A silly little tale set when Victoria was on the throne, beautifully illustrated by (previously used) images of The Hunteress as precisely the right sort of governess…
“And as you can see, Mr Bartholomew” the young lady continued nervously “I have a full dossier of references, all of them quite satisfactory, I believe.”
The portly gentleman seated opposite her sighed and took off his glasses to polish them.
“I don’t doubt it for a moment, Miss Marlowe, indeed I imagine many of them will be excellent. However, I have made extensive enquiries and I simply have not been able to locate any vacant situations for a governess of your experience. My understanding is that many of the more well-to-do families formerly based in London have relocated to the country, given the increasingly caliginous conditions in our great capital.”
He paused, fingering the unopened leather dossier on the table before him.
“And of course, there are the recent increases in tax occasioned by the war in Crimea to consider”, he continued. “Even our landed gentry find themselves compelled to tighten their belts. As an old family friend of your dear, departed father, of course I would do anything in my power to help you find a situation, anything at all, but as you see…”
The young lady nodded slightly forlornly, at his gesture of hopelessness.
“Of course I understand, Mr Bartholomew. You have been most generous with your time and I am already in your debt, even if your efforts have not borne fruit. I will – “
“Tell me Miss Marlowe” the gentleman interjected, as if struck by a thought and not hearing her words of thanks.
“Did you ever employ… techniques of physical discipline on your young charges? Corporal punishment, I mean to say?”
The young lady nodded in response.
“Of course, Mr Bartholomew. Of course, one prefers to use more positive methods of encouragement but when called-for, I believe that a sharp dose of the cane is an essential tool of a governess’s art. Particularly for older boys, as I find that girls and younger children respond better to verbal warnings. Boys of 16 or over in particular seem to need to challenge authority and authority, by its nature, must be maintained – by force, if need be.”
“Oh, I quite agree, Miss Marlowe. Authority without discipline is but an empty threat. But as a young lady of such refined sentiments, do you not find yourself overcome by compassion for your charges and thus unable to wield the rod with the required, umm… severity?”
“Certainly not, Mr Bartholomew” the young lady replied, slightly sharply. “When a lad deserves a severe thrashing, I can assure you I do not spare the rod – no matter what tears or excuses the miscreant deploys. If a flogging is not painful – ideally, unbearably so – it will have little effect. Was that not your experience, as a youth, Mr Bartholomew? I cannot imagine that a successful businessman such as yourself did not learn his self control under the rod of a sufficiently severe governess?”
“Oh, indeed Miss Marlowe, indeed.” Mr Bartholomew replied, shifting slightly in his chair, with a far-away look in his eye. “I am sure that most – if not all – gentlemen who have found success in all professional walks of life in London would say the same. And it is this that brings me to the proposition I thought to put to you, Miss Marlowe, which I beg you to take in good part even if it is not to your liking: have you ever disciplined an adult – a man, that is?”
“Disciplined a grown man, Mr Bartholomew?” Miss Marlowe replied in astonishment. “You mean with a cane?”
“Mmmm… with a cane. Or tawse, strap, birch… as well as milder forms of correction such as corner time or writing lines.”
The young governess appeared dumbfounded by this unexpected suggestion.
“Well… I’ll confess that no one has ever asked me for such treatment and of course I could hardly inflict it on anyone without such consent, Mr Bartholomew, so I have indeed not had that experience.”
“Oh quite, quite” the gentleman hurriedly agreed. “Consent is most important. However, if you had such consent, do you think you might be able to…?”
The young lady drew herself up in her chair.
“Certainly, Mr Bartholomew. But I do not believe I could do so merely playfully, to help act out some nostalgia for happy childhood days. If a man consents to be beaten then beaten he should be, I believe. Vigorously and without undeserved mercy. The cane should be respected for its power, as should I as its wielder.”
“A most commendable attitude, Ms Marlowe, and one that would strike fear into the heart of any man approaching you with such an offer. Yet many such men also seek out such fearful tests of their courage, especially if they believe themselves to harbour feelings of guilt. I myself… that is to say, well… I myself…” he trailed off.
“Feelings of guilt, Mr Bartholomew? Do you mean you have been naughty and need to be punished?”
“Yes… yes very naughty” he admitted, hanging his head.
The young governess’s pretty forehead wrinkled, as she struggled to understand the bizarre turn the conversation had taken.
“So… you are telling me you need to be beaten? Caned? How very extraordinary. And do many men experience this same… compulsion?”
“Quite a few, I believe, Miss Marlowe. There are… special houses, known to the cognoscenti, where such treatment is administered. The remuneration for the ladies involved is, I believe, somewhat greater than that available to one in a… a traditional governess position, so to speak. And the hours considerably shorter.”
“I had no idea” Miss Marlowe admitted. “However, as I have no experience of such activities outside a more conventional setting, I hardly think they would consider me a suitable candidate for such a…” and she tailed off, puzzled to see Mr Bartholomew rise from his chair and draw out a long thin item from an umbrella stand in the corner. He handed it to her.
“The cane, you see Miss Marlowe. For a naughty boy.”
The governess examined the cane carefully, testing its weight by tapping one end lightly against her hand.
“Rather a light item, I am afraid to say, Mr Bartholomew. Suitable for a lenient and mild punishment only. However…” and she stood up to swish the cane through the air, making a whirring sound at which Mr Bartholomew vigorously trembled
“… however, if applied sufficiently firmly and vigorously, I believe it could have a salutary effect. As long as no trousers impede its impact on the target item, of course.”
Now it was Mr Bartholomew’s turn to look dumbfounded.
“My… my… you want me to remove my trousers?” he stammered.
“I do, Sir, and I believe that you understood my instruction quite clearly and are not simply hoping to defer the inevitable. And I believe I heard you use the words ‘very naughty’ earlier, so there should be little doubt in your mind as to what is about to occur. So… you will remove your trousers and assume the position, Sir. I will not tell you again.”
“Of course, Miss Marlowe” he replied, hurrying to loosen his clothing. “Erm… MISS AULDNEY? I am in a most important meeting. No callers for the next half hour, if you please!”
“Perhaps an hour would be more appropriate” Miss Marlowe added, calmly and professionally appraising the flabby white hindquarters that had obediently been displayed in front of her, and placing herself in precisely the right position behind them. She raised the cane.
***
Later that afternoon
Mr Bartholomew winced as he shifted slightly in his chair. The additional cushion that Miss Auldney had brought (along with a much needed cup of tea into which he had poured a stiff dose of brandy) was doing little to alleviate the furious burning he was experiencing. He wondered whether his domestic staff could perhaps obtain a bucket of ice, in which he could spend the evening. And perhaps much of the next day…
He ruefully admitted to himself that Miss Marlowe had spoken nothing but the truth when she denied being impeded by feelings of compassion or tenderness when wielding the rod. Indeed, he wondered whether her vigour and harshness might not be altogether too much for most of the gentlemen who sought out such diversions. She would hardly do, even as a correction specialist, at a house offering a wide range of services but perhaps at a more specialised establishment, for the true devotees of the ‘art’…
He picked up a quill and began to write, taking care to shift in his chair as little as possible as he did so.
“For the Attention of the Honourable Mrs Arbuthnot, Mayfair House of Correction and c. Dear and most respected lady. You might recall me as ‘Wicked William”, as I have had the pleasure and privilege of visiting your establishment on three thoroughly enjoyable but excrutiatingly painful occasions. I am writing to introduce a young protegée…”
***
Still later that day, in the early evening
“A governess to adults, Harriet?” Louise asked in puzzlement, as her friend hung up her umbrella and began to remove her mantle. Outside, the carriage that had brought her from the station clattered away into the still night in the quiet country town in which they lived.
“And men pay for such treatment? I never heard of such a thing.”
“It seems that a lot of things we country mice might find find shocking are in uncommon demand in London, my dear” Harriet replied, as she paused for her boots to be unlaced and removed. “And in the absence of regular, that is to say more… educational employment, I believe I must take up Mr Bartholomew’s kind offer.”
“Most peculiar” her friend shuddered. “I hope that you do not become corrupted by the decadent ways of the big city, Harriet, or I would not know what to do with myself.”
Harriet smiled warmly, embracing her friend and planting a warm, loving kiss on her lips. “There is little fear of that, my sweet love. It would take more than a few London gentlemen with an unhealthy appetite for the lash to move my heart from its resting place, here among simple country folk and our traditional ways.”
She looked down on the gleaming rubber surface of the tightly-clad male who had just removed her boots. “All the mud removed and the uppers thoroughly polished by morning, gimp! For each speck of dirt, I’ll add an extra week before your next release.”
Their gimp nodded wordlessly and frantically applied his tongue to the mud-splattered items, as Harriet hooked his chain to the ring on the side of the boot-rack.
“Sissy Maid Tina has prepared shepherd’s pie for supper, if you are hungry?” her friend enquired.
Harriet shook her head. “I had a bite at Fenchurch Street station, while awaiting my train. I simply desire to take myself off to bed, perhaps equipped with a strap-on to ream that new lad’s arse, if you wouldn’t mind tying him down and greasing his anus?”
“Already done”, Louise giggled. “And I thought perhaps we could take him from both ends before fucking each other into oblivion?” And she raised her skirt and petticoat to show a huge polished wooden phallus, waving slightly in Harriet’s direction.
“And we can worry about those Londoners and their strange big-city ways in the morning” she added, taking her friend’s hand in one of hers and leading her into the bedroom, where the dancing candle-light fitfully illuminated the quivering flesh of the youth spread-eagled on the four-poster bed, surrounded by the racks of whips, dildoes and spiked steel restraints that festooned the walls.
THE END
“As an old family friend of your dear, departed father, of course I would do anything in my power…….”
“Including the recently widowed Mrs Marlowe, my vulnerable and grieving mother” thought Harriet, thoroughly vexed. “Very naughty doesn’t really describe it”.
Mr Bartholomew had no idea what he had invited on himself. And when the tip of the cane happened to find itself directly between his parted legs a few times, then that surely was just an unfortunate, though no less painful for it, accident from an over-eager applicant. His swollen scrotum would eventually lose its livid purple colouring and return to a normal size and shape, of that he was at least hopeful.
Ideally, in fact, before his next appointment with Ms Marlowe in a short week’s time. An appointment she had insisted upon, in order “to practice further”.
NN
A lovely post-script, thank you Mr N. Perhaps I could add another:
“Why, Miss Marlowe!” Mr Bartholomew gasped, in shock at the sight of the young lady waiting in his outer office.
“Oh my! I do hope I haven’t kept you waiting!”, he added, fumbling with a shaking hand to pull his brass watch from his waistcoat pocket.
“Oh no, please don’t trouble yourself on that score, Mr Bartholomew.”, Miss Marlowe replied, rising to her feet.
“I merely decided to arrive early, in order to have a conversation with Miss Auldney here”, and she nodded to the slight figure with a drawn, worried face sitting at the writing bureau, who immediately busied herself with a pile of receipts.
“She knows so much about you, I thought perhaps her advice would be of help to me in deciding upon the most appropriate course of action today and in any subsequent meetings we might have, Mr Bartholomew. And indeed, she is a positive mine of information, she told me so much. Perhaps you should give her a pay rise?”
“Oh! Oh, yes indeed!’ Mr Bartholomew stammered. ‘Long overdue and, erm… richly deserved!”
“Long overdue and richly deserved” smiled Miss Marlowe. “What an interesting phrase to use – you might have read my mind. Come along!”
“Erm… might you, perhaps, have a, err… view on how large a pay rise would be in order, Ms Marlowe?” stammered Mr Bartholomew, following her into his inner office.
“I thought that could be one of many topics we can resolve during this interview.” Miss Marlowe replied, closing the door behind them both. “No visitors for at least two hours please, Miss Auldney”.
“Well, things have taken an odd turn” mused Miss Auldney. A spinster, she had worked for Mr Bartholomew for 29 years, ever since leaving her limited schooling in fact.
During those first few years she had been taught and chaperoned by the redoubtable Mrs Smithfield, though it was fair to say that Mr Bartholomew’s more enthusiastic attentions to the young lady had waned when she was betrothed aged 19 to her Charlie, a handsome lancer in the Queen’s cavalry. Mrs S had by then anyway taught her how to recognise and rebuff Mr Bartholomew’s unfortunate advances before they really arose, a parting gift prior to her own retirement.
Even without Mrs S, Miss Auldney thought these skills would never truly be required, though she appreciated the time and effort put into her education. As an optimistic young lady, she would soon marry Charlie and leave the opportunistic hands of Mr Bartholomew forever.
It was something of a shock then, when she got the news that Charlie had been killed in the Crimea. As a consequence, and as needs must, she had been in Mr B’s employ ever since, scratching a difficult and unsatisfying living whilst watching his business flourish, always knowing that she was being taken advantage of.
So it was with grim satisfaction that she heard the unmistakeable sound of cane on flesh and the ever louder whimpering of her employer.
Her satisfaction turned to trepidation, mixed with cautious delight, upon hearing Ms Marlowe calling for her to enter Mr Bartholomew’s office, and to bring pen and paper with her.
She rose and knocked gently…..
Many young ladies dream of meeting a handsome young lancer. If the dashing Charlie died attempting to lance the Russians in the famous action at Balaclava directed by Lord Cardigan, then I suspect she has doubly suffered from overbearing and incompetent bosses in her life.
However, I believe Miss Auldney’s life may finally be about to experience a change for the better. I know it is a hackneyed plot device, but I truly believe she can find fulfillment in marrying her employer, with Ms Marlowe serving both as inspiration to her and matchmaker if any persuasion is needed. Just imagine the contented domestic scenes when Harriet and Louise visit their retirement cottage for tea: the three ladies sitting round discussing George Eliot’s latest novel, while Mr B busies himself with teapots, scones and home-made jam in the parlour.
Best wishes
S
“Come in, dear Miss Auldney” responded Harriet after a few moments.
Miss Audley turned the polished brass doorknob and entered quickly, before her courage totally deserted her. Nevertheless, what she saw almost completely unseated her. Mr Bartholomew, apparently dressed only in his fulsome and billowing white cotton shirt, was on his knees facing her, his forehead firmly pressed into the deep red rag rug which covered the middle part of his spacious and well-appointed office.
“Mr Bartholomew and I have been discussing pertinent matters Miss Audley, you may have heard?”.
Miss Auldney nodded in assent, afraid of what astonishment might otherwise leave her mouth.
“He has concluded that he has been somewhat unfair in his dealings with you and is keen to make it up to you. Isn’t that so, Mr B? You are now to show Miss Auldney just how contrite you are in the manner we agreed”.
Mr Bartholomew, suddenly a much diminished figure, shuffled forward, head still firmly to the rug. To Miss Auldney’s utter amazement he tenderly kissed the very tip of each of her button-sided black leather ankle boots before asking “May I clean your boots please Miss Auldney?”. Who would refuse such an offer? Certainly not our down-trodden heroine. “You may, Mr Bartholomew” she answered formally.
At Harriet’s kind suggestion, Miss A set herself comfortably in one of the two the deep brown leather Chesterfields normally reserved for her employer and his favoured clients, armchairs that she had often been told she must not use.
“Now Mr B, let’s start with the uppers”. It was clear Miss Marlowe was very much in charge here. “Keep your head down and your eyes on your work. If I see them stray upwards to her calves there will be repercussions, severe repercussions”.
As Mr Bartholomew turned to his work, using a broad tongue to clean the London dust from the second quality leather, pointing his tongue to get beneath the small shiny fastenings, Harriet returned to her initial topic.
“Mr B and I had been discussing his bringing you into the business, as a full partner and with adequate additional recompense for your many years of loyal and unappreciated service. It seems though that Mr B, unbeknownst to you, had though already agreed to sell the business and will retire in the next three months, with no consideration at all regarding your welfare. In fact, he understands that you would be replaced by someone younger and “more accommodating”.
“Now Mr B, the soles if you please” Harriet directed her gaze and her words to the forlorn figure at Miss A’s feet.
Miss Auldney made the undersides of her shoes, shoes which had only that morning carried her through Billingsgate fish market, available to Mr Bartholomew, resting them on his shoulders, her initial sympathy for his plight completely dissolved by the news she had just received.
“Very good, Miss Auldney” commented Harriet approvingly. “Now Mr B, make a choice and get to it, both soles require your service. Let us know if either tastes of lemon. If that is a grimace I see, I promise you will regret it”.
Harriet turned back to a still transfixed Miss Auldney, disbelievingly watching her stern employer making long licks along the soles of her dirty shoes before taking the square tapered (very much a la mode last season) heels fully into his mouth.
“So we have decided, have we not Mr B (a grunt here which could have been a “yes Miss”), that the answer to this dilemma is for Mr Bartholomew to ask for your hand in marriage, whilst signing over all of his assets as a part of the marriage settlement. What do you think of that Miss Auldney?
Confusion and shock. “Oh, I will need some time….”
Goodness me, thank you for that!
Strange city ways indeed! No doubt Louise will be shocked when Ms Marlowe returns home with her account of these latest scandalous goings-on! Licking London dust from a lady’s shoes… I never heard such a thing. Good healthy country mud, that’s what males need for a long, productive and obedient life.
Best wishes
S
Horny boys must be disciplined and whipped. For goodness sake.
Quite so. The natural consequence of badness.
Best wishes
S
“Why, Miss Auldney, is this not an exceptional and acceptable offer? What are your concerns, pray tell and we shall have Mr Bartholomew alleviate them without delay”.
“Please do not think me ungrateful Ms Marlowe that, as a maiden beyond childbearing age, I cannot happily contemplate a husband’s rampant manhood bothering me in my bed of an evening.”
“Oh, dear, sweet, Miss Auldney”. Harriet stifled a laugh here, in fear of offending the lady. “Have I not said that Mr Bartholomew has agreed to sign over all his assets to you prior to your marriage? In this instance though, I fear you will be provided with a poor investment”.
“Mr Bartholomew, stop what you are doing for a moment, kneel up and raise your shirt please”.
Mr Bartholomew looked up at Ms Marlowe, intending to protest, until noting the heavy cane still in her hand, a punishment instrument that she had brought with her on this second occasion, and which had proven simply excruciating. He quickly complied, ahead even of Miss Auldney’s own strangled protests.
Miss Auldney’s absolute shock at Mr Bartholomew’s exposure turned immediately to ribald laughter. Mr Bartholomew’s “manhood” was significantly over-named. Although childless herself, she had helped her sisters with their boys in their earliest years and she readily observed that Mr Bartholomew did not measure up even to that meagre comparison. His organ appeared to be hiding in shame, a mushroom almost invisible in a mass of greying hair, though with what appeared to be a purple cushion behind it.
“What…?” is all that she could manage.
“Exactly Miss Auldney, nothing to fear there I would proffer,” responded a deeply amused Harriet. “Incidentally, he has been instructed to divest himself of all of that grey thatch, totally inappropriate for such an inadequate object”.
“No, I mean, what is that strange purple cushion” asked Miss Auldney, shocked by her own curiosity and yet intrigued.
“It is a scrotum, you are aware that men have a ball sac, are you not?”.
“Yes, I never realised that they were such a gloriously purple colour in maturity though Ms Marlowe”.
“Please call me Harriet, Miss Auldney, and I must admit to having had an influence on that current colouring. Would you like to see how?”.
As though hearing another speak, Miss Auldney voiced the words:
“Oh, I would, very much indeed Harriet….”.
“Right then, Mr Bartholomew, position yourself as before, at the corner of your desk”. A brisk instruction from the authoritative Ms Marlowe.
Mr Bartholomew almost tripped in his haste to comply, before locating his ample frame on its corner as instructed and leaning forwards towards his leather-bound writing desk pad. Even fully stretched out, only one of his hands could reach sufficiently to grasp the far edge of the handsome mahogany desk.
“Come now sir, that will simply never do. Raise your shirt well above your waist and try again”.
Mr Bartholomew stood, did as bid, and resettled himself. Miss Auldney simply gasped. His broad, pasty, backside was a mesh of raised weals, vivid purple and red, with a white inner in some places. He had been thoroughly beaten along his thighs also, almost to his knees.
“Oh, please don’t alarm yourself Miss Auldney. This was all done with your employer’s consent. He has been a very naughty boy. Is that not so, Mr Bartholomew?”.
“Yes, Ms Marlowe” was her employer’s only reply.
“Now Mr Bartholomew, and I will not tell you a third time, you are again incorrectly positioned, as you were before. I want your legs well apart and that sad little purse you call your scrotum located on the desk, at the very corner, neither overhanging nor hiding. Do you understand?”.
The sound of cane through air seemed to aid his comprehension and he quickly repositioned himself as bid, his alarmingly purple sac becoming more exposed and more vulnerable.
“Surely Ms Marlowe, Harriet, you are not going to beat his balls with your cane?” asked a wide-eyed Miss Auldney.
“No, I would not presume to permanently damage your property in such a manner Miss Auldney” came the response. “I have a much more appropriate implement available. Would you like to try it for yourself?”.
“Please, given our current intimacy, I would be glad if you would call me Lily, and I would be interested to see the implement certainly”.
Harriet pulled a quirt, a short-handled many-tailed whip, from her skirt pocket. An innocuous-looking item of soft black leather, though Mr Bartholomew flinched at its first sight.
“You can do little lasting damage with this, Lily, despite its immediate bite. Perhaps you would enjoy putting it to the test?”.
“Oh, may I, Ms Marlowe?”.
Harriet looked towards the exposed figure on the desk. “Would that be acceptable do you think, Mr Bartholomew?”.
“Please Miss Auldney, beat my balls as much as it pleases you. I exist only for your entire satisfaction”.
“Good, Mr Bartholomew, you are learning quickly. Now, Lily, the floor is yours”.
Lily Auldney supressed an unbidden and unexpected sigh of sheer pleasure, how could any of this be real, and stepped forward between her employer’s white flabby thighs, kicking his feet slightly further apart as she did so.
“Another quick learner” commented Harriet approvingly.
Lily raised the quirt; Mr Bartholomew lowered his head to the desk and waited……
Goodness me… watch out Dickens, that’s all I can say.
Like many Victorian novels, of course, the rather conventional love and corporal punishment story is actual a means of conveying subtle social commentary about class and society. Miss Lily’s later mis-pronounciation of the word ‘quirt’ for instance, had the better-educated Bartholomew chuckling quietly to himself, before (obviously) screaming out his apologies in agony.
Best wishes
S
How did you know he calls it his Dickens? What a strange thing.
That said, I do appear to be getting into my stride (or is that mince?).
Either way, he has it coming…..
Mr Mouse
“Quirt rhymes with hurt”. A tip given to Lily by Harriet, with graphic illustration provided by Mr B. and never a problem again.
I’m glad Mr Bartholomew likes his Dickens (although I expect he’d prefer to dive deep into a good Trollope, given the chance) and wasn’t put off, as so many people are, by having Dickens shoved down his throat so much at school.
Best wishes
S
Twelve months’ later, Lily is looking forward to supervising afternoon tea at the Bartholomews’ retirement idyll in Brighton.
Lily had taken Harriet’s advice on this address, as well as on many other aspects of her new life, and she is now a close neighbour of, and a closer friend to, her mentor.
Harriet and Louise arrived as expected, promptly at 4pm, in the most beautiful landaulet and pair. Each of the pair a bare-chested and muscular specimen male, bound by exquisitely polished and gleaming black leather tack.
Lily’s guests were greeted by her own two handsome young, liveried footmen, quickly and neatly scrabbling low on their hands and knees as steps for the disembarking ladies, as Lily waited beyond her open front door to welcome her guests.
“Well, Molly, don’t keep our guests waiting” chided Lily, and her maid tripped quickly down the stone steps to the coach before holding out a supporting forearm to the ladies as each alighted.
“Why, Mr Bartholomew, I scarcely recognised you”.
“Welcome, Ms Marlowe, I trust your journey was a pleasant one” the attentive maid answered with a low curtsey, lifting her petticoated skirt slightly as she had been taught and lowering her eyes.
“Molly, please Harriet, if you don’t mind. Mr Bartholomew is long gone, we are both happy to say, are we not Molly?”.
“Yes, Mistress” the maid’s only reply.
The two guests were soon sat for outdoor tea in the warmth of the late afternoon sun, enjoying both the efforts of the attentive and well-trained Molly, and the company of the newly confident and comfortable Mrs Bartholomew.
“So, Lily, Molly’s transformation appears almost miraculous. Gone is that paunch and that arrogant manner and she is almost svelte in her uniform, how ever did you achieve it?”.
“In much the conventional manner, I would posit Harriet”, responded Lily modestly, though clearly pleased by the observation. “Significant quantities of correction and discipline, and some other, more direct, changes”.
“We did have some early teething troubles after our wedding, as I’m sure you can imagine. You will recall that we held off on a honeymoon, on your advice, and that was such a good recommendation. Molly did initially believe the marriage would be consummated in the traditional manner and I am afraid I initially tried to beat that out of her, having felt her ridiculous little nub in the small of my back once too often during those first few nights.”
“Oh, dear Lily, I am so sorry you had to tolerate that” Harriet sympathised, “men can be such unadulterated pigs”.
“Indeed. I then had the farrier produce a chastity belt for Mr Bartholomew and it was riveted in place. Whilst that solved the immediate problem, it certainly did not reduce the complaining and the necessity for regular beatings. It was becoming quite the task and one which I was unwilling to perpetuate. At this time, Molly still perceived herself as a man and therefore with ‘conjugal rights’”.
“On your advice, I entertained the idea of having him castrated. One of the local farmers offered to emasculate him along with his male lambs last season. I do though so much enjoy having his ball sac available to punish that I eventually dismissed the idea. In time though, a solution occurred to me”.
“Molly” called Mrs Bartholomew “come over here, raise your skirts and open your bloomers”.
Molly immediately came forward and, after a bit of fumbling with the several starched white petticoats under her black uniform, exhibited herself as instructed.
“She is unused to such a grand uniform, ladies, her daily clothing is much more utilitarian, as befits her role, so please forgive her lack of elegance, it will be dealt with later”.
Harriet and Louise were too transfixed by what had been exposed to have much noticed the inadequate performance.
Molly was completely without hair in the entire region, and without a penis. All that remained was a soft pink scrotum between her very feminine thighs.
“It’s called a penectomy, and quite new in England” Lily explained. “It has the advantage that both the ball sac and the desire remain, though the means of satisfying that desire is gone, and therefore my nocturnal irritation also”.
“How though does Molly empty her bladder?” asked a very curious Harriet.
“Oh, that is one of the clever parts” responded Lily enthusiastically. “There is a hole drilled in her perineum, just behind her ball sac, and she can commence to urinate much as she used to, though sitting of course, and with the added pleasure, for me at least, that she drenches her own pink purse on each occasion. Consequently, she must be at least as thorough with her hygiene as any woman. Isn’t that just too precious?”.
“A further benefit of Molly’s unrequited carnal desires is that, under your dear Louise’s teaching and guidance, Molly is now exceedingly expert at gamahuche. Provided with a blindfold and a suitably enclosing nightgown, she often provides me with a very creditable and satisfying service. Something the now departed Mr Bartholomew would never have contemplated for a moment”.
“Oh, Lily dearest, how happy we are for you that you should have found such contentment and reward in your marriage. If only all couples could be a tenth as fortunate. What say you, Molly?”.
“Yes, Ms Marlowe”.
Thank you – good to see the day of the serlialised Victorian novel has not yet passed.
Of course, in those days medical science was very primitive. No anaesthetics to ease Molly into her new role! A leather strap gripped tightly between the teeth to help the patient cope with the pain was the only aid, although I imagine Lily stood close by with another leather strap, visible to the quaking patient, just to provide poor Molly with a little extra courage not to give in to the temptation of second thoughts.
Best wishes
S
As the afternoon progressed into the evening, the ladies retired to prepare for dinner, as Harriet and Louise were to stay overnight, with the carriage returning for them the next day.
Dinner was served at 8pm, with Molly providing table service. Though she was not sufficiently proficient in the kitchen to have produced the sumptuous repast that Cook provided, she had, as she usually did, acted as scullery maid and had received several tongue lashings from Cook for her inadequate performance.
She appeared suitably contrite, even very uncomfortable.
In due course, following interrogation and with great reluctance, Molly confessed that she had been figged by Cook and that the raw ginger was still present and burning. The ladies, finding this highly amusing, sent Molly to the kitchen to commend Cook on her training methods.
With Molly absent, Harriet raised a potentially delicate subject, doubtless emboldened by the wine and sherry taken.
“I have noticed your handsome young footmen Lily, am I permitted to ask what services they provide in the household?”.
Lily had the grace to gently blush before answering. “Suffice to say Harriet that I am no longer a maiden, though old enough now not to be concerned for potential consequences”.
“Since having my sexuality awakened by Molly’s ardent service, reflective I think of her own frustrations, I have explored further the pleasures of the flesh and I can confirm, with no disrespect meant to your own sapphic preferences, that I do greatly enjoy a good rogering suitably administered by a handsome young colt”.
“Indeed, I have learned that my pleasure in this is greatly multiplied by my nullified and blindfolded maid being in the same room during the service, as her evident frustration appears to stimulate my responses, and hence my vociferousness, and thence to encourage the enthusiasm of my young men. Additionally, of course, her presence is significantly useful when proceedings have reached their natural conclusion, and I need a gentle tongue to salve and refresh my sensitive nethers”.
“Goodness Lily, you have come on this past year” Harriet commented admiringly.
“Molly also, Harriet. Initially she was significantly reticent to provide service after a man had finished in me. It took a lot of encouragement and much physical persuasion of the whipping kind to convince her. Now though, she is almost insatiable and begs of the footmen to be allowed to clean them also. The change is remarkable”.
“Oh, I think we shall have to explore this a little, when Molly returns to the dining room” was Harriet’s pensive and amused response……