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THE ENGLISH
VICE

Yolanda Celbridge

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This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Version 1.0

Epub ISBN 9780753538609

www.randomhouse.co.uk

This book is a work of fiction.
In real life, make sure you practise safe, sane and consensual sex.

First published in 2003 by
Nexus
Thames Wharf Studios
Rainville Road
London W6 9HA

Copyright © Cat Scarlett 2003

The right of Cat Scarlett to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

www.nexus-books.co.uk

Typeset by TW Typesetting, Plymouth, Devon

Printed and bound by
Clays Ltd, St Ives PLC

ISBN 0 352 33975 6

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Copyright Page

By The Same Author

1 Snapped Elastic

2 Virgin’s Colours

3 New Squirts

4 Rug Burn

5 Double Pinned

6 Blocked Passage

7 The Full Nude

8 Battle Whips

9 Demonstration Maid

10 Nipple Flares

11 Rakehell Clubbers

12 Spanked in a Pot

13 Bottom Nuisance

14 Licking the Birch

Epilogue

By the same author:

MEMOIRS OF A CORNISH GOVERNESS

THE GOVERNESS AT ST AGATHA’S

THE GOVERNESS ABROAD

THE HOUSE OF MALDONA

THE ISLAND OF MALDONA

THE CASTLE OF MALDONA

PRIVATE MEMOIRS OF A KENTISH HEADMISTRESS

THE CORRECTION OF AN ESSEX MAID

THE SCHOOLING OF STELLA

MISS RATTAN’S LESSON

THE DISCIPLINE OF NURSE RIDING

THE SUBMISSION OF STELLA

THE TRAINING OF AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN

CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH SLAVE

SANDRA’S NEW SCHOOL

POLICE LADIES

PEEPING AT PAMELA

SOLDIER GIRLS

NURSES ENSLAVED

CAGED!

THE TAMING OF TRUDI

BELLE SUBMISSION

THE ENGLISH VICE

‘Handsome imp, isn’t he?’ said Godiva. ‘Amusing that the sluts kept coming back for more.’

‘Imp?’ Beryl exclaimed. ‘A brute, I’d say. Making girls dress up as sheep – well, that is just perverted.’

‘Yah,’ Godiva said, licking her lips and bright white teeth. ‘Reading between the lines, I’d guess he put them to the traditional uses of sheep, in that part of the world.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Beryl said, ‘I don’t quite follow.’

‘You know, giving them one up the bum. Quite exciting, to be scurrying around the moor on all fours, with a dishy stud like that chasing your back passage.’

1

Snapped Elastic

Bother, bother, and triple bother, Beryl said to herself, raising her leg to board the train. As the neon of Liverpool Street Station glinted on her shiny nylon and lycra stockings – sheer black, and a superfine eight denier – she was sure she felt a knicker elastic snap. What was it with knickers nowadays? It wasn’t fair. Perhaps she liked to wear them a little tight, a little too tight – a size too small, if you must – but with modern fabrics and everything, a girl with a generous bottom expected them to stand the strain. Why should she do without the pleasure of that slithery, clinging feel across her bare bottom skin, just because the manufacturers were too sloppy to cater for the well-formed girl? Nobody would deny the delicious feel of knickers worn a bit too tight, or even those rather daring thongs that were scarcely knickers at all, just a bit of string wound across your bum and front and, well, deep and awfully wicked and rubbing in there . . . so why didn’t they use extra-strong elastic, to take the strain of bottoms that were – beefy wasn’t quite the word – full, or solid, or like smooth ripe plums, except that plums were much smaller than Beryl’s bottom, so that wasn’t the right word either. It was so confusing, being a girl.

These knickers weren’t especially tight, either. She cautiously wore the pink frilly ones, with a white lacy trim, and pink garter belt and straps, which didn’t look too naughty – or did it? – with her black stockings, despite the seam straight down the backs of her legs, which was just this side of wicked. Or was it? A girl had to feel comfortable – no, not comfortable, really – serene in her underthings, because of course no one else was going to see them. How could anyone else see a girl’s private underthings? Whatever Beryl’s choice of undies, they were a private pleasure, just for her. Not that she imagined herself any different from other girls, despite her supple athlete’s body, her height, her lush blonde mane, and her – well, her absolutely superb figure. No, wait, perhaps not quite superb, people might think her arrogant. At least, Beryl might think herself arrogant, which wouldn’t do; she would never dream of boasting about her body to other girls. But then she didn’t need to, she could see envy in their eyes when they all stripped off to shower after netball, and she didn’t respond to their cheeky remarks, save for a tolerant smile. Surely it was rather low class to talk of a girl’s hair down there, as though it was some kind of jungle. Not that she was too lazy, exactly, to trim to the bikini line, like most girls – she relished the slippery pleasure of shaving her legs and underarms smooth every week – but that, as an English girl, she prided herself on her love of animals and wildlife, and her bushy place, down there, between her legs, was nothing, she thought naughtily, if not wild life.

Hmm . . . She wondered if she was being egotistical after all. Should she allow herself the luxury of parading in the nude, in the gym showers, a trifle longer than was really necessary, just to feel her skin tingle, and her tummy feel all sort of funny, as the girls eyed her? Oh, dear, Beryl was an egotistical girl. Perhaps her new school would cure her of that, though it wasn’t a school, really, because a girl had to be nineteen years old to be accepted at Trismegist Towers. A finishing school? No, not that either, that sounded too sort of posh and continental. Well, then, something entirely English, and with just that sort of quirky individuality, that resistance to category, which made Englishness so satisfying. ‘Towers’ sounded quite English, although she didn’t know if there were towers and, come to think of it, she didn’t know all that much at all about her new school, save that it was buried deep in the Essex countryside, and was terribly old, and what could be more English than Essex?

Beryl thought herself quite English, too, in her conservative choice of dress, although not too conservative, because that would be snobbish. Nevertheless, proper stockings and suspenders were a must, not the easy pantyhose that some girls favoured – rather lazy girls, if truth be told – and the ready availability of traditional undies suggested there were plenty of proper girls who thought like Beryl. The things they displayed in the shop windows in the High Street! Some of them would be more at home in Paris, or America, yet here they were, on offer to English girls: skintight leotardy things, but not meant for sport, and showing lots more skin than was decent; strange narrow corsets; clumpy shoes apparently designed to hamper rather than adorn the feet; knickers and frilly skirtlets in every lurid hue, and cut so high and narrow, it seemed a girl was asked to pay for thin air. Then there were the – quite mystifying – panties with an aperture at the front, to let a girl’s bushy tufts peek out, and, more than that, show her private place down there, quite naked and on view . . . except that who could possibly be looking at a girl’s private knickers? ‘Why, they are split-crotch panties, of course,’ some haughty shop girl had replied, in the sort of low class accent you heard on the television, with airy disdain at Beryl’s ignorance, after, blushing, she had timidly asked the garment’s designation. ‘You can do it without having to strip,’ the girl added with a wink. ‘They turn blokes on. Sometimes they like the idea of doing a girl with her clothes on, sort of like fantasy sex? I find them very useful, when you want a seeing-to, fast and zipless, know what I mean?’

Beryl didn’t know, and shuddered to guess, but had lingered, fingering the silky garment until, blushing even more, and with trembling fingers, she had finally parted with an outrageous sum of money, and scurried away with the shameful panties tucked deep in her handbag. A seeing-to, and zipless? She squirmed at the strange, tasteless language of the world of boyfriends, and was glad her dalliances with boys had gone no further than, well, dalliance; that her hour of giving herself fully to love, surrendering to the whirlwind of passion she knew dwelt within her, was not too far in the future. At nineteen, she could afford to wait for the right male to open the floodgates of her womanhood.

She played netball for the first team of the Esher Eaglets, and sports were far more absorbing than dating: the thwack of the ball, and the thump of gym shoes on the court, followed by the steam of the shower and the casual, amicably nude bodies, muscled and sweating, of her sister athletes. That was more healthful and rewarding than trekking to trashy clubs in Sutton or Kingston, in pursuit of boys. Boys seemed vain, selfish and egotistical creatures, obsessed, so Beryl assured herself, by one thing only: penetration – Ugh! What a horrid word! – of a girl’s intimate body, her private girl’s parts, ignoring her personality and good qualities. Beryl gulped, just thinking of it. The French boy who had given her the daring brassiere on that one weekend in Paris had seemed nice, if a trifle low class, and she had almost lost control – almost, but not quite. They had embraced in a nice park, the Bois de Boulogne, probably, secluded by bushes, and as his lips were glued to hers in a red-hot, fiery kiss, that almost melted her, he had got his hand inside her blouse, and touched her bare nipples, which went all stiff and tingly. She had not resisted as his fingers probed the waistband of her knickers, penetrated her blonde bush, and caressed her secret place down there, which was all hot and wet and throbbing.

He had penetrated her pouch, her most secret place, and she could feel his stiff manhood pressed to her belly, and something came over her, she was all hot and faint and gasping, with a strange but delicious wetness between her thighs, soaking her panties – the mauve ones with a purple trim – and was so throbbing and confused, she was powerless to resist his urgency. Luckily an aeroplane buzzing overhead brought her to her senses, and she had disengaged from the embrace. Well, he was foreign, so couldn’t curb his animal instincts, she supposed. Yet girls would chatter about boys, these smutty popinjays – a car, lots of money, can do it all night long – like animals on heat and drooling, so that Beryl turned up her nose. She could afford to wait, and then pick and choose, thank you very much. Some girls talked about boys as a fashion accessory, like a handbag, but Beryl thought a handbag much the safer investment, as it looked nice all the time, and didn’t want to do horrid things to a girl when she wasn’t in the mood. She still remembered how wet the boy’s caresses had made her, and knew a girl had to be jolly careful with boys. It was something to do with that hard thing between their legs, which made them so strong and powerful and overwhelming, that girls wilted and yielded. That was all very well abroad, in fact it was what a girl expected on a foreign holiday, and girls at the club told absolutely blush-making things about Spanish ‘blokes’ in Tenerife, but it wouldn’t do in Surrey.

An athlete, Beryl did not think it wrong at all to admire herself in the nude, ascertaining which muscles needed work, and which looked sufficiently sleek, while checking her large breasts and buttocks, and her flat belly and pencil-thin waist, for firmness and poise. She customarily wore a flimsy, silky bra, that gave very little support, for her breasts, jutting like melons, needed none. You could see through the fabric of the bra, which came from Paris, but since nobody would see her in her underthings, it didn’t matter, and the thought of her semi-nudity was awfully thrilling, especially the idea that she was hiding something from others – a special secret knowledge. If you knew what I have on . . . June Totteridge at the gym wore a corset for the same reason, lacing herself into a fearsome thing of rubber and metal rods, which narrowed her waist to eighteen inches, so she said, although she was naturally almost as slender there as Beryl, and June insisted it was for her own private satisfaction.

It gave Beryl just such satisfaction, alone in the nude, to take her long blonde tresses and swish them across the big strawberry saucers of her nipples, teasing them to a tingling stiffness, or else pull her hair so that the tips of her tresses caressed the dimple at the top of her bare buttocks. Nude self-admiration did not count as ego, but as a slight vanity, surely permissible in a healthy girl. Blushing, that day, back in her room, she had tried on the split-crotch panties, teasing herself for her silliness, stripping to the buff before the mirror, and rolling the absurdly tight strip of cloth up over her thighs, until the gusset lodged tight between the legs. But there was a breeze at her private place – which panties were supposed to keep snug and cosy – unless she covered the bare part with her hand, which she did. Then, easily, perhaps too easily, she found herself doing the thing she wouldn’t do even with her closest friends at the gym, well, except for once or twice, when they were very hot and silly after a hard match; their communal nudity, and healthy exhaustion after netball, made it seem quite innocent and hygienic, and when she coyly covered her crotch and bubbies, they teased her for not ‘squelching’ with them.

Alone, diddling was quite a different matter; a simple, harmless relief, and yet something polite girls did not talk about, even though some of them obviously enjoyed doing it publicly in the shower, often with other girls – riding a tandem, they called it – and quite blatantly, as though that rubbing and squelching down there became more of a pleasure when other girls watched, even spoilsports like Beryl or, probably, precisely because Beryl was such a spoilsport. ‘Oh, yes, it’s so good,’ they would pant, ‘ooh, touch me, yes, don’t stop, I’m nearly there . . . ooh! Ooh!’ Beryl would blush, but could not take her eyes from the writhing bare loins of the girls pleasuring themselves.

I suppose I must look silly like that, in front of my glass, so it’s a good job nobody is looking at me.

She had even done it before starting on her journey to Trismegist Towers that morning, to calm her nervousness, flushing hot and red in the glass, as her hips rolled, and her fingers worked down there, until she heard herself sigh and squeak, like a darned fool, in the speed of her relief. Perhaps it was the lengthy process of choosing and trying on her clothes, the feel of so many different garments caressing her bare body, which had made her giddy and excited or, specifically, the choice of soft, silky underthings, always particularly thrilling, as they slithered and clung to her intimate crevices. She had whispered to Audrey Hillingworth, as they towelled each other after showering, about the split-crotch panties, without saying she had actually bought a pair, and Audrey had airily replied that she possessed several, and that they were almost as good as the fruit-flavoured panties you could get, in all sorts of different cuts. Despite her excited curiosity, Beryl was too flabbergasted, and embarrassed, to ask what fruit-flavoured were for. She had looked in acute embarrassment for such things in all the shops in Woking, and in Kingston too, but hadn’t found them, and then, of course, her acceptance as a virgin maid of Trismegist Towers put such projects on hold.

The title itself – well, of course, she hadn’t blabbed to the Esher Eaglets about that, knowing the mockery that would erupt, although she really did qualify – was a technicality, dating from the middle ages, and was in no way binding today. Miss Couch, her netball trainer, had said so, and it was Miss Couch who had put her up to applying, with – Miss Couch winked – not a word to her friends. Although a Trismegist education was theoretically for virgins only, where would they expect to find nineteen-year-old English girls these days, who had never done it? Thankfully, they hadn’t said anything about a full medical examination or anything. There had been sort of a medical exam, and at first it was a bit embarrassing, but the lady doctor had been so kindly, and the examination so perfunctory, that Beryl soon overcame her embarrassment, though not her slight puzzlement.

Trismegist Towers may have been for virgins back in the mists of English history, when pretty much everybody was a virgin, but today the foundation simply offered education in the learned arts, to selected young ladies, whether of scholastic ability or not, meaning, Beryl supposed, mostly girls who disdained to study engineering or chemistry, or something just as dull. Not only was a Trismegist education free, and designed for girls of manners and taste, but the young ladies actually got paid to complete the course! As long as their dratted knickers didn’t fall down! A tickling at her thighs brought Beryl back to the reality of the train, and Liverpool Street Station, with everyone on the platform, she was sure, positively ogling to see if her knickers sagged. Was that slithering just the silky feel of her eight-denier stockings on bare skin or, more ominously, the collapse of a snapped knicker? Would she get her bag onto the train in time, before absolute shame? It would not be the first time Beryl felt, if not exactly mortified, then as though she were blushing to bits. There was that puzzling medical exam, in Harley Street, for example. She imagined herself pretty free of old-fashioned prudishness, being quite used to larking round the changing room with the other Eaglets, starkers, slapping each other on the bare bum, and that sort of thing; nevertheless, there was a sort of funny tingle in her spine, as she stripped off completely in the doctor’s book-lined office, that didn’t look or smell like the surgery, which was through another door, of solid wooden panels. There were all sorts of leatherbound volumes, that smelled scrumptious, and a nice thick woollen carpet, and tea tables and things, with a high couch of well-worn leather, which Beryl supposed was to put patients at their ease.

Dr McCallan, svelte and handsome, in her early thirties, Beryl reckoned, scrutinised the nude Beryl with eyes twinkling over pince-nez spectacles. She had a pretty, rather muscular, young nurse in attendance, about Beryl’s age, who seemed a haughty London type with a turned-up snub nose, and a white uniform that appeared to be made of latex, all shiny, that clung very tightly to her big bum and breasts, exposing lots of cleavage, with a short skirtlet wrapping her thighs, white stockings that looked like real silk, and tall white rubber boots that looked almost military. She too inspected Beryl in the nude, licking her slightly curled lip sullenly, as if she were jealous of Beryl’s own curvature. Well, the examination was more of a display, actually. Beryl had feared having to climb onto some table or into a chair, and having her limbs strapped down by a sinister physician, for her insides to be . . . probed . . . and horrid scalpels and knobs and things poked into her down there, to see if she was indeed a virgin. But nothing of the sort happened. Instead, she had to put her hands on her head, pirouette, bend, twirl and part her thighs, like some model girl on the fashion catwalk, except that, being in the nude, she had only her body to show off.

Dr McCallan moved in close, and paid particular attention to the opening of her girl’s pouch, looking at her lips through a glass, and taking copious notes. She did the same again, as Beryl was asked politely to touch her toes, and spread her buttocks wide, so as to give the doctor a good look at her bumhole, and the channel of skin between her ‘pouch and pucker’ as the doctor put it. From this position, Beryl noticed one of the volumes with a gold-embossed title that said Corporal Punishment Traditions of Scotland which sounded a bit gruesome for light reading, though she imagined it must have some medical or historical significance, seeing that Dr McCallan was Scottish. The doctor saw her looking, and laughed, saying that in the course of her work, she saw all sorts of strange bruises and lesions in people’s hindquarters, and it was useful to know what salves and ointments to apply to the different sorts of bruises, zinc being the most efficacious. She said rather playfully that she imagined Beryl had never experienced corporal punishment which, she explained, meant spanking or strapping with the leather tawse, or even beating with a cane, often on the naked buttocks, and Beryl replied indignantly that of course she had not, that she was a decent English girl, and the very idea made her shudder.

‘Of course,’ the doctor said, continuing to examine Beryl’s buttocks, and not touching her, but expressing her approval all the time, which was reassuring, until the nurse murmured something Beryl didn’t catch, and Dr McCallan laughed, and shook her head, saying, ‘Certainly not.’

Beryl dared ask her to explain, and the doctor said she supposed Beryl had never had any ‘accidents’ at netball, like falling onto a pole, or hurting her bum in some way like that. Beryl said no, not that she could remember, and Dr McCallan nodded, saying her bottom was delightfully smooth, and free of the marks that frequently attended the bottoms of girls engaged in vigorous sports. She stood up, and said the examination was concluded, and that she would forward a full report to the High Virgin of Trismegist Towers, where she hoped Beryl would be very happy. Just then, there was a whimpering sound from the adjacent surgery, and the doctor frowned, while the nurse flushed, her nostrils flared, and she hissed something about ‘going to regret that insolence’. Dr McCallan looked at her watch, and said it was nearly time for the subject’s treatment, and she had dawdled rather long over Beryl’s examination, because of the pleasure of examining such a superb specimen of English girlhood, with fine unblemished hindquarters. The nurse vanished into the surgery, and Beryl heard a burst of words, very muffled, as though from far away, and then a funny noise, like a tap-tap-tap of an umbrella prodding the floor, and another whimper, long and drawn out, then more taps, and a sort of choked sobbing. There was another flurry of taps, a groan, and then silence. Dr McCallan smiled, as the nurse reappeared, wiping a bead of sweat from her brow, and both females bade Beryl a hearty adieu, hurrying her out. Beryl later learnt that her medical report gave her an A1 rating, with several blush-making comments by the kindly doctor, as to her physical perfection, and particularly her hindquarters – a strange way of saying bottom! – overdoing it a bit, Beryl thought although, like a normal girl, she didn’t mind the compliment.

Secretly, Beryl was more than pleased at the attention paid to her bottom, for she often caressed herself there, on her bare buttocks, because it tickled ever so pleasantly, and especially when she was giving herself relief at her front place, with her little nubbin all stiff and demanding attention from her flicking finger. Stroking her bare bottom made relief come all the faster, particularly if she twisted to look at her buttocks in the glass, while she was stroking her nubbin in front, with her hand agitating between her thighs, and trying to stop her moisture from dripping onto the floor, which would have been awfully embarrassing. Therefore, she was well pleased at Dr McCallan’s report, and supposed that a good bottom and athletic excellence would be appreciated at Trismegist Towers. She was pleased to learn that her fascination with her own ‘rear globes’ was shared by a doctor, hence perfectly normal.

However, she hoped that some punishment did not await her, for the minor ‘porky pie’ she had told the doctor. It wasn’t really an untruth at all, strictly speaking, for indeed she had never had to take anything so horrid as a punishment beating – Beryl had rarely done anything to merit punishment. But in the gym, when the girls were gambolling naked in their after-match high spirits, flicking towels and the like, it wasn’t unknown for a couple of girls to pinion another, and sort of spank her on the bare bum, just in play, or at least, until her buttocks started to squirm and turn pink, then red, and her pretend squeals of protest turned to cries in earnest, begging her aggressors to stop the spanking. It had happened to Beryl more than once, and she hadn’t liked it one bit, although sometimes June and Audrey’s cheek – in both senses – seemed positively to invite spanking, and they hugely enjoyed wriggling their reddened bare bums for all the other girls to admire, often inviting their spankers to join them in a ‘jolly good diddle’ afterwards. And it was true that Beryl herself, after one of those play spankings, felt the urge for relief more keenly than usual, and diddled in private, until she was really quite sopping in her pouch, and brought herself to a much-needed relief.

But those were just girlish pranks, not real spanking, and certainly not real punishment. Audrey once boasted that one of her numerous boyfriends had spanked her on the bare bottom, and displayed her bruised bare buttocks to prove it. Sure enough, she had puffy red spank marks, all over her bumcheeks, with the imprint of someone’s hand. She teased the other girls by running her hands up and down the ridges of the spanking, and moaning, as though on heat. He was some pick-up from Twangers disco, on the Staines Road in Ewell, and she said she had ‘popped her cork’ just from the spanking alone, before he even penetrated her, although she said she had a ‘little help from my friends’, holding up and licking her thumb and forefinger. Audrey, like June, was one of Beryl’s best chums, but she could be awfully gross sometimes. But even June and Audrey would blanch at any suggestion of – what was it, the tawse or cane? – applied to their bare bums, Beryl was sure.

The very thought made her queasy, and she couldn’t begin to imagine the dreadful agony of a wooden rod, or leather strap, applied to a girl’s naked skin, nor how any possible naughtiness could earn such appalling chastisement. So she hadn’t really told a fib to the doctor about her lack of acquaintance with corporal punishment – barbaric, on a girl’s bare bottom, as in mediaeval times! What must it have been like? Some innocent serving wench, no doubt, at the whim of a cruel master, was forced to bare herself for a thrashing, to the smutty delight of the male brutes drinking their wine at the dinner table. Thus was it always: innocent girls being used for the coarse amusement of males. Well, a spirited girl wouldn’t just take it lightly, bending over, or standing still, would she? She’d have to be bound, strapped to a table or a bench, or perhaps pinioned over a sofa, like the one in Dr McCallan’s office, and held down by some brute of a lackey, like the muscular white-garbed nurse, so that despite her wriggling and squealing, she would be helpless to move, as the whip or cane beat her naked buttocks to a fierier red than came from any spanking in the gym at Esher.

Or she might have been flogged, like sailors in the Royal Navy: stripped naked and tied to the mast, to have her back seared by the strokes of the fearful cat-o’-nine-tails, her screams and frantic shudders the object of derision from the watching crew. Men could take such punishment, but a girl? It didn’t bear thinking about. That’s why she was suspicious of spanking games, because they might lead to something harsher. She wondered how June or Audrey would fare if presented with real thrashing, not just in play. Sometimes, as she touched herself for relief in front of her glass, she would shut her eyes and dream up just such a picture, of June or Audrey, or both, strapped in terrible bonds of rope or rubber or metal, which bit deeply into their naked flesh, baring their ripe young buttocks to the cane of some strong male, naked to the waist, his muscles rippling as he caned their squirming bare bums to crimson, ignoring their frantic howls of pain, and sobs for mercy. There would be a particular shame in a girl’s indecent nudity, not the playful girlish nudity of the gym, but a helpless exposure of her private, intimate person to the leers and drools of brutal men. The shame would almost be worse than the searing lash of the whip or cane, she imagined, gasping in horror at the tableau in her mind of flogged girls – her best friends, their bare bums writhing and striped with bruises, and Beryl unable to help them. But she would help them, surely, unless she too was naked and bound in cruel knots, roped and hanging helplessly, to await her own whipping. Ugh! See how they’d like that, Beryl panted to herself, as she fingered herself to relief. She was glad such dreadful things no longer existed in 21stcentury England.

There weren’t a lot of passengers on the platform at this time of the morning, so the carriage Beryl had selected was three-quarters empty. Just as well. She had taken so much care on her appearance, and now her knicker elastic had to snap! She had intended to ascend the step, and pull the bags up after her, not liking the roughness of simply throwing them on the carriage floor, dirty from so many feet, but now prudence dictated otherwise. Of her two bags, she had the lighter one on the step and, clamping her thighs together in case of further knicker disaster – assuming there had been a mishap, because she wasn’t going to be so crude as to raise her skirt, and use her fingers to check – she swung the bag up, in a swivelling motion of her hips. She replaced her foot on the top step, grasped the side handles, and pulled herself up by her arms, until she stood astride her two bags. So far so good. The next step was to hoist them above an untidy pile of backpackers’ gear onto the upper shelf. The seat facing the doorway was occupied by a rather attractive girl, reading some smutty Sunday newspaper, although it was not Sunday. The headline read SPANKING MAJOR AND WILLING WENCHES, and Beryl permitted herself an inner tut-tut, that anyone could write, let alone read, such trash. The girl raised her eyes from her paper and her mouth curled in a smile. She licked her lips briefly, and shifted in her seat, her short skirt and shiny white stockings riding up, to show inches of satin skin behind her garter straps, and the first firm flesh of a very large and ripe derrière. The points of her nipples thrust like young pine cones atop her sharply jutting breasts, conic in shape, and swelling vividly, perhaps oversized for her lean, coltish frame.

‘Need any help?’ drawled the girl, in a rather snooty accent. Beryl blushed for some reason, then blushed more, in her embarrassment at blushing the first time, and said she didn’t.

Hup! The first bag went up easily, too easily, in fact, so that Beryl paid less than proper attention to the second and heavier one; it only just lodged on the shelf, and she had to push extra hard, parting her clamped thighs as she did so. There was a loud twang, and she blushed furiously, aware that the svelte girl was smiling, staring at her, and she just knew her knicker elastic had snapped completely. Beryl looked at the girl and swallowed, eyeing the few feet of space that separated her from the seat opposite, and table-covered modesty. She took a step and stopped, petrified. That slithering on her thighs – both thighs! – could only mean one thing. She took another step, and knew that it was true. Her knickers were falling. Just three more steps. The svelte girl was smiling as she watched Beryl, not her face, but the exact place where her knickers were, halfway down her legs, almost peeping from the hem of her skirt.

To bend down and grab them, and announce her shame to the world? Or to press on, resolutely, like a proper English girl, as though nothing had happened? She chose the latter course. Another step, and her folly was revealed. She felt the telltale slithering, and the knickers slid into view, below her knees. It was too late. Beryl tried taking a stride, only to be caught up in her knickers, which had plunged to her ankles. She tripped, gasping, on her dropped knickers, toppled onto the seat back and, under the merry eyes of the seated girl, bent over to grasp the offending garment, now wrapped around her ankles. She stepped out of it, one foot at a time, murmuring ‘bother’ to herself as her foot snagged in the knickers, and she was sure, from the gust of air riffling her pubic thatch, that her naked pouch was exposed for a moment. Finally, clutching the fallen panties, she slid breathlessly into the seat opposite the svelte girl.

‘Snapped elastic, eh?’ drawled the girl, putting down her paper. ‘Pity, those knickers look jolly nice ones. Take a look in there – those girls are getting caned by some fellow, till their knickers fall down by themselves. He’s pretty young to be a major, and the girls seem pretty old for a spanking but, on reflection, no girl is too old for a spanking, I dare say. No English girl, that is. Spanking is called the English vice, isn’t it?’

Beryl began to burble something, trying to make light of the situation, and wondering where to put her knickers, but the girl laughed, and said it was just one of life’s little amusements.

‘Underthings are all a male plot to keep us girls submissive,’ she said. ‘Falling knickers is an occupational hazard for most of us, so I solve the problem by not wearing any. I’m Godiva Pierce, by the way. I expect you’re going to Trismegist Towers, too.’

‘Yes,’ gasped Beryl. ‘I’m Beryl – Beryl Beaton. But how did you know I was going to Trismegist?’

‘Oh, you’re just the type,’ said Godiva. ‘I’ve been looking at your bum.’

2

Virgin’s Colours

‘It’s true, I don’t wear knickers,’ Godiva said. ‘Except for special occasions, when I want them to come off sooner or later. Look.’

Godiva wore a tiny shirt dress, of thin yellow cotton, over her white sheen stockings, as skimpy and immodest as Beryl’s attire was demure. The slender garment was secured to her shoulders by a single narrow strap over her left shoulder, leaving most of her breasts bare, with the nipples poking like hills under the cloth, and tresses of a lush auburn spilling into the crevice between the two hard breast-cones, and over her bare shoulders. Her shoes were shiny yellow patents, on impossibly high stilettos, but Godiva had kicked them off, and from time to time wriggled her long, prehensile toes under the shiny stockings. The girl flicked up her skirt hem, which did not need to travel far up her silky olive thighs, rippling with firm muscle, before it revealed her naked pubes, swelling under a yellow silk suspender belt and straps. Beryl blushed furiously, but could not take her eyes from Godiva’s mons. She gasped at the size of the girl’s enormous hairy bush, its silken hairs bunching sleek against a swollen mons, and clinging like creepers to the insides of the thighs, while straggling through her perineum, and almost masking the anus bud in the cleft of her firm, well-extruded buttocks. At that moment, two rather dishy young men passed, and when they caught sight of Godiva’s exposure, blushed red, with an instant and very noticeable swelling at their groins, upon which Godiva fixed her eyes.

‘I expect you chaps are looking for the bar carriage,’ she said, licking her teeth.

‘Why, yes,’ blurted one.

‘Absolutely.’

‘Well, follow me,’ said Godiva, springing from her seat.

‘Oh . . . yes. After you, Toby.’

‘No, after you, Justin, old boy.’

‘All right, then. Er, sorry . . .’

Blushing, they shuffled after Godiva’s wiggling croup. She was gone for twenty minutes, and returned, licking her lips which were glazed and wet, and, rather theatrically, rubbing her bottom, as if it were sore.

‘Sorry I didn’t bring you anything,’ she said. ‘Actually, I didn’t make it to the bar, got stuck in the toilet with those two hoorays. Finest English gentlemen, hung like horses, but a girl has to show them where to put it. One up, and one in front. Golly, my bumhole aches.’

Beryl blushed scarlet. She didn’t mean . . . she couldn’t have . . . surely not! A warning bell rang in her head, telling her not to get close to this forward young lady, whose breezy insouciance would be called shamelessness, had she seemed to know the meaning of shame. Mad, bad, and dangerous to know. Shivering, Beryl chided herself for such impolite thoughts.

Were June and Audrey right to tease me? Is it time I ‘got real’, even though it was jolly rotten of Audrey to sneer like that? she wondered.

Her reserve was strengthened though, when Godiva blatantly lit up an oval Turkish cigarette, and puffed nonchalantly, even when the ticket puncher came round. The young man opened his mouth to remonstrate, as Godiva handed him her ticket and blew a puff of smoke in his face, at the same time wiggling her bottom, so that her hairy quim was fully in his view. He gulped, blushed crimson and, forgetting to check Beryl’s ticket, wished the girls a pleasant journey. Godiva laughed, and showed Beryl her ticket, already punched, and merely a discard she had picked up. Beryl didn’t know what to say; the girl seemed so friendly, yet even that minor dishonesty, quite apart from her quite sluttish behaviour – even June and Audrey didn’t smoke – was enough to put Beryl on her guard. She gazed out of the window, as the pleasant Essex countryside rattled past. All was peace, the flowers and meadows a painting of English beauty.

‘Dashed strange, our beloved England,’ said Godiva. ‘You look out at all these farms and hedgerows and suchlike, and imagine all the merry yokels pitchforking their haystacks, and swigging their firkins, or whatever they do, then you read something like this.’

She proffered the gutter newsrag she was reading.

‘Takes the lid off things, eh?’

Beryl read of the confidence trickster who, posing as ‘Major Burke’, enticed waitresses and other common girls to his farm on the edge of Dartmoor, offering them employment as milkmaids, and then abusing them frightfully. The smallest misdemeanour earned the milkmaid a spanking on the bare bottom, bent over her own stool or, worse, a beating with a sheaf of twigs, again on the bare, but with the girl wearing a gas mask, and roped to the gun of a derelict World War Two armoured car. One maid would milk the cow, with the fluid spurting over the trussed nude body of another. ‘Ploughing the field’ used the naked body of a girl as the plough, pushed by another maid, urged on by the major’s whip – on her bare bum! – and with the ploughgirl’s hands and breasts parting the sod. Worse, the pervert would rope two maids naked to a pole, their bellies touching, and swish them both on the bottom with his riding crop until their skins were wealed crimson, with the flogged maids then remaining roped, to serve as a scarecrow. He obliged his maids to scamper on the moor, bleating, their nude bodies covered with sheepskins. None tried to escape, though, and ‘Major Burke’ sought no further recruits, claiming girls came ‘gagging for it’. The story had only emerged when he was unmasked after trying to join the Tavistock branch of the British Legion.

‘Handsome imp, isn’t he?’ said Godiva. ‘Amusing that the sluts kept coming back for more.’

‘Imp?’ Beryl exclaimed. ‘A brute, I’d say. Making girls dress up as sheep – well, that is just perverted.’

‘Yah,’ Godiva said, licking her lips and bright white teeth. ‘Reading between the lines, I’d guess he put them to the traditional uses of sheep, in that part of the world.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Beryl said, ‘I don’t quite follow.’

‘You know, giving them one up the bum. Quite exciting, to be scurrying round the moor on all fours, with a dishy stud like that rogering your back passage.’

‘Well, I am sorry,’ retorted Beryl, colouring fiercely, ‘but that is the rudest thing I’ve ever heard.’

‘You say “sorry” rather a lot,’ said Godiva. ‘Don’t tell me it doesn’t thrill you, when a fellow uses your rear.’

‘I’ve never been used that way,’ Beryl blurted hotly, ‘nor any other, thank you very much.’

‘Really?’ murmured Godiva, putting her hand under her skirt, to scratch her bare bottom. ‘You don’t mean to say . . .’

‘I didn’t mean to say anything,’ mumbled Beryl, ‘but if we are going to be schoolmates, then there is no harm in telling: yes, I’m a virgin.’

‘That’s marvellous,’ said Godiva. ‘You won’t have any trouble with celibacy. Myself, I’m rather dreading it. I had an interesting offer from Parvex Hall, nearby Trismegist, but it sounded too much like hard work, so I thought I’d give virginity a spin. Do tell me what it’s like being a virgin.’

Beryl said it was not really like anything.

‘How very true,’ trilled Godiva. ‘I expect you wank off a lot. In my ABC – age before cock – I used to do myself morning, noon and night, and I was well spanked on the bare when I was caught by the teachers, but it didn’t stop me. I still diddle, perhaps even more, when I have no suitable fellow to service me.’

‘Service?’ Beryl said. ‘You make yourself sound like a mare, or farm animal.’

‘Well, aren’t we?’ said Godiva, tongue darting over her teeth. ‘And isn’t it fun? If you’re shy about wanking off, I won’t press you.’

‘No,’ Beryl insisted, ‘certainly, I attend to myself, when I need relief. I’m not shy, it’s just that I don’t think of it in those terms. I mean, “wanking off”, isn’t that a bit gross?’

Godiva made a moue, and shrugged, while Beryl explained her fitness regime, and the relief from tension her exercised body required. Gradually, she found herself blurting her whole story, about the Esher Eaglets, and June and Audrey, and romping in the showers and the gym, and even, with much simpering, the spanking games among naked teammates. Godiva listened, with a quizzical smile, until Beryl started to ask her a question, realising the girl had said nothing of herself, but at that moment, the train halted, and Godiva said it was their stop. Beryl stood, the rush of air between her thighs, cool at her quim fleece, reminding her she was knickerless. She secured her bags – Godiva had only a small shoulderbag – and the two girls stepped onto the deserted platform. The station hall was a single room, with a door opening onto a car park and a leafy lane with thatched cottages.

‘Had a bit of an accident, eh?’ said a female voice from outside the station entrance.

A tall, blonde girl appeared, her wide lips creased in a smile, and her eyes focused on Beryl’s hand, which, Beryl realised with a blush, still clutched her knickers.

‘Oh . . .’ she blurted, ‘yes, elastic, you know.’

The tall girl clucked her tongue sympathetically, and said you couldn’t get proper materials, these days. She wore a two-piece business suit in brown lightweight fabric, with a long pleated skirt, swishing mid-calf, cream silk petticoats peeping underneath, and her top a daintily cut sports coat, beneath which she wore a crisp cream blouse, with a brooch at the collar. Despite the obvious restraint imposed on her breasts, their largeness made the blouse and coat swell to a hillock, belying the coquettish maleness of her attire, as did the visible white corset, in an old-fashioned flowery pattern, pinching her waist beneath her blouse. Beneath her jaunty Tyrolean hat, a brown veil shaded her face. Behind her, a sleek black limousine was parked, the only vehicle in the car park. At its rear left wheel glistened a pool of liquid, although the sunny day was cloudless.

‘If you need to make peepee,’ the girl said brightly, nodding at the puddle, ‘there’s nobody around to look. When a girl has to go, that is number one priority, as we say at Tris. Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn’t be better to do without knickers, as they get so wet and squishy after you’ve tinkled, don’t they? Even those tiny thongs girls favour nowadays. You are the virgins for Trismegist Towers, I assume – Beaton and Pierce?’

The girls identified themselves, and the besuited girl introduced herself as Althea Stye, vestal virgin of Trismegist. Her body smelled fresh and sumptuous, like new-mown hay.

‘Virgin Althea,’ Godiva nodded gravely, as though favourably judging a poodle at Cruft’s. ‘Does that mean I shall be virgin Godiva?’

‘Not at first,’ said Althea. ‘You remain a simple maid for the time being, and after a while you are automatically a senior maid, and then you can be promoted to wapentake, which is a sort of prefect, halfway between maid and virgin, and responsible for everyday discipline. Wapentakes, like vestals, are addressed as “miss” and carry canes, as emblems of authority, mainly ceremonial, but useful for keeping stroppy maids in order. Above the wapentakes are vestal virgins, a spiritual rank. There are only a few vestal virgins at any time, and you have to pass a . . . a test. That is what the founder ordained. It’s ripping fun, really. Everything is, at Tris.’

Without warning, Godiva handed Beryl her shoulder-bag, and squatted in the shade of the car, hoisting her dress over her belly, and delivering a copious jet of steaming yellow pee, over the tarmac of the car park. Beryl gazed, dumbstruck, at the firm bare pears of her bum glinting in the ripe sunshine, while Althea nodded approval. The acrid perfume of Godiva’s piss floated above the summer scents of flowers, grass and honeysuckle.

‘No knickers – very sensible,’ Althea said. ‘Might as well enjoy your last moments of freedom, eh? Are you sure you don’t want to go, Beryl?’ she added.

Actually, Beryl was bursting to go, even more so after seeing the smooth globes of Godiva’s bum, that massive pubic bush, and the perfect fleshy whorls of her quim; but wouldn’t shame herself so immodestly. A big crimson butterfly fluttered, to nestle in Godiva’s pubic fleece, and Godiva didn’t brush it away, saying she was happy for her pussy to be thought a flower. After peeing, Godiva plucked a fragrant leaf from the herbaceous border, squatted with thighs parted, and gave herself a good wipe, then, nonchalantly, reclaimed her bag. Althea opened the car doors, and Godiva took the front passenger seat, while Beryl sat in the back.

‘I expect you’ll want to put your knickers in your pocket, or your bag,’ Althea said to Beryl, as she started the engine. ‘People might think we’d been larking.’

She laughed nervously. They moved through the leafy village lanes, and out into rolling green countryside, crisscrossed with hedgerows, and the grass glistening in the sun, beaming from a high azure sky. Fluffy vapour trails from unseen aircraft hung motionless above them.