Hirst Hall

Chapter 8 – I discover the housekeeper’s peculiar tastes

The next morning I lay over my bed without demur and parted my bottom to allow Rose to clyster me.  I kept my face pressed into the bedcover in shame and embarrassment for my bottomhole was still swollen and puffy from the pummelling it had taken the night before.  It must have been quite obvious to the maid and I was grateful that she said nothing.  As I counted to fifty before releasing my liquid load I wondered if any of the servants had heard the carryings on of the previous evening.  The servants’ quarters were directly above ours and though we never heard them (they were required to whisper and to go about in stocking feet when there) that did not mean that they did not hear us.  The nozzle on the clyster device made my still sensitive little ring clench with a ghostly memory of the pleasures it had endured so recently.  I was happy to be able to hide my consternation at this feeling by getting into my bath.

That day there was no summons to afternoon tea and I supposed my husband was allowing me some respite after my recent exertions.  I spent the time with Mrs. Jones preparing for the house party.  We had to send out invitations and plan where the guests would sleep.  I made sure that the first batch of invites included the one to Major and Mrs Graves in Ludlow.  I knew Anne would be happy to carry my letter to Georgina.  It was more imperative than ever that my daughter be spared any time at all in this place of iniquity.  However I had been planning to use Hirst Hall as the backdrop to secure her an advantageous marriage and was relying on Sir Thomas to supply a sizeable dowry.  How was I to manage those needs if she were simultaneously to be kept away?  But kept away she must be.

Sir Thomas and I enjoyed a most pleasant and affectionate supper and that night our lovemaking was confined to the more conventional methods.  In my heart I had to confess to a certain disappointment in this as I had been half-anticipating a repeat of his assaults on my bottom.  Instead he made me ride him as he lay back and watched me.  In many ways this is not dissimilar to riding a horse at the trot with the rhythmic raising and lowering of one’s bottom in the saddle except that the equine version does not involve a large male member sliding into one’s sex with alternate strides.  It was however deeply pleasurable and I reached my climax as well as bringing on Sir Thomas’ but it was not of the intensity that I had enjoyed the previous night.

The following night was the same except he made me ride facing away from him.  In this way he could watch my bottom as it rode him.  I, in turn, was facing Lady Anne with her brazen nudity and sardonic smile.

One he third night I endeavoured shamelessly to guide his hand towards my little aperture hoping that he would, at the very least, caress me there. The hand though resisted being brought to the desired spot.

“My dear, if you wish to be taken there you will have to ask nicely,” he said through a grin.

“I... Please...  I want you to take my bottom...”  I felt as if I were surrendering the last vestiges of my dignity.

“Not like that, you silly goose, ask me properly, with the right words.”  The laughter in his voice mocked my embarrassment. How could he be so cruel?  It was bad enough having shown by my actions that I wanted his attentions in that indecent place.  Now he wanted to revel in my debauchery.

“I want you...  Please, Sir, fuck my bottomhole, my arsehole...  Bugger me, please!”

And he did, but his calculated torment did not allow it to be as I had wanted. As I waited for him to move to take me he did not shift at all but laid back against the pillows.

“Ride me then, wife.  You can do the work!”

I was completely taken aback.  He wanted me to do the work?

“Get some lotion and smear my cock with it.”

I reached beneath his pillow and found the little pot he kept there.  With my fingers I rubbed a fair amount along his member, which was as hard and hot as a poker fresh from the fire.

“Mount me.”

I straddled him and lowered myself.  Even then he would do nothing to aid me.  I had to reach between my spread legs and lift and hold him at the vertical so that I might slide him up between my bottom cheeks and against my little hole. I doubted this would be successful; I had not this time been fingered by him beforehand and my muscles were tightened by apprehension.  Still I had passed the point of seemly behaviour: I wanted him and these were his terms.

With one hand grasping his maleness and the other trying to open my bottom to allow him access I slowly let my weight fall upon him.  For a moment I thought he would bend and I would hurt him but then the head of it slipped inside quite suddenly.  He groaned with the tightness of it and I cried out in pain as the discomfort of his entry radiated through me.  However, much greater than this was the pleasure caused by the sheer obscenity of what I had just managed for myself.  Slowly I lowered my bottom further, impaling my taut hole in the most exquisite agony imaginable.

After what seemed like several minutes of this I began to raise and lower myself in this martyring saddle.  I had not comprehended how much additional pleasure I could derive from being in control of mine own impalement.

“Touch yourself!”

It was immediately clear what he wanted and I moved my fingers so they could caress my little bud.  Within moments I was climaxing, whinnying and gasping as I became light-headed with ecstasy.  True to his fashion he made me repeat this twice more before letting himself reach his spurting peak in my behind.

Another line had been crossed and in the days to come I learnt that he would only take me in my bottom if I begged for it in the crudest manner.  Even then, all too often, he would casually refuse my supplications despite knowing how much of my pride it had cost me to make them.

One morning I made a most untoward discovery.  After breakfast I went riding and returning I decided to go and discuss the wine order for the house party.  It had been left on my desk the previous day by Mrs. Jones and I had a few questions before I would sign off on it.  So I went down to the servant’s area and the housekeeper’s office.  One of the kitchen maids told me that Mrs. Jones was indeed in her room and after knocking I entered.  I suppose I might have waited for a response but this is after all my house and I am not required to stand on another’s permission.

I confess that even after all that I had undergone at Hirst Hall I was surprised at the sight before me.

Mrs. Jones was semi-reclined in an upholstered chair by the side of her desk.  What was shocking was that, while she was fully dressed in, as usual, a sober brown dress, her legs were clearly spread and from beneath her dress stuck out not just her shoes but also a pair of housemaid’s boots.  From the movements beneath the skirt it was obvious that the girl was using her mouth upon the housekeeper’s sex.

I stood and stared in amazement. I had heard whispers of women who preferred the company of members of their own sex rather than men.  I had always thought the idea rather scandalous but perhaps not surprising given that it was clear that there were men who did not like women at all.  But that it should happen here was beyond comprehension.  That Mrs. Jones did nothing to correct the situation did not help the matter: the head was still making little bobbing motions.  And my somewhat anomalous position in relation to the woman did not help either.

“How may I help you, Lady Caroline?” The housekeeper’s voice was noticeably deeper than usual.

“I came... I came... What is going on here?”

“I am just teaching Mary a little lesson.  Her attitude has been a touch lax in recent weeks.  No, don’t stop Mary.  Keep to your task.”

I was rendered speechless.  This was a punishment?  So Mary did not want this?  Should I tell Sir Thomas? Did he already know? Would it be better not to say anything and so have a hold over Mrs. Jones?  Her next words answered all my questions.

“Yes Lady Caroline, I prefer a woman’s touch to that of men.  Sir Thomas is very aware of this and has no complaints in this regard.  He offered me this position after I was dismissed from a previous post for... an indiscretion. Of course he knows how I occasionally reprimand wayward housemaids.  And little Mary here doesn’t like it at all.  She prefers the company of men her own age.  However her tongue is quite talented and she does find this preferable to a birching. Does this answer your concerns, your ladyship?”

I had no idea how to respond to this bald statement of facts.

“Mary, we will finish this later. Come out now and go stand outside while I answer Lady Caroline’s questions. Don’t wash your face.” With this she gave the head a little push and slowly from beneath her skirts the housemaid appeared.  Mary’s face was wet and flushed red, whether from exertion or embarrassment it was impossible to say but I imagined it was both.  She scurried towards the door.

“Where are your manners girl? Curtsey to her ladyship.”  The voice was like a whipcrack.

Mary whirled and made her obeisance.  I could see the track of tears running down her face, which was wet with a lot more than just tears though. She fled through the door.

“And what can I help you with, Ma’am?”  Mrs. Jones had rearranged herself so that she was sitting in her usual position.

Needless to say I could hardly remember what my questions were and I left as soon as I could.  Outside the door stood young Mary, eyes downcast and face still sticky, waiting for her chastisement to resume.

While I had afternoon tea with Sir Thomas every day that we were both at the hall (perhaps five times every week), the occasions that were arranged so as to torment me occurred no more than twice a week and always had Mrs. Jones and Rose in attendance. While I dreaded their unpleasantness I learnt to live with the strictures, after all it was only a couple of hours in a week.  Of course during each such a session I wished I could fly anywhere but the Yellow Salon.

During one such tea he had me bound in what I was now thinking of as the usual position.  My ligaments must have become suppler for I found it less of a strain with each successive binding.  Once in position he proceeded to tickle my most intimate areas with the feather of a white goose. It was stiff and soft at the same time. In the beginning he worked it round my sex avoiding both my bud and my bottomhole.  Soon though he used his fingers to spread me open and twirled the devilish tool right into my poor body.  The stimulation the feather caused was most cruel.  It was light and gentle enough that it made me unbearably hot and yet it was not enough to bring on the desired effect.  Once the plume was sodden with my dampness, Sir Thomas began to tease first my bud and then my bottomhole.  His baiting of my poor little nub would soon have brought me to a climax except for the continual stopping and switching to another target.  He even managed to insert the tip of the damned thing into the twitching aperture of my bottom.  The stimulation went on unceasingly until I could take it no more.  He wanted me to debase myself and I could resist him no longer.

“Please, Sir, please let me climax.”  Saying this before Mrs. Jones, Rose and now Mary too (why did I always fail while she was laying out the tea?) was humiliating and embarrassing beyond reason.

“In a bit, my dear, I don’t think you are quite ready.”

I wanted to scream that I was far beyond ready but knew it would do no good.  Instead I moaned out loud as the tip once more traced its cruel pattern across my aching bud.  I was not sure that it had ever felt so hard, so red and so sensitive.  But the contact was far too brief and the feather moved to another part of my sex.

“Come and have a close look, Rose, Mrs. Jones.  I believe her ladyship is now close to being fully stimulated.” The women promptly obeyed until their faces were within a foot of my inverted loins.

It was horribly unpleasant having the two women leaning in so close to observe my poor intimate parts.  But it was hard to deny the truth in Sir Thomas’ words.  Every part of my sex was now red, swollen and wet. The sensations radiating from it swamped all other feelings: embarrassment, humiliation and shame were as nothing compared to my need to climax.  The knowledge that the housekeeper must be stimulated by the sight only made things worse.

“Have you ever seen a cunt so red, Mrs. Jones?”

“Only one that’s been beaten or strapped, Sir Thomas.”

“What about you Rosie?  Ever seen your mistress’ cunt so wet and sticky?”

“No, Sir Thomas, never.” I could see the flush on her face.

To complete my indignity my husband took the cursed feather and inserted it, quill end first, into my bottomhole.  There it waved like a sort of obscene flag.  I was weeping with shame and frustration; it was impossible to tell which feeling was stronger.

“Now, my dear, I do believe you are ready to reach your peak.  Just ask Mrs. Jones to take the plume from your arsehole and frig your clit with it till you come.”

No!  I couldn’t do it, wouldn’t do it.  I refused to let that woman with her disgusting tastes touch me even with a feather, even when I was desperate.  He could not make me.  I would remain silent.

“Pour the tea, Mrs. Jones, please.”  This she did and passed a cup to Sir Thomas, who proceeded to start on a cucumber sandwich.  After a couple of minutes he stopped, returned to me and, taking the feather from its impromptu holder, proceeded to tease me back to the edge of reason.  Replacing the feather he resumed his tea.

After the third time this had been inflicted on me I broke.  I knew it would continue till he won.  He could never allow me to best him in such a manner.

“Please, Mrs. Jones.  Please do it.”

“More precise, little wife.  Where to you want her to take the feather from and what to you want her to do with it?”

“Take the feather from my arsehole, please…  Please use it on my clittie… Please!”

At a glance from Sir Thomas the housekeeper complied with my supplication, but not without using the damned thing to tease me first till I was perched on the very edge.  After balancing there for what seemed like forever I fell into a purely gigantic climax as the tip of the plume whirled around on my bud.  This orgasm went on and on unbearably as the stimulation of my stiff little nub simply did not cease.  The woman was beyond cruel.

“Please stop…  Please… Aarggh!” I was overcome by another fearsome crest.

“I think you better had, Mrs. Jones.  Otherwise her ladyship may dislocate something jerking about like a puppet with St. Vitus’ dance.”

At once the teasing ended and soon after Rose was helping me to dress once more.  My poor sex still throbbed and would for hours after.

Another time Sir Thomas had me bound in a new position: lying with my back on the seat of the sofa, my legs spread and bound to the usual corners leaving my head dangling over the edge of the settle. In this way I gazed inverted at the portrait of Lady Anne.  My arms were stretched out and bound to the arms of the furniture.  This made me even more than normally apprehensive as generally Sir Thomas required me to keep my free hands by my side voluntarily.  I guessed he had a true ordeal planned for me.

On this occasion I was not to be stimulated in the slightest, merely educated.  Sir Thomas knelt before me and unfastening his breeches proceeded to place his organ before my face. He commanded me to first kiss it and then lick it.  Both activities were quite strange in my position.

“Open wide, my darling!” The moment I had been dreading arrived. I complied and he proceeded to feed himself into my mouth.  I did my best to suck and satisfy him.  Swallowing in an inverted position is difficult though and soon a little trail of my drool was running down my face and into my hair.

“Now you are going to learn how to swallow cock.  I do not expect you to become as accomplished at this task as your predecessor but I am sure you will do your best.”  With this he began to force the head of his organ against the back of my palate, seeking entry to my throat.

“Swallow, dear, swallow.” I just retched up copious saliva which then ended up smeared all over my face and dripping into my hair.

He was relentless though and after brief respites returned again and again to his labour.  Over and over he told me to swallow and eventually, just as I thought I might drown in my own spittle, I timed my convulsive swallowing motions with his pressure.  Appalled I felt the head of it slide into my throat.  I panicked.  How was I to breathe? But my cruel master held the lump of flesh in there for several long moments before with drawing it back into my mouth proper.  I spluttered immense quantities of sputum around the damned thing.

“Well done, wife!  Now again!”  And so it went on. 

At the end of what must have been half an hour or more he had managed to force the entire length of it into my throat leaving his scrotum, dripping with my saliva, resting on my nose.  He would hold it there for long moments enjoying the tightness of my gullet, even rocking himself back and forth in hard little jabs.  Then he would briefly withdraw to allow me to breathe before resuming.  My face was a mask of drool which had also soaked my hair to the roots.

Finally with a loud groan he shoved his member as far as he could into my throat and held it there making little stabbing motions.  He was coming directly into my gullet and I swallowed it reflexively, tasting it not at all.  As he finally withdrew from me I hung there dazed by my ordeal.  My whole face felt bruised from his pelvis hitting it repeatedly. My throat felt so raw I knew I could not speak.  How could Lady Anne have found this exciting?  If he had touched my sex at that moment he would have found no trace of dampness.

Rose helped me up and managed to wipe my face with a napkin before dressing me.  But nothing could remove the feeling of sputum drying on my scalp as I sat having my tea.  The warm liquid burnt a track down the scraped lining of my craw and brought tears once more to my eyes.

“Very well done, my dear, for a first attempt.  Regular practise and you will soon become accomplished at it.”

My throat hurt too much to reply with more than a hoarse, “Yes, husband.”

But on the way out of the room his hand strayed to my bottom and cupping it he whispered in my ear. “You have earned yourself an exceptional arse-fucking tonight, Lady Caroline.”

He was as good as his word and having climaxed earlier in the day he was able to make it last almost forever, certainly long after the candles had burnt out.  My face was sore but my sex was satisfied.  Was I becoming a captive of my own desires?