Hall of Infamy

by Amanita Virosa

  Kitty felt the blood rise to her cheeks as his gaze dropped from her face to her breasts.

  ‘Haven’t seen you here before.’ He kept staring at Kitty’s breasts, and licked his lips hungrily. ‘I’m bloody sure I would have remembered a nice ripe pair like that.’

  He stepped forward and Kitty tried to step back, but the voluminous skirts slowed her, and his hand moved fast. Kitty gave a startled shriek as he grabbed her left nipple through the flimsy lace of its constraint. He pinched it between thumb and forefinger.

  ‘Ow! Ouch! Let go, you’re… Ow!’

  Still smiling, the man gave her nipple a vicious twist and pulled down, forcing her to sink to her knees. Kitty found her face next to the whip. It was made of yellow-brown braided leather, worn in places and, from the looks of it, much used. The man retained his painful grip on her nipple but casually withdrew the whip with his free hand. Kitty found her chin lifted by a loop of the thing, the braided texture coarse against the tender skin of her throat. He tilted her head back until she was looking up into his laughing eyes.

  ‘Now then, you saucy little trollop,’ he said in quietly menacing tones, ‘why don’t we inform that bitch Alicia and her old bugger of a husband that they have a visitor, eh?’

  ‘Hold it straight, now, Betsy. No, higher than that and for heaven’s sake keep your hand still. You know you’ll just get extras if you flinch, you silly girl!’

  Perspiring as much from fear as from the warmth of the day, Betsy tried to keep her palm steady. She stood in the centre of the nursery parlour in nothing but her corset and the new black silk stockings. She was trembling as she waited for her master to bring down the tawse again. Betsy closed her eyes and silently prayed.

  There was a decided clink and an anxious sob from the side. Betsy opened her eyes to find her master’s amused gaze upon her. He gave her a wink.

  ‘Don’t go away,’ Jamie said.

  Betsy hated the belt on the hands; worse, in fact, than almost anything else. She gave a sigh of relief, grateful for the respite, however brief.

  The cousins also wore nothing but their usual uniform of white silk smocks and stockings. Both had their hands pinioned behind their backs, in the now-familiar fashion. Both had been silently straining to achieve the task that Jamie had previously ordained.

  When, a little earlier, that young man had sentenced Betsy to the belt, he had also announced that the cousins would not be allowed to watch the disciplining of the nursery-maid. In order to prevent peeking, he had made use of a simple but effective expedient. Producing two golden guineas, Jamie had held one against the wall, level with Amelia’s eyes. The girl had then been made to stand on tiptoe, with feet wide apart, and hold the coin against the wall by pressing it with her nose, something she could only achieve by straining visibly. Clara had then been made to follow suit.

  ‘Good girls, that’s it. Drop the coins and I’ll stripe those pretty bottoms!’ Jamie had growled, giving Amelia’s bare behind a friendly pat. He had then instructed Betsy to place silver platters on the floor between the cousins’ straining legs. The sight of the two girls, bare bottoms twitching in anticipation, calf and thigh muscles taut and trembling with the effort, was something Betsy only wished she had the leisure to enjoy. Whether Clara’s shapely slenderness or Amelia’s more generous curves and long legs were the more appealing, she would have been hard put to choose. However, Betsy’s own travails were too pressing for her to gain any real enjoyment from the cousins’ plight. At least, so she had thought, before she heard that sharp metallic clink.

  Furtively, she looked at the platter between Clara’s legs. There was nothing there, and the blonde girl was still obviously straining. However, from Amelia’s silver tray came an accusatory gleam of gold.

  ‘Pick it up,’ Jamie said firmly.

  ‘I… but—’ Amelia turned, looked at Jamie, then at the tray and the coin upon it, and briefly up at the tawse swinging in his hand. Betsy watched her lick her full lips. Now Amelia had turned, the shapely contours of her breasts could clearly be discerned through the thin silk of the smock. Betsy swallowed, wishing she had a pair of nipple clamps with which to worry the teats which pushed so impudently against the fabric. That, and an hour or three to play with the haughty Miss Amelia on her own. Well, she thought wryly, even a humble nursery-maid could dream!

  The object of her reverie swallowed nervously and got down – a little awkwardly, for she could not use her arms for balance – to her knees. Master Jamie moved around behind her, and Amelia signalled that she was only too well aware of this by letting out a little whimper of fear.

  Betsy knew, from bitter past experience, that it is no easy task to pick a coin up with one’s teeth when one’s hands are tightly pinioned, wrist to opposing elbow, behind one’s back. That Amelia found the task difficult was obvious. Her bottom, the nursery-maid had to admit, was a real beauty. The sweet cheeks were twitching, the muscles clenching convulsively in anticipation of the tawse. To get her head down, Amelia had to stick her bottom out in counterbalance, but it was clear that she hardly dare attempt the final thrust.

  There was a horrid dry whuffling sound as the leather tails disturbed the still air, followed by a vicious-sounding snap, as two leather tawse tails cracked across the inviting bottom. Amelia emitted a pained squeak, and Betsy watched the girl’s pinioned fingers flex helplessly in their bonds.

  ‘Come along, Amelia. I said pick it up.’

  ‘Oh, ooh, ooh, ow, ow…’

  ‘Good God,’ Jamie said, ‘at this rate, we’ll be here all day.’ He grabbed a handful of auburn ringlets and hauled the gasping girl roughly back to her feet. Then he thrust her up against the wall.

  ‘Feet apart, now – wider, wider. All right, stand still.’ He stood back and raised the tawse and, for a moment, the whole of Hatherby seemed to hold its breath.

  Crack! Crack! Crack!

  Three times in quick succession the heavy tawse impacted on Amelia’s bottom.

  Crack! Crack!

  Twice it snapped ferociously across the backs of her thighs. The leather tails hissed through the air, Amelia squealed, and Betsy felt her own bottom flinch involuntarily in sympathy.

  After the fifth stroke, Jamie allowed the girl a minute to jump about and squeal. Prevented by her bonds from rubbing the wide stripes that dissected her bottom, her hands fluttered futilely. Amelia hopped from foot to foot as if engaged in some demented dance, furiously tossing about her shock of auburn ringlets.

  A few minutes later, Jamie knelt, smiling, and retrieved the coin.

  ‘Ow! Yow! Hoo, ha, that – ooh, oh that… st-st-stings!’ It was several more minutes before the girl could be compelled to cease jiggling and jumping from foot to foot. Amelia gasped and gulped, as the welts ripened to a fiery red. Betsy winced in sympathy as she watched her, all too aware that the tawse that had caused such agitation would be snapping away at her own palm very soon.

  Too soon, for the nursery-maid, Amelia recovered her composure. Sniffling, the girl resumed her position, pressing the coin to the wall once more with her nose. Amelia’s welted bottom and thighs quivered visibly beneath the hem of her gown, as she stretched upward and her muscles strained at their task again.

  Jamie turned back to the nursery-maid, tawse swinging slowly in his hand. ‘Well now, Betsy. I do apologise for that interruption. Your hand seems to have dropped a little – keep it up, now, and quite still.’

  Betsy supported her right wrist in her left hand, holding her palm up and both arms out straight in front of her. To do this she had to press her upper arms in against her breasts. Her arms squeezed her breasts together, forcing them up in a way that made her terribly self-conscious. Not for the first time, she wished her breasts were not so large.

  The tawse was even harder to ignore, however. Betsy licked her lips and watched the thick tails swing. Jamie raised it once again, and she held her b
reath and closed her eyes tight, praying for deliverance as she awaited the inevitable impact.

  There was a timid knock at the door. Betsy did not dare to breathe. A pained whimper came from the direction of Amelia, a strained grunt from Clara, and then a resigned sigh from Jamie. Cautiously, Betsy opened one eye. She watched Jamie lower the tawse and turn towards the door. Betsy breathed again.

  ‘Come in!’

  A pretty face in a maid’s cap peeked anxiously around the parlour door. Betsy recognised the new kitchen-maid, Emma, blinking nervously into the room. The girl looked at Amelia and Clara; her eyes widened with surprise and then she looked away. She stared at Betsy with wide eyes. Blushing, she dropped her gaze to the floor.

  ‘Well girl, what is it?’ Jamie demanded.

  ‘Please, sir.’ Emma’s voice was soft and hesitant; her fingers kneaded at her apron. ‘I… I’ve been sent.’

  Only another hundred yards or so to go, Lucy told herself as she fought to stop her heel turning over again. She managed to right herself just in time, but only avoided a worse disaster by the silk of her stockings for, as she fought to regain her balance, the tray swayed, causing glasses and decanter to lurch perilously. Chains tinkled, glass skeetered on silver and clinked together, and leather dug painfully into tender flesh, as the maid fought to stay upright and safeguard the contents of the tray.

  There was a gnarled wisteria trunk entwined around this corner of the hall. The flowers were long gone but a pair of blue-tits flew busily about the leaves. Lucy watched them for a few seconds; they seemed so free and merry as they danced through the air, playing tag under the warm afternoon sun. If only she dare take a moment to recover. No – Lucy knew her mission to fetch refreshments had already taken too long. If she knew her master and mistress, they would be getting impatient, and know them she did, only too well. There was nothing for it. She had to struggle on.

  The trouble was that these high stiletto heels were not designed for gravel pathways. At least that was one of her troubles. Unfortunately she had others, too. Lucy had been stripped down to her long black corset and stockings for her master’s amusement after luncheon. But the removal of her uniform had only been the start.

  ‘You have been getting slack and sloppy, girl,’ Lady Alicia had told her pleasantly. ‘Alex suggested taking you to the west wing—’ Lucy had stiffened at the mention of that terrible old tower ‘—but I have persuaded him to exercise restraint.’

  This had turned out to be one of her ladyship’s little jokes for, though restraints had been employed, it was the maid rather than master who was destined to be exercised in them. First a leather belly-belt, equipped with several D-rings, had been pulled tight around the narrowest part of her already tightly laced waist. Light chains were affixed to her wrists and ankle-straps, all four meeting and running through a central ring on the front of the belt. It was a diabolical device. The chains were long enough to allow a certain freedom for her feet or her hands, but not both together. Too large a step would tug her hands down, too much movement of her arms restricted her feet. She could totter on her heels, holding the tray at waist-level, only if she restricted herself to taking tiny steps. It was uncomfortable, but feasible, to walk like this so long as she did not stumble, but keeping her balance took tremendous concentration; concentration which was rendered nigh-impossible by the saddle-strap.

  It was a thick rounded thong of rawhide. Fixed to her belt at the front, the leather was passed between her legs and pulled tight, before being secured to the back of her waist-strap. Standing with the thing bisecting her tender tissues was a sort of purgatory. Hobbling, as it rasped against her throbbing clitoris, was sheer hell. It is true that there had been a moment, as she shuffled off to fetch the wine, that had been briefly close to heaven. However, Lucy knew that another such eruption now would undoubtedly make her drop her burden, and the last thing she needed now was another such release.

  If only the saddle-thong had not been fixed so ferociously tight. If only there were a few inches more slack in her restraining chains. If only the heels were not so narrow and high. Lucy winced as she hobbled around the final corner, trying to blink away tears of pain. She could see her master and mistress in the distance, and could imagine the impatience on their faces. Gritting her teeth, she hobbled forward grimly. Little steps, little steps, she repeated to herself silently, like a mantra, only steady, little, tiny steps.

  Chink, chink, chink, went the chains. Creak, creak, answered her corset, as she tried to bend at the waist in order to allow herself more slack. The sun was warm on her nearly naked breasts. Wasps were buzzing ominously about her, and the saddle-strap was cutting her in two. Little steps, little steps, only tiny little steps.

  A little further, a glance risked at her master, and Lucy saw displeasure in his face as he flexed his crop. That glance was very nearly her undoing, for she teetered on her heels precariously. Desperately, praying silently, she struggled once again to keep her balance. The glasses chinked against the bottle as the contents of the tray went sliding again. Lucy thought her heart had stopped for a moment as she scrabbled against gravity and unyielding steel chain.

  Fortune smiled, for once, and somehow she held both balance and burden. With a relieved sigh, Lucy tottered off again.

  She was perhaps twenty feet away, perspiring under the Fevershams’ impatient gaze, when she heard the call of greeting. Lucy looked up, as did her mistress and master. Approaching the bench from the other direction came Kitty, resplendent in full uniform, and a man wearing a dingy white suit and battered Panama.

  Grateful for the distraction, Lucy put her head down and focused on attaining the last few yards. She forced herself to ignore the chafing saddle-strap and concentrate on making even, tiny steps.

  ‘What have you done to that poor girl, you wicked pair of blackguards?’ the man called out jovially.

  ‘I – I’m sorry ma’am, master. This man – he—’

  ‘Do you know this baggage wanted me to use the tradesman’s entrance, Alicia? Where do you get your staff?’

  Lucy tried not to let the conversation distract her as she clinked and creaked the last few feet.

  ‘From the reformatory, generally, which you know as well as I. Oh God, why are servants always such awful snobs?’ Lady Alicia cried joyfully. ‘So, Jack, you have finally returned!’

  She had made it. The saddle-strap still dug in bitterly but at least Lucy no longer had to walk. She stood as Lord and Lady Feversham exchanged joyous hugs and affectionate insults with the newcomer. Once she had recovered her breath she glanced at Kitty, who had turned very pale.

  ‘I’m so sorry about the maid, Jack,’ Lady Alicia purred. ‘I shall thrash her for her impertinence. Unless you would rather—’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Jack enthused, laughing and giving the blonde maid a hungry leer. ‘I would definitely rather pay off that particular account myself!’

  ‘Of course. I shall send her to you at a convenient moment.’ Lady Alicia said merrily, clapping her hands together in delight. ‘Well, Jack, this calls for a toast in celebration. Lucy, what are you doing, standing there like a ninny? Hurry off and fetch another glass for our guest!’

  The kitchen-maid stepped uncertainly into the nursery parlour. She was small and delicately pretty with dark brown hair pinned back under her cap. The girl’s daintiness made Betsy feel huge and positively ungainly by comparison.

  ‘Yes, girl?’ Jamie demanded.

  ‘Cook sent me to find his lordship, sir, and ask for—’ the girl blinked anxiously ‘—for a taste of the cane, sir.’

  ‘Well then, why are you here?’

  The girl hung her head and stared, somewhat dolefully, at the floor. ‘It took ages to find his lordship, sir. You see, sir—’ she peeked up at Jamie, her voice little more than a timid whisper ‘—I got lost…’

  ‘For God’s sake, girl, I did not ask for your life story
!’ Jamie snapped impatiently. ‘Get to the point.’

  The kitchen-maid quailed a little at this outburst. ‘Well, sir, when I found his lordship he was, he was—’ a blush touched the girl’s pale cheeks ‘—he was busy.’ She swallowed hard as if remembering something awful. ‘He said that I should come here and ask you to… to…’

  Betsy understood what had happened. It was something of a ritual for new girls, and she remembered her own introduction to the vastness and complexity of the hall only too well. Stumbling, lost from corridor to unknown stairwell, finally reaching her goal only to be sent off somewhere else in search of punishment, she had been in tears long before the first stroke had been struck. All the same, looking at this pretty little morsel, she was surprised that Lord Alex had sent her on. The master must have been occupied with something interesting, Betsy mused, to have passed up such a dainty little treat.

  ‘Very well, girl, I am busy too – but I expect I can find the time to thrash you. Betsy, you won’t mind if your belting waits a little longer?

  Betsy blinked back at him. ‘N-no, sir.’

  ‘Good. Then everyone is happy?’

  There was a groan from Amelia and a slightly panicked gasp from Clara, which suggested that the blonde girl’s coin might be starting to slip. Betsy peeked at the little kitchen-maid, who had gone very pale, and then back to her master, who threw the tawse down onto the chaise longue, where it landed with a sickening thump.

  ‘I asked if everyone was happy?’ Jamie demanded more forcefully.

  There was a ragged chorus of unconvincing, ‘Yes, sir.’

  The young man smiled. ‘Jolly good,’ he said with a satisfied air. ‘Betsy, get that bloody sack off her, will you? You, girl, what is your name?’

  ‘Emma, sir,’ the girl said softly. ‘Emma Swift.’

  Betsy hurried to help the girl take off her functional grey kitchen-maid’s uniform. Beneath, her underclothing was all white, except for soft black woollen stockings. Her undergarments were plain but clean, and obviously new. She wore a thin cotton camisole beneath her corset, which acted as a halter for her breasts. The corset made a trim waist even trimmer. The girl blushed furiously, but did not protest as she was undressed. She kept glancing fearfully towards Amelia.