A PASSION FOR PUNISHMENT: Part Three - privileged and perverted pleasures


                                                                  PART   THREE

 'No claret sales this Michaelmas Term,' Teddy grumbled, wrestling with his buttered crumpet.  'Had a note from Burridges the auctioneers saying everyone is keeping on to their cellars because of the confounded war.'

 He took an optimistic bite at the crumpet.  It was not a successful manoeuvre.  Warm butter dripped onto his cuffs.

 'Dashed if I can make sense of any of it.  The Bosche will never penetrate into Burgundy, I'll voucher.'

 Lady Maycott nodded absently.  She had been aching all day with a hunger no plate of buttered crumpets could ever fill.  For her husband Teddy it was all about shortages; the war had become little more than an impertinent inconvenience for him.

 'Damn war!' he muttered for the hundredth time, his mouth full and spitting buttered crumbs.  'And they say the Tenby and Grafton Hunt are having to shoot all their horses to feed their pack.  Just imagine.  Shooting prize chasers to feed the bloody hounds!  Next season there'll be no sport to be had.  No sport for us at all,' he speculated morosely, pawing fitfully at the butter knife with his gloved hand.  'And why?  Because they'll have had to shoot all the bloody hounds, that's why.'

 The Paul Roumieu casement clock winking in the lengthening shadows whirred softly as it struck five, and the tinkle of Cambridge chimes instantly took Lady Maycott back to the forge, suggesting to her a small, exquisite silver hammer raining blows down on a little silver anvil.  She squeezed her thighs tightly together.  Beneath the spotless tablecloth spread with the silverware for teatime, her cunny grew as hot and suddenly slippery as Teddy's buttered crumpet.

 The forge reeked of hot iron - and sweat.  Blinking, Lady Maycott pressed a lavender drenched kerchief to her nostrils.  The powerfully muscled young farrier continued to ply his hammer rhythmically, ignoring her presence completely.

 After several of her crisp commands remained unanswered, she stamped her booted foot impatiently.  Her face grew hot and angry as she shouted above the din of the hammer upon the anvil.  The nearly naked blacksmith, unconcerned and unresponsive, continued with his work, the soft leather apron stretched across his loins.

 Reaching out, she flicked his bare buttock with her riding crop.  The hammer paused in mid-stroke above the molten horseshoe below.  Slowly, he turned his face towards hers, his eyes flashing fire fiercer than the flames in the furnace.

 Lady Maycott, having unbuttoned her riding jacket and crisp blouse to bare her swelling cleavage, stepped forward boldly.  Her soft breasts quivered, the cleavage deeply shadowed in the glare of the flickering flames from the furnace.  But suddenly confronted by the proximity of the farrier's sweaty torso and the stern frown on his glistening face, her arrogant assurance deserted her.  Rallying, she cracked the riding crop down smartly against her leather boot.  No time for delicacy, discretion or decorum, she chided herself.  Now, at last, here in the heat and the cloak of darkness, her longed for prize was a mere two paces away and hers - absolutely - to command and enjoy.

 Her boldness grew brazen.  Descended from a distinguished lineage, Lady Maycott stiffened her resolve.  Her people had done battle at Agincourt, fought under Wellington and had vanquished the Boer.  A simple farrier was not even a skirmish.  Merely a brute conquest to sate her lustful longings on a cold November afternoon.

 Imperiously, she swished the riding crop across his leather apron, punishing the bulge of his cock.  Her nipples thickened when his erection rose up, pressing urgently against the stretched leather as if saluting her.  The silence inside the forge was becoming as oppressive as the searing heat.  She spoke again, distinctly spelling out her crude desires.  She spoke not of love but of lust, a stern tone curdling her voice.  He remained impassive, goading her into speaking even more plainly and crudely.  She used terms she had overheard the farmhands utter when coupling the beasts in the fields.  The farrier did not even blink, and so losing her patience entirely, she raked the tip of the riding crop up across his belly and chest to his chin.  Very, very slowly, she forced his head back a fraction.

  To her speechless amazement and sudden confusion, he snatched the crop out of her hand and lashed her breasts with it twice.  Lady Maycott screamed and clutched her whipped bosom, cupping and cradling the punished flesh mounds.

 Tossing the crop down savagely he embraced her roughly, his mouth forcing itself down over hers.  She shuddered beneath the dominance of his fierce lips and trembled as his ardent tongue probed the sweet, wet warmth of her mouth.  His hands gripped her fiercely - one at her left buttock, the other squeezing her whipped breast.  His lips sucked out her screams - leaving her breathless and silent.  She pummelled her clenched fists into him, struggling to escape.  It was not supposed to be like this.  So brutal and sudden! She should be in control.  He should be on his knees.  She had come to tease and tantalise, to tame and control, to pleasure herself by punishing him, to use her crop on him...to whip his bare buttocks...to caress the reddening lines across his punished cheeks with her wet cunny.  She had come for conquest, a privileged lady entitled to her perverted pleasures.  But the brute was mastering her, forcing her now face down into the filthy straw.

 She shrieked, kicking and biting.  The feral reek of his sweat and his leather apron flooded her brain.  The snout of his fierce cock nuzzled her cunny as it dug into the taut stretch of her whipcord.  Then she was lying in the dirty straw, her riding jacket and blouse ripped away to expose her crop-lashed breasts.

 He straddled her easily, confidently, trapping her mercilessly between his powerful, pinioning thighs.  She squirmed as she felt his hot breath at the nape of her neck.  He buried his hot face into her tousled golden locks, snuffing up her delicate lavender perfume before furiously kissing, licking and biting into her soft shoulders.  And all the time his rough, brutal hands were peeling down her jodhpurs - over her hips - down her thighs - a heartbeat at a time, then baring the smooth swell of her bottom.

 In a final bid for freedom Lady Maycock shrieked, writhing and wriggling in her desperate effort to twist out of his clutches.  But his broad palms cracked down and spanked her buttocks, turning her pale and delicate skin a hot crimson.  The swell of her buttocks shone with the sheen of pain.  She screamed shrilly, bucking and jerking beneath him.  He spanked her.  Again, and yet again.  Quelling and subduing her absolutely.  She wailed in her outrage, then shouted.  He spanked her relentlessly.  She slumped down into the silence of submission.  With her hot cheeks blazing beneath his spanking hand, she began whimpering and pleading with him - begging him to stop.  But this seemed to drive him into a spanking frenzy.  Her punished bottom was almost molten.  She squeezed her eyes shut.  Suddenly her belly imploded as a childhood memory flashed across her brain.  Down in the cavernous kitchens she had come across one of the many cooks bringing a saucepan of raspberry and plum jam to a rolling boil.  Lady Maycott juiced savagely as she pictured the bubbling seethe of the boiling jam.  And juiced savagely once more as she clenched her spanked and scalded buttocks.

 She cried out imperiously, commanding him to cease at once.  In response, he dragged a lingering forefinger down the furrow of her spine and then further down along the warm, dark cleft between her wobbling buttocks.  She grunted a low, carnal animal sound as he scratched at the soft velvet of her sticky cleft.  His questing, probing fingertip paused at the heat of her anal whorl.  Lady Maycott squeezed her cheeks defensively, and he spanked her viciously again and again until her cunny was a liquid seethe of molten lust.  Then she felt his stern forefinger - the rigid length mercilessly probing the wet heat of her tight sphincter.  Lady Maycott moaned and writhed between his imprisoning thighs, and her gyrating rump seemed to inflame him all the more.  Lowering his face down into the soft swell of her wobbling cheeks he lapped at her cleft with his thick tongue before hungrily sinking his teeth into her plumpness.

 The prickling straw tormented her naked breasts and tummy as his firm hand parted her thighs roughly.  The sweet ache at her juicing cunny became a dull pain, and then suddenly he was no longer pinning her down masterfully.  But before she could push herself up from the earthen floor she heard the hammer coming down, and straining to glimpse over her shoulder, she saw him fixing horseshoes over each of her ankles.  They sank through the soft straw beneath the blows of his hammer, and cursing profanely, she twisted and struggled in vain, her rigid legs arrowing out behind her and utterly immobile now.  She slumped down, sobbing into the foul straw.  She was completely helpless, her legs pinned at the ankles by little hoops of iron.

 Two more hammered horseshoes pinned her wrists down into the straw-strewn earthen floor.  Utterly at the young farrier's mercy she renewed she shrill cries of protest - but he used the crop on her bare bottom just as ruthlessly and savagely as she had planned to use it on his buttocks.  He subjected her to nearly a dozen brutal strokes: each individual blistering swipe snatching a scream from her parted lips and bequeathing a scarlet line across her cheeks hotter than the dancing flames in the forge.

 Her resistance at last broken beneath the cruel whipping, she squealed and shivered in her makeshift bondage - the four hammered horseshoes at her wrists and ankles.  She collapsed, all resistance gone, sobbing brokenly into the dirty straw.  She gasped aloud - almost a scream of carnal alarm - as he entered her: so easily and so assuredly.  As masterfully as any aristocrat taking a common peasant for their pleasure.  His hard length pierced and possessed her brutally and ruthlessly, surging in between her whipped cheeks and then thickening to engorge the tightly muscled warmth of her anus.  In a totally contemptuous silence her rode her - as adroitly as she rode Ramilees, her bay gelding.  Within minutes he came violently, and then eased out of her sphincter, dragging with him some of the hot scald of his yeoman seed.  As his cock pulled away, a rivulet of his hot liquid lust flowed from her anal whorl and glistened in her dark cleft.

 Snatching up the crop, he swished it down across her semen-smeared gleaming cheeks, once, twice, again - and again - in an explosion of dark joy.

 Five more searing strokes of the crop across her striped buttocks later, he penetrated her anus again. He was rampant.  Hard. Totally dominant.  He clutched her golden hair with a gripping fist and rode her excitedly.  They climaxed together this time - his squirt of hot seed pumping into her stretched anal warmth.  His absolute silence added an erotic charge to her orgasm that made her shriek out aloud - just as she would when up on a galloping horse and the hunt was in full flight.

 The farrier wiped her bottom roughly with his short leather apron - before abruptly wrapping it around her head just as noblemen once hooded their falcons and kestrels.  He swathed her face and hair in the apron completely and bound it tightly - forcing her protesting mouth to unwillingly taste him as her lips sucked in the warm smear that had just trickled out of her anus.

 Stunned into silence by the enormity of his crude arrogance and subjugated by the confidant brutality of his mastery over her nakedness, Lady Maycott grew hot and somewhat breathless within her leather hood.  She squirmed, sensing his brooding yet silent presence so close to her.  She sensed him removing the horseshoes pinning her wrists and ankles, but before she could rally or react, he rolled her almost contemptuously over in the straw onto her back.  She shuddered under his weight and animal warmth as he mounted her and straddled her dominantly once again.  What seemed like only a few moments later his hot semen rained down thickly over her in spurting splashes, splattering audibly on her leather hood and naked breasts.  He toyed with her breasts savagely, knuckling and kneading his seed into their soft, rippling warmth.

 The silence was unbearable.  Finally finding her voice again, she spoke in a husky whisper.  Then she gave a halting command, her own voice uncertain and strange to her ears at first, gradually growing a little crisper - a little sharper - in tone.  But he made no response - nothing at all.  She suddenly screamed in angry frustration, her shrill cries hauntingly muffled by the humid confines of the leather hood.

 Peeling the sticky hide away from her face, he loomed over her, inching his broad buttocks up from his ankles and lowering the length if his pulsing cock down between her breasts.  Sensing his utter contempt for her she clenched her fists in anger, but failed to push his body away from her nakedness as he squeezed and crushed her breasts around his thick cock.  Grasping her hair he suddenly raised her head so that his cock quivered at her lips.  He forced her mouth to accept his hard length, silencing all protests with his iron rod.

That evening there was a hard frost brooding all over the Weald of Kent.  Excellent hunting weather tomorrow, despite the early morning fog.  Dinner had been a dull and torpid affair.  The mutton was tough and the caper sauce too sharp.

 'Deuced rum thing, old girl, what?'  Teddy mouthed inelegantly through his Stilton.  'Just fancy.'

 Lady Maycott, unusually pale and still trembling slightly after her ordeal in the forge, shuddered with suppressed anger.  Easing herself gingerly from whipped buttock to whipped buttock, she shuffled her punished flesh surreptitiously.  Simmering with rage, her fingers tore viciously at a bread roll she had no intention of actually eating.

 What the hell was the world coming to?  

 Did the illustrious Maycott rank and name count for nought?  Was her voice - a voice born to command - no longer to be heard?

  Heard and obeyed?

 Teddy was mumbling away interminably.  'Deafened by the big barrage set up at Ypres, they say,' he remarked to his water biscuit.  'Such a pity.  Imagine! Deafened!'

 His wife looked across the dining table at him, uncomprehendingly.

 'The new village blacksmith,'  Teddy explained, swallowing his Stilton.

 The bread roll fell from her numb fingers.

 ' And mustard gas burned out the poor blighter's larynx,' Teddy continued, nodding his head sagely.  'Deaf and mute, I'll grant you, but a farrier, eh?  A farrier back in the village forge, old girl.  Now there'll be some sport!'


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