Schooled for Service Page 4

  ‘Why not?’ one of the ‘twins’ agreed, Joanna, the top of whose head was crusted with egg yolk while Jane’s was merely matted. ‘We got it in front of you, and worse.’

  ‘It... I... These things are all very well for a girl from the collieries, but hardly appropriate to a Lady,’ Thrift answered, her anger rising despite herself, ‘and furthermore, you would do well to treat me with respect. Such terms as “Pollicle” are quite inappropriate. I am not a dog! Certainly I should never, ever be whipped like that, as if I were no better...’

  ‘Hurts more, does it?’ Jane demanded.

  ‘I suspect it might well,’ Thrift answered primly.

  ‘Seems so, the fuss she made,’ Kirsty laughed, a sound echoed by the colliery girls and Sally-Anne.

  ‘And what makes you think you’re in the wrong place, eh duck?’ Jane asked.

  ‘I... I do not know!’ Thrift replied, blushing. ‘The paperwork must be in error, as I said, or... or perhaps an arrangement had been made to transport Elizabeth at the same time, but I should have gone on with the car, and my dresses, and my jewellery, and my...’

  She stopped. All six of them were looking at her. Elizabeth scared, Lucy with an expression impossible to read, the others more or less aggressive. Frantically, she changed tack.

  ‘I... I think Miss Scarsdale is a most vulgar, unsuitable person, and her conduct outrageous! I fully intend to write a letter of complaint, when this foolish business is sorted out, and I shall plead your cases as best as I am able, and...’

  ‘Very generous of your Ladyship, to be sure,’ Joanna sneered.

  ‘So you’re better than us, for all you’ve done, is that it?’ Kirsty demanded. ‘And I’ll bet your pot’ll smell of roses in the morning and all.’

  ‘I... I...,’ Thrift stammered, blushing furiously, ‘I am a Lady, yes, and should that not entitle me to a certain respect? And yet this is not the issue! I... I have not ruined myself! It is not suitable I be given this treatment!’

  ‘Are you saying you’ve not had your cherry popped?’ Kirsty demanded, in genuine surprise.

  ‘No... I...,’ Thrift began, struggling to find the right words to explain what had happened with Dr Molloy. ‘Certainly I have never... never entertained a man...’

  ‘I’ll not believe that!’ Kirsty laughed. ‘We all saw your cunt, remember, like a fourpenny bloody bun!’

  Jane and Joanna gave her curious looks as Thrift and Elizabeth’s faces flared to crimson.

  ‘You know, the slit kind with a dollop of cream in,’ Kirsty explained. ‘That’s what we call a ready cunt in Glasgow, and I reckon her Ladyship’s here was as wet as I’ve ever been, for one, and that she’s had it poked just the same! I’ve a mind to see.’

  ‘No!’ Thrift squealed, but Kirsty was already on her feet, and both Jane and Joanne were laughing.

  ‘I agree,’ Joanna put in. ‘Let’s spread her out! Then we’ll see how pure she is!’

  ‘No!’ Thrift repeated. ‘You must not! It is... it is vulgar! Please, no... Porter... Sally-Anne, help me, please?’

  ‘I’ve a mind to see and all,’ Sally-Anne answered, standing from her bed.

  Thrift scrambled away as the four girls advanced, with the other two holding back and staring in horrified sympathy, but still looking. There was nowhere to go, and she was grabbed, first by Joanna, who seemed impossible strong as Thrift was hauled easily out of the corner, then by sally-Anne, who simply lifted her bodily and threw her down on the bed.

  ‘Shut her up, someone,’ Kirsty advised as Thrift began to squeal again. ‘Else the hags’ll hear.’

  Sally-Anne responded, grabbing Thrift’s flailing arms to pin her down on the bed and leaning forward. Thrift’s face was smothered in Sally-Anne’s bosom, the huge, heavy breasts squashed against her face, so that she was immediately gasping for air. Her skirts were hauled high, Jane and Joanna caught her kicking legs, rolling her up to let Kirsty get at the corset gudgeons, and she was coming bare for the second time in hours, and once more writhing in furious consternation as it was done. With her corset panel open, her drawers were slowly, casually undone and opened, the girls laughing as her bare quim was put on show, only this time not for beating, but with her legs splayed high and wide, to show off her still wet quim, and the torn edges of her burst hymen. Kirsty gave a great vulgar crow of mirth when she saw, the colliery girls adding snorts of contempt. Sally-Anne’s weight shifted as she too peered close for a look, with Thrift still squirming beneath her.

  ‘No more virgin than my Mam’s old bitch!’ one of the sister’s called. ‘You two, come and look at her Ladyship’s cunt, and see for yourself she’s a liar!’

  Unable to speak for her faceful of bosom, Thrift could only wriggle stupidly as she was inspected, both Elizabeth and Lucy coming to look. Only when all six girls had taken their fill, one even sticking a finger into Thrift’s slippery hole, was she released, to lie panting on the bed with her cheeks blazing crimson with blushes and her head filled with hideously embarrassing and shameful images of being made to lick at the other girls’ quims, as she had been with the girls in her class at the Diplomatic School.

  Only later that night did she act on her feelings, and then as much to comfort herself as for the pleasure it gave. Later, once she was sure all the other girls were asleep after washing and prayers, and after another impromptu spanking for Elizabeth from the chaperones, she eased up the petticoat she had kept on for the sake of decency, unfastened her chemise at the front to bare her breasts, took one plump globe in hand, and slipped her fingers onto her quim.

  Biting her lip to make sure she didn’t make any sound, she began to rub, thinking first of how her body felt, with the plump softness of one breast in her hand and her bottom sensitive and full, still warm from her beating. Yet with the pain of her welts it was moments before her mind had turned to what had been done to her, and the hot glow it had brought to her cheeks and her quim, for all the agony of her shame. In moments she was struggling to stifle her sobs at the thought of her own wantonness, and then she had given in, rubbing hard on her bump with her head full of images of bare, beaten bottoms, her own and those of the other girls, Elizabeth neat and pink, squirming over the chaperone’s lap in the car, Jane and Joanna, stripped and filthy as they were belted into submission, her own anguish and pain and exposure, and Elizabeth again, little pink bottom dancing as a broad black strap was applied to the quivering cheeks...

  Fluid squirted from her pee hole as she came, with her mind fixed on the image of Elizabeth’s dancing bottom, only to succumb to unbearable shame as the reality of rubbing herself to climax over another girl, and a professional at that, hit her. She collapsed with a sob and a creak of bedsprings, and as she stuck a soothing thumb into her mouth she caught a faint voice from across the dormitory.

  ‘Hear that, the wanton little Pollicle! She’s not as bad as us, she’s worse!’

  Waking to the clang of a bell and utter blackness, Thrift spent a moment of complete disorientation, wondering where she was and what was happening. Memory came with the rasp of the door bolts, and a moment later light flooded the room. She sat up, blinking and drowsy, but filled with fear at the prospect of a beating if she didn’t react swiftly. Sure enough, the chaperone who had come to wake them wrenched the covers from Lucy Prior’s bed and had landed a heavy smack of her strap on one bare white thigh before the unfortunate girl could scramble to the floor.

  ‘Look sharp!’ the chaperone bellowed. ‘End of your beds, at attention! Hands by your sides, faces to the front, tits up and out, unless you want your fat backsides welted good and proper!’

  The girls moved, some scowling and reluctantly, but none daring to disobey. Neither Joanna nor Jane had been left with anything fit to be called clothing, and both were stark naked, their pale skin rising in goose-pimples as they stood in the pre-dawn cold, and the nipples of thei
r solid, heavy breasts firmly erect. The chaperone gave a sniff of disgust, or possibly amusement at the sight, but as she reached Thrift’s bed, she picked up the two remaining petticoats and threw them to the twins, both of whom gratefully pulled them on, and up, over their breasts, to leave them in what looked like ridiculously abbreviated dresses, with the shape of their breasts quite plain and the lacy hems barely covering their bottoms at the rear. Thrift, outraged at the casual confiscation of her petticoats, managed not to laugh, but Sally-Anne sniggered and earned a hard crack of the strap across the front of her thighs. Like Kirsty the night before, she barely reacted, save for a sullen grunt of pain. The chaperone turned back as she reached the window, marched back the way she had come between the twin lines of immobile girls and turned at the door.

  ‘Wash, dress, and line up at the door. Last one ready is on pot duty.’

  Thrift hurried to obey, but quickly realised she had little chance of being anything other than the slowest. She and Sally-Anne were furthest from the door, and therefore the washstand, so that by the time she had splashed water into her face made a hurried and embarrassed attempt to clean her body beneath her petticoat and chemise the others were already dressing. The chaperone had reappeared, bearing two dresses of plain dark blue wool, which she threw to Joanna and Jane. Both pulled them over their heads and were ready. Kirsty was already in her ragged brown dress, and Lucy took only a moment longer. Elizabeth was still in a fluster of laces and clips, but had been first at the washstand, while Sally-Anne was finished while Thrift was still desperately trying to figure out how to lace her corset without the assistance of Miss Challis. In the end she was forced to ask Elizabeth for help, and to finish dressing with all six of the others standing neatly in line at the door. The chaperone gave her an unsympathetic nod, then spoke.

  ‘Skirts up.’

  ‘But...’

  ‘Skirts up!’

  Thrift grabbed for her skirts, hauling them high a moment before she was pushed across the end of Elizabeth’s bed. The corset gudgeons she had struggled so hard to do up quickly were opened, all nine buttons of her drawers undone one by one, and yet again she had to endure the shame of exposing her bare bottom in front of the other girls. Three hard smacks of the chaperone’s strap were applied to her bare cheeks, setting her dancing on her toes and whimpering with pain and self-pity, then it stopped.

  ‘The pots,’ the chaperone stated. ‘You others, follow me.’

  Gasping and dishevelled, Thrift was left to restore her clothing, then to the task of emptying the large china potties, a task so demeaning and unsuitable to her station that it left her choking with chagrin, while she had no idea whatsoever of how to go about it. Ten minutes had passed before she managed to identify the sluice room, and another ten before she had brought all seven pots in and worked out how to use the patent cleansing system. By then she had spilt pee down her dress and sprayed herself with unexpectedly hot water, leaving her bedraggled, furious and on the edge of tears when she finally reached the refectory.

  The other girls had almost finished a breakfast of porridge and bread spread with dripping, which she discovered she was supposed to make for herself in the kitchen. Only a dribble of already congealing porridge was left in the pot, along with a single crust and a scraping of fat. Unable to face eating anything so foul and so unsuitable, also determined to catch up with the others, she decided to abandon breakfast, only for a chaperone to catch her as she left the kitchen and demand to know why she had not washed and scoured the porridge pot.

  Once more she was tipped unceremoniously across a table, forced to lift her skirts, have her bottom exposed, and three sharp smacks of the chaperone’s strap were applied to her quivering cheeks. As she was being punished the other girls came in with their plates, and she was ordered to remain bent and exposed while the others cleaned up, everything save the porridge pot, which was assigned to Thrift. With the others gone, she was at last allowed up out of her humiliating position and made to scrub the pot before being sent to the chapel for prayers.

  Further precious minutes were wasted before she discovered that the chapel was an entirely separate building, set among a grove of old yews to the rear of the house. By the time she came in to the service prayers were nearly over, and for the third time she was forced to bend, this time over a pew, her bottom stripped, and three hard strokes of the strap applied in front of her companions. She was then made to say her prayers with her bare bottom still sticking out behind

  By the time she had made herself decent again the others were outside, on the main lawn behind the house, four in their chemises and petticoats, the colliery girls topless and with their bare breasts bouncing as they were put through a series of rhythmic exercises by a chaperone. Thrift was left with no option but to peel off her outer clothing as fast as she was able and join in, only to be told to touch her toes, so that her drawers could be opened behind one more time, and yet another set of three welts added to the collection on her blazing bottom.

  By the time the exercises were finished, she was sweaty, flustered, and dizzy, her well smacked bottom like a ball of fire beneath her drawers, and so filled with confusion and chagrin she barely knew what she was doing. As she struggled back into her clothes her fingers were shaking too hard for her to handle the buttons and clips, and even with Elizabeth’s help she failed to make herself ready by the time the others had been marshalled into a line. She reached the schoolroom only a moment behind, but one more time she was bent, exposed, and smacked, then made to remain kneeling at her desk, bare behind for all to see as they were lectured on moral virtue, geography, and the demographics of the Indian provinces.

  Despite having to maintain her humiliating position, the three hour long classes allowed Thrift to regain at least some of her composure. The subjects were all familiar, and she was able to answer those questions directed at her without difficulty, while with the exception of Elizabeth, the others struggled with the most simple facts. All five had their bottoms exposed at least once for the application of the unvarying three strokes of the strap, and Thrift was left with her mind swimming with images of naked female bottom cheeks and the pouted rear views of quims as well as moral virtue, geography, and the demographics of the Indian provinces.

  When the house bell struck noon they were dismissed, and Thrift was finally allowed to climb down and cover herself, her knees now almost as sore as her bottom. As with breakfast, they were obliged to prepare lunch for themselves, and to serve it to the chaperones, who took the best of the mixture of thin pork chops, boiled cabbage and mashed potatoes which Thrift considered barely fit for servants. She nevertheless ate heartily, and fast, leaving the hapless Lucy with the task of scrubbing the pots and pans.

  Lucy was also given the inevitable strapping, bent over the kitchen table just as Thrift has been, with her well formed bottom stuck out of her cheap cotton drawers and a puff of golden hair visible where her quim showed between her thighs. It was the first time she had been punished in front of Thrift, and she took it badly, squealing at every smack and whimpering in between, but when it was done she thanked the chaperone for her discipline.

  It was Lucy’s contrition that brought home the full injustice of her situation to Thrift. The girl had clearly abandoned herself, and was now duly sorry for her actions, and so accepted that she should be punished. Thrift had no cause for such sentiments, or at least, none the authorities were aware of. She was wanton, true, but she had never allowed herself the ultimate disgrace of taking a man’s pego, or cock, into her front passage, saving only Dr Molloy, who was an entirely respectable doctor and had introduced his member to her hole only for impeccable reasons.

  That a mistake had been made was clear, and it only needed to be made plain to Miss Scarsdale and all would be well. Arrangements would be made, she would be collected by car, and taken to the establishment where her training for the Diplomatic Service was supposed to ha
ve begun. Indeed, her tutors would doubtless be wondering where she was. Despite considerable trepidation, she determined to seek out Miss Scarsdale and complain, also to make a few pertinent remarks on the running of the establishment and point out that her father had extensive contacts in the Home Office, including many who would be several ranks senior to those Miss Scarsdale answered to.

  Prayers followed lunch, and then further lessons. There was History, with an outline of the course and a simple rundown of pre-Christian Britain that had been familiar to Thrift for years. Both the colliery girls, Kirsty and Sally-Anne were strapped. There was Politics, with a basic overview of the Empire system, again familiar to Thrift. The other girls seemed entirely ignorant of even the most simple procedures, and even Elizabeth was obliged to bare her bottom for the strap. There was Divinity, with the Book of Genesis, something even the working class girls had done before and which for once came to an end without a single bottom exposed.

  By then Thrift felt considerably more confident, both in her status and in her ability to make the importance of prompt and correct action clear to Miss Scarsdale. Tea was available in the kitchen, but Thrift took only a mouthful before making for the Supervisor’s study, which she had noted opened directly off the front hall. With her stomach knotted in anticipation but her jaw set firm, she knocked on the door. Miss Scarsdale’s clear, patrician voice answered and Thrift entered, dropping a polite curtsey as the frigid blue eyes came to focus on her through the distorting lenses of the glasses.

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Scarsdale,’ Thrift began. ‘I wish to speak on a matter of the utmost importance.’

  ‘Importance?’ Miss Scarsdale retorted, with a marked irritation that vanished abruptly as she went on. ‘How may I help you then, Thrift?’

  Encouraged, Thrift seated herself on a chair, wincing as her sore bottom pressed down, but staying put, as rising again seemed a foolish thing to do.