.

  All Work and No Play…

  Kitty hurried through the hall, a fistful of silk in either hand, as she hoisted up her billowing skirts to keep the hem of her uniform from sweeping the floor. The black silk of the gown, together with the six starched petticoats which flounced out her skirts so widely that she might have almost have had crinoline beneath, produced a veritable symphony of rustling as she bustled along.

  Mrs Pritchard had gone to town after luncheon and thus it was her duty, as senior upstairs servant in the housekeeper’s absence, to greet the visitor whose carriage she had seen approaching from the blue drawing room. The honour of this office was new to the maid, and it made her heart swell with pride, but it also made her somewhat apprehensive. She wished, once again, that the bodice of her uniform was not so perilously low-cut. As she looked down, she could see her breasts jiggle in front of her, pushed up by her corset and barely contained by the wisp of lace above the garment’s supportin
g quarter-cups.

  Even more, she wished that Mrs Pritchard had not insisted she wear the leather collar and cuffs again. The visible tokens of her servitude seemed so inappropriate for one in such a position of responsibility.

  These feelings only increased tenfold as Kitty turned into the grand entrance hall and saw the figure standing there. His look was frankly villainous. Not a big man, five foot eight at most and wiry in build, he was unshaven and as tanned as a gypsy fruit-picker. He wore a stained white suit with frayed collar and cuffs and had not even bothered to respectfully remove his battered Panama hat. Kitty rustled right up to him, only to confront green eyes that twinkled at her villainously.

  ‘The tradesman’s entrance is at the back, through the courtyard,’ Kitty said primly, trying to draw herself to her full height without simultaneously thrusting out her breasts. She silently cursed the collar that was bound to undermine her effort to assert authority.

  The man just looked at her for a moment. Casually, he put his hands in his trouser pockets. This action pushed his jacket open a little, just enough for Kitty to glimpse the little whip thrust casually into his waistband.

  ‘Is it, sweetheart, is it?’ he said at last, smiling and flashing a gold tooth that made him look even more like a pirate. He turned and looked around the impressive entrance hall, showing no sign of being prepared to leave.

  Kitty prevaricated for a moment, in a real quandary. Why today? she wondered fretfully. Mrs Pritchard would have known how to deal with this grubby beggar. If she did not get rid of him, she would certainly be in trouble. There was no option but to try again.

  ‘I’m afraid I must ask you to leave,’ she said, aware that her voice was sounding distinctly shrill as it echoed around the marble entrance hall.

  The man cocked his head enquiringly and studied her, perfectly unperturbed. ‘Oh, must you now, my sweet?’ he mocked.