Hirst Hall

Chapter 5 – I am more naked than ever before

The next day I went riding for the first time since coming to Hirst Hall.  Sir Thomas insisted that I be accompanied by a young groom, Ralph. Although this was nominally for my protection and to help familiarise myself with the estate, I felt it was more in the role of a warder.  And as his stallion was stronger and larger than my filly I was in no doubt that he could if necessary prevent my escape.  And even if I could manage this I would be opening poor Rose to terrible abuse: beaten every hour.

This, coupled with the fact that I knew Sir Thomas insisted on discreetly reading all my correspondence before it was sent, meant that I was trapped in my position: a nightingale in an ornate and gilded cage. Somehow I knew I must find a way to escape my predicament.  I knew Mrs. Jones read the correspondence from the staff so approaching a maid to send a letter would be foolish.  I determined that I should begin to immerse myself in charitable works on the estate and then in the district until I found a person with no connection to the estate to whom I could entrust letters to my daughter and my brother.

That mid-afternoon I found myself once more summoned to the Yellow Salon.  I think my husband preferred to use this room for tormenting me, both for the pleasure of his first wife’s portrait and the fact the room was always warm due to the size of its fireplace.  And since I knew from the day before that he was ready in part to disrobe himself I imagined that he wished to remain comfortable as the weather outside was still in the latter days of February. And once again it was Rose and Mrs. Jones who joined us.

“My dear, I am desirous of continuing your instruction.  So Rose, if you wouldn’t mind?”  With this my maid began to undress me once more.  By now I was becoming accustomed to this martyrdom and resisted not one whit. I shivered though with the thought of what might be to come. Was he about to make me take his member in my mouth again?

When I was again naked he bade me sit on the Chippendale sofa that faced the fireplace and the portrait of Lady Anne above it.  A cushion was placed behind my back and I was asked to recline against it.  I grew increasingly apprehensive; this was clearly something new and undoubtedly humiliating.

“Mrs. Jones, please give me a hand with this next part.” The two of them advanced on me while I cringed back against the cushion.  My husband bent down and took a firm grip of one ankle while the housekeeper took the other. I cried out in alarm as I felt them lift my feet from the floor and pull my legs up and apart. I did not resist at all as I was trying to keep my balance and stop myself sliding off the sofa onto the floor. Quickly they bound soft cords to my ankles and to the prominent corners on the back of the sofa.  I was splayed alarmingly wide in a position bereft of even the slightest decency, looking between my legs at the fireplace and portrait.  I glanced down to see the tendons sticking out on the inside of my thighs so far apart were they and also to see my mound and bush thrust upward and my sex opened.  I firmly shut my eyes to close off this sight.

“Please...  please let me down.” I made to cover myself with my hands.

“Keep your hands by your side, dear, or I shall have Mrs. Jones bind them.”  Reluctantly I let them fall next to me.

“Now, open your eyes and look at me.”  He was standing before me immaculately dressed as always and with that hungry wolf-grin on his face.

“Rosie, come here.  Stand before your mistress and lift your dress.  Show her your backside.”  Rose complied with this order without hesitation.

“Those five stripes still look rather tender.  Are they?”  I was staring hopelessly at the red lines across her buttocks.  The put-upon maid assented.

“Well, let’s hope her ladyship doesn’t earn you any more today. Drop your dress, you hussy!”  Rose obeyed and retreated to one side.

“The rules for today, dear wife, are that you will keep your eyes open and that you will only speak if spoken to. Rosie here gets a stroke every time you fail in these simple tasks.  Is that clear?”

That was clearly a request needing a reply so I said, “Yes, Sir Thomas.”  What were they going to do to me?  I must stay silent.  I fixed my eyes on Lady Anne’s smiling face in the portrait as a way of trying to keep my eyes open.

“I think we are ready to begin, Mrs. Jones.  You may ring for Mary.”  I heard the bell tinkle.  I wanted to close my eyes but dared not.  The door opened promptly and I watched in trepidation as the young maid pushed in a little trolley with a variety of items.  I saw her eyes start with surprise at my contorted position.  I tried to stare straight ahead but found my eyes torn to look at the trolley. There was a bowl of water, towels and a number of other items.

“Thank you, Mary.  Please send in James.” The maid curtseyed and left, only for the slender young man who was Sir Thomas’ valet to appear. 

I nearly closed my eyes as he disinterestedly surveyed my position and then addressed Sir Thomas.  “Yes Sir?

“James, as you will know from the portrait in my bedchamber, I prefer my women to be altogether more undressed than Lady Caroline is.  Please see to the matter.”  Undressed?  But I was completely naked already.  And then I fathomed his meaning: he wanted my bush removed!

“No!” I couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t stand for it.

“One stripe for you, Rosie.  Keep the score for me please.”

I bit my lip and watched helplessly as James picked up a shaving dish and mixed up lather in it.  He twirled a badger hair brush in it and leaned forward towards me.  Helplessly I closed my eyes earning my maid another stroke.  He worked the brush all over my mound and along the lips of my sex.  I panted with the shame of it.  I wanted to beg for mercy but did not dare.

“Come in closer, Rosie.  You are going to be responsible for keeping her ladyship smooth so you may as well learn now.”  I saw Rose, wide eyed, coming nearer.

The valet picked up a razor and after stropping twice leant in and ran it over my mound.  I did not even dare tremble; I was so afraid of being cut. I almost screamed as I felt the blade scrape across my bush, neatly removing it along with the white lather. I groaned aloud but did not get penalised for it so it was clearly just words that were forbidden.  I saw and felt his deft fingers moving my skin this way and that to keep it taut as the razor did its work.  I squealed as James began to work lower, on the sides of my sex itself.  It was excruciatingly embarrassing but I kept watching through my tear-fogged eyes.  Then it was done and he picked up a wet towel and ran it over my naked mound. It felt unspeakable indecent.

“When it is smooth and clean you add a little rubbing alcohol or cologne.” James was addressing Rose, not me. He poured some liquid onto is hands and then ran them over my private parts.  I howled in pain, contracting my restrained legs which only had the effect of bringing my sex higher and spreading it wider.

“No... Stop... It hurts!”  I had just earned Rose another stroke and she looked at me reproachfully but she had no idea how painful it had been.  Fortunately the agony faded as fast as it had come as the alcohol evaporated.

“That helps the pores to close giving a smoother feel and also toughens the skin so that subsequent shaving is easier.” He was talking as if he were a school master teaching a pupil. “Finally you apply a little salve to keep the skin supple.”  The valet opened a little jar and put a dollop of creamy white unguent on my mound before massaging it in with his fingers.  It felt terribly pleasant after the pain and, despite my humiliating position it had the effect of exciting me a little.

“Thank you James, that will be all for now.”  At Sir Thomas’ order he left with his trolley, leaving my body still spread unpleasantly wide on the sofa.  I stared at where my bush had been.  I was now more naked than I had ever been.

My husband pulled up a chair and sat between my open legs, smiling cheerfully.  I wanted to beg for release but did not dare.

“Now for your lesson, my dear.” There was more to come?  I had thought that the shaving was the torment for today.  I did not think I could bear any more.

“I have noticed that while you are a passionate woman in my bed, you seem reluctant to use any words for what you are so good at doing. And so I thought we might discuss this while you are so conveniently disposed.”

With this his hand cupped my now smooth sex. His touch felt like fire, partly because of the warmth of it and partly because the razor, alcohol and unguent and left me exquisitely sensitive. Despite the shame of it the feeling was intense enough to sear the soul. Helplessly I closed my eyes earning me a reprimand and Rose a stripe.

“And so, my dear, what do you call this?  Not that you speak of it I’m sure but in your thoughts you must have a name for it.” His hand explored me as he teasingly enquired in a carefree tone. I felt as if I would die of humiliation.  I had to answer or earn more pain for poor Rose.

“I...  Those are my private parts,” I gasped, burning ever more scarlet.

“No one,” he was laughing, “calls it that!  The truth now, wife.”

“My sex,” I moaned, “I call it my sex.  Please, please stop.”  I wasn’t sure what I was asking him to cease doing: making me talk indecently or his gently questing fingers.  Both were utterly intolerable.

“I’m afraid that counts as speaking out of turn: yet another stroke for Rosie.  Just answer the questions dearest.  From now on this is your cunt or, if you need to discuss it in polite company, your pussy.  So, what is it?”  He was gentling patting my sex now and each contact was making me shudder.  I could see the muscles on the inside of my spread-apart thighs quivering. I had to reply or earn Rosie further punishment.

“My...  my pussy,” I managed to whisper.

“Or?” The appalling patting continued.

Or... or...,” I tailed off.  I just could not say it. Then he pointedly glanced at Rose.  I had to submit, no matter how terrible the price.

“My...  my c...  cunt!” I spat out the word as if it were poisonous.

“And you like having your cunt played with, don’t you dear?”

“Nooo...  no, I don’t.”  And I really didn’t.  No one wants to be touched like that while bound wide open in front of the servants.  In bed at night was quite a different matter.

“Then why is your cunt so damp, so pink, so swollen?”  The touching never paused.  He was waiting for an answer.  I could not meet his teasing, dark eyes, but neither was I allowed to shut mine; I looked away only to find Lady Anne’s smiling face.  It was as if she knew.

“I can’t help it!  Please, I just can’t help it.”

“Clearly, my love, clearly.”  His hand mercifully stopped playing with my sex.  After a brief pause a finger reached out and touched me right there.  Oh God, it was unbearable, unbearable in every way.

“And what do you call this?”  The finger was now tracing tiny circles of purest flame.  How could I answer?  I was sure I could not speak at all.  At that very moment Mary entered with the afternoon tea. I wished I could faint from shame but I can’t.  She began to lay out the food and drink while surreptitiously surveying her mistress, bound naked with her shaven sex opened and higher than her head.  She must have been able to see how stimulated I was despite all my efforts to the contrary.  I wanted to die and yet I still had to respond.

“My bud, Sir, my bud.”  I whispered it, trying to keep my answer low.

“’Bud’ is a sweet word for it,” he pleasantly assented, “but I prefer clitoris, clit or clittie.  You can choose which.  So what is this?”

I had to reply swiftly as the touching was rapidly taking me to a place of no escape.  “My clittie, my clittie...”

“Good girl.” 

Thankfully the touch on my bud stopped.  But the torment was by no means over.  He made me name my ‘lovelips’ (both the outer and inner ones), my ‘pisshole’ (the touch nearly made me do just that) and my ‘cunthole’ (his fingers entered right into me at this point).  This last one meant yet another blow for Rose as I was unable to articulate the word to his satisfaction.  Finally I stammered it out.

Next his hands sought out my posterior, so scandalously separated in this infernal position.  He kneaded my bottom as if it was dough and he was making bread.

“And this is?”

“My bottom, Sir.”  His vigorous mauling was making my whole body tremble.

“Your arse, my dear, your arse.”  Then the kneading stopped and his finger landed between.  I squealed out loud.

“This?”

“Oh, oh,” I was transported by my shame.  “It’s my bottomhole,” I managed after several attempts.

“Your arsehole, Lady Caroline, your arsehole.  Now, what is it?” The finger tip was now dancing about on this most indecent, most sensitive and most private spot.

“My...  my arsehole!”  I wailed, quite unable to resist him any longer.

The tormenting finger continued to beat its tattoo on my poor little aperture while another returned to circle on my bud.  This was cruelty of the most intense kind and could have but one outcome.  I earned another stroke for Rose by begging volubly for mercy but there was none.  All too soon I reached my climax which was so intense and so extreme as to be as much pain as pleasure. I felt my legs lifting my sex high into the air as they contracted; it was impossible to tell if I was trying to escape the touch or intensify it. I hung in my bonds, gasping like a gaffed fish and utterly overcome.  At my husband’s signal Mrs. Jones released me from my position and I lay on the sofa, quite beyond caring.

“How many stripes has your mistress won for you, Rosie?”  I had no idea how many times I had failed, but I was sure Sir Thomas had been keeping the score.

“Seven, Sir.  I think it was seven,” my poor maid replied with a quaver in her voice.

“Over your chair then and flip your skirt up.  Mrs Jones can do the honours and your mistress will hold your hands.”

I groaned as I made my way over, my legs ached from being bound so taut and for so long.  I knelt and held Rose’s hands.  I could not meet her eyes, I was ashamed at the pleasure she had seen me take, ashamed at my nudity and ashamed at the punishment she was receiving at my fault. The seven cracks sounded like gunshots and the poor girl stamped, moaned and finally yelped as the crop bit into her posterior over and over.

At the end my husband once more had me come and survey the damage.  The seven new stripes overlaid those from before in even angrier and more painful red.  I was horrified at the soreness of it and that it was all because of my failings.

“Would you like a little unguent for those, Rosie?”  Sir Thomas’ tone was half mocking and half solicitous.

“Yes please, Sir Thomas, yes please. Thank you”

I thought he would release her and let her take the little pot of salve with her.  Instead Sir Thomas handed it to me.

“There you go, my dear. As your inattention has caused little Rosie’s discomfort perhaps you should ease it.”

I stood frozen.  I couldn’t touch her, not on her behind.  It wasn’t right.  I just couldn’t.

“Now, wife!  Or are you going to disobey me?”

“Please, Ma’am.  Please do it...”  Rose knew what my disobedience led too.

And so I dipped my finger in the pot and traced my slippery digit along the painful red tracks.  Each wheal was actually raised from the surface of her posterior.  The poor girl moaned and winced as I went about my task.  Finally I was done.

“Please may I dress, husband, please?” I was desperate for relief from the humiliation.

“Not today, dearest.  I want to admire you just the way you are.”  And so I had my tea sitting on that damned sofa, opposite Sir Thomas, more naked than I had ever been since childhood.  We discussed the estate and inconsequential matters until Mary finally returned to clear away.  Then Rose was allowed to return and to help me dress.

I realised that for Sir Thomas pleasure did not have to be taken immediately but could be prolonged by being left till a later hour.  And so it was that evening in his bed as he took me repeatedly and ferociously.  He made me go over the afternoon’s vocabulary lesson and my instruction from the day before.  I confess I took as much pleasure from him as he took from me and he was near insatiable.  I slept the sleep of the utterly sated.