The trollop knocked on the door of Lord Nele Lourcy’s chamber, just as he had expected she would, at about half past eleven. The day of hunting had stretched on forever, and as he had sat down to dine at the table of his friend Bertram Howard, the earl of Hobberly, Nele, younger son of the duke of Panton and therefore Lord Nele only by courtesy, had thought with fondness of the bed he would soon occupy in the east wing of the earl’s sumptuous manor house.
But the trollop—one of the three who served at Bertram’s table that night—had sent thoughts of sleep fleeing from Nele’s mind. As he opened the door, pulled her into his bedchamber, and began immediately with his right hand to make free with her sweet little bottom under the shift that was all she wore, he tried to remember what Bertram had called her. He didn’t deem it strictly necessary to address a trollop by name, but he found that it added to his pleasures, generally, to give her commands that way, rather than simply calling her ‘slut’ or ‘girl.’
Sarah? Susan? As he unceremoniously raised her shift with his left hand so that he could take her backside completely into his right, then moved his fingers down and in to claim her pouting, wonderfully bare cunt as well despite her faint protestations of “Please, my lord… please,” he pictured the scene in the dining room, hoping the pretty blond maid’s name might come back to him.
Like all Bertram’s female servants, of course, this maid had fallen from society’s good graces. Like all of them, too, she would, Nele had known, come to his chamber if he told Bertram he wished it. If she did not obey the earl’s command to go to the guest chamber he specified, Nele well knew that the penalty of a bare-bottom caning and expulsion from the household would befall her. The idea always added a lovely piquancy to Bertram’s dinner parties.
“Do you like her?” Bertram had asked when he saw Nele gazing at the girl. “She’s new. Just arrived from London last month.” The girl had bent over slightly to remove Mrs. Porter’s fish plate, just to Nele’s left, and her backside looked marvelously shapely even in her black servant’s gown. To Nele’s right, over Miss Portia Redding, sat Miss Cynthia Heathers, the girl of questionable virtue whom Bertram had invited expressly for Nele to seduce and whose cheeks now wore a distinctly pink shade, Bertram continued, “Go ahead and put your hand up under her skirts. Her last gentleman friend had her cunt hair removed, and I’ve instructed her to keep up the practice. Sue, hold still for a moment while Lord Nele feels your cunt, if you please. Mrs. Porter, you don’t mind, do you?”
Sue. That was it.
Bertram had not of course asked Portia Redding if she minded whether Nele put his hand under the maid’s skirts to caress the little cunny that he found wonderfully smooth indeed. Had her gentleman friend taken from somewhere the utterly charming notion of baring the girl’s quim? He couldn’t help picturing this little maid—no more than twenty, he wagered—being required to hold still, at the command of the man who kept her, while he lathered her there and then carefully took his razor to her private curls.
“Turn around, girl,” Bertram said, then. “I think we should get a look at you, too. Raise those skirts nice and high. Yes, the petticoat, too. Portia, my dear, would you ever impeach the beauty of that hairless treasure?”
It was one of Bertram’s favorite plays on words: he frequently called girls’ cunts peaches, and was forever saying things like, “I had that governess’ peach last night. Dripping and delicious.”
More even than naughty plays on words, Bertram’s beloved sport, though, lay in degrading the virtue of maidens like Miss Redding. Beyond the shooting itself—indeed, Nele would wager, more important than the shooting—Bertram’s weekend birding parties had as their purpose the debauching of young women like Portia. The corruption and seduction of Bertram’s own proper miss for that weekend, who sat upon his other side, now, studiously regarding her own vanished fish, had taken place the night before, and Bertram had undoubtedly told her that she would have a great deal more fucking after dinner tonight as well—perhaps he had even informed her, as he often did with such girls, that he would begin by caning her bare backside to punish her for allowing him to fuck her.
She, Miss Heathers, had already learned that in the earl’s manor house the discourse took no thought of such missish niceties as not discussing girls’ private charms: to ask a girl, for example, to inspect another girl’s cunt and give voice to her judgment as to whether her own cunt measured up. Bertram had told Nele that Cynthia Heathers had been reluctant to suck his cock, but by the time he had laid her over the pillows and initiated her into arse-fucking she had grown pliable as a lamb, under the persuasive force of his freedom of conversation.
Bertram taught the young ladies he fucked to regard his natural masculine dominance as a law unto them, and he ceaselessly urged Nele to approach amorous matters the same way. Under the tutelage of a scandalous essay by one Dr. Brown, On the necessity of men’s exercising their masculine rights in erotic matters, Bertram had, on turning twenty-one and coming into his money, begun to practice the ways of what Dr. Brown called a natural man.
The earl of Hobberly, as one of the land’s most eligible bachelors, had it in his power to lay his hands upon a great many girls like Miss Cynthia Heathers and Miss Portia Redding, pretty younger daughters of families with an overabundance of female offspring. Assisted in his design of exercising his natural masculine rights upon as many of them as possible by the helpful presence of apparently upstanding couples like Colonel and Mrs. Porter, and Admiral and Mrs. Stanley, Bertram had mastered the art of always seeming almost ready to marry.
“Miss Heathers,” he called across the table, “what say you about this hussy’s cunt? It has been fucked many more times than yours has, I am sure, and yet does it not still appear very tight and pleasing?”
Neither Miss Redding nor Miss Heathers seemed eager to answer the lewd questions; both pretended, as such misses always did, they had not heard. Mrs. Porter, on the other hand, now lifted the back of the maid’s skirts and said, “Her arse is quite fine as well, I must say. Girl, who kept you last?”
Nele looked up into the face of the girl whose pretty little fig, with the most adorable hint of its coral secrets, he had exposed to the view of the dinner party, and saw an expression he had not expected. The girl’s eyes seemed to flash with an intelligence she strove to hide, and her brow creased with a distress that could be arousal, or dismay, or perhaps more likely a mixture of the two that troubled her greatly and increased both feelings.
“Sir David Newburgh, ma’am,” she said very quietly. She cast her eyes up to the ornate crown molding, clearly knowing as well as Nele did that Mrs. Porter’s questions would certainly continue.
“And he had you bare your private charms for him?” Mrs. Porter affected the sort of mock refinement men like her husband the colonel—and like Bertram, of course—always preferred in their consorts. “If the colonel ever ordered that of me, I must say I would find it far below my dignity. But then a girl like you must do as your keeper tells you, must you not? Did Sir David find it a pleasing place for his charger to dally? Did he ride there often?”
The maid’s eyes remained fixed, gazing upward. Her cheeks had turned a very bright pink. “Yes, ma’am,” she whispered.
Then, for the barest instant, the trollop’s eyes dropped and met his, and Nele saw in them not humiliation but a sort of challenge. Can you master me? For I have never truly been mastered. He felt his eyes narrow. He didn’t will the look he gave in response; it simply came from his body, from his heart: I will master you, girl.
The trollop’s eyes returned to the crown molding, and he thought he saw two pink spots on her cheeks that had not been there before.
“And why do you find yourself here at Hobberly, then, hmm?” Mrs. Porter continued mercilessly. “How came it that you find yourself inspected and fondled at an earl’s table?”
“Come now, Mrs. Porter,” her husband reprimanded her from across the table. “You shall be whipped tonight for this cruelty, I promise you, and then I shall have a ride in your naughty cunt and your ample arse that will make you scream that you wished you had been kinder. Besides,” he said, turning to Nele, “if you decide to have this trollop tonight, you will wish to question her in private, I warrant.”
Nele glanced at Miss Redding. The raven-haired girl was quite pretty in her lilac frock, and the prospect of a slow corruption of her had enticed him that morning, but something in the face of the little maid whose skirts remained lifted by Mrs. Porter behind and by Nele himself in front decided him in an instant. Portia Redding would return home, disappointed or not by the circumstance, with her maidenhead intact.
He said to Bertram, “May I have her tonight, Bertie?”
“Of course! Perhaps you can tell the colonel in the morning whether Mrs. Porter should be made to bare her charms after all.” He smirked across Nele and around the still-exposed cunt of the trollop at Mrs. Porter.
“You bad boy!” she exclaimed. “I don’t know why Colonel Porter keeps company with you!”
“Yes, you do,” chortled the colonel from the other side of the table. “Now confess to Miss Redding and Miss Heathers, if you please, how much you are looking forward to your whipping and your arse-fucking.”
That rarest of sights, a blush from Helen Porter, then arose. Nele looked at Miss Redding and Miss Heathers—seeing in the face of the latter that Bertram had absolutely promised her a caning tonight—and observed in them the fascination he had expected. He caught Miss Redding darting a nervous glance at him as he turned back to her, and he realized that—of course—she had developed, even as he had announced to the table that he would debauch the little trollop tonight, the terrible craving to undergo a similar debauching at his hands. If Nele wanted to have the blond maid tonight and the raven-haired Portia Redding tomorrow night, as Bertram’s Dr. Brown would certainly tell him he should do if he liked, he could easily have that pleasure.
But Nele had that within him that passed show, he always thought, when it came to the rights as a natural man that friends like Bertram and Colonel Porter continually urged him to assert. Something about the way the trollop had looked at him, and the way her eyes flashed as she whispered the humiliating answers to Mrs. Porter’s questions… it all called out to the part of him that refused to toy with girls’ socially ingrained compulsion toward matrimony. The part of him that did not allow him—as Bertram’s conscience clearly allowed—to promise to marry Portia Redding the way Bertram had certainly promised to marry Cynthia Heathers last night.
Cynthia would of course never be countess of Hobberly. Probably, twenty years from now, Bertram would find himself forced to marry so as to beget lawful heirs—the same way Colonel Porter had finally married Helen Janeway and her 10,000 pounds—but he would ruin a great many more Cynthias upon a great many more shooting weekends before then. Dr. Brown frowned on lying, in his essay, but he did suggest that girls of high rank, who had fallen under the sway of the false idol of matrimony, should be fucked just like other girls, as long as a sufficiency could be provided in the event that their bellies grew big.
Bertram had already provided, to Nele’s knowledge, for the lying-in of four such big-bellied, high-ranking girls. The girls and their babies were all put away, by their families with Bertram’s assistance, in various corners of England. He even visited them from time to time and renewed his masterful attentions to the fallen girls after he had dandled his natural children upon his knee.
But Nele found himself unable to do likewise. Twice already Bertram had found pretty girls—gentlemen’s daughters like Portia Redding, who now made the third—for Nele to debauch, and twice Nele had contented himself with a girl like this trollop, who had no virtue to ruin. The first time, Admiral Stanley had sent his young wife Georgiana to Nele for punishment and fucking, and taken Miss Dering, the girl Bertram had intended for Nele, to his own bed. The second time, Nele had found a serving wench in the tavern in the village of Hobberly and left Miss Renfrew unmolested.
Nele had come to understand that he felt his natural rights just as keenly as Bertram did, but that he could not ignore the dastardly trick played by society upon young women. He liked to whip girls and to fuck them—that he could not deny. Nor could he deny that he liked to fuck pretty, innocent girls better than he liked to fuck jaded girls whom another man had already played false and robbed of their virtue. But he could not bring himself to ruin a girl that way, even if she desired to be ruined.
“Sue, isn’t it?” he murmured into the trollop’s ear as from behind he explored the silken folds between her thighs, holding her around her waist with his left arm so that he could caress her just as he wished despite her delicious squirming.
“Yes, my lord,” she panted.
“What a good girl you are, Sue, to come to my chamber tonight. Your cunt is just the sort of cunt I love to fuck, and I love how bare and smooth you’ve been made to keep it.” As Nele spoke, he ran his middle fingertips up all the way to the tiny bud of her demure clitoris. Sue squirmed forward, as if trying to get away from the possessive caress, but of course in doing so she merely pushed her wonderful little breasts more firmly against his chest, lightly covered by his silk dressing gown. Her own hands hung hovered around her hips, as if she knew she must not interfere with Nele’s pleasures.
“Thank you, my lord.” Her breathing grew quicker, the more Nele drew her private wetness down from the snug passage where he would soon put his cock.
“Are you ready for fucking tonight, girl?” Oh, how Nele loved asking that kind of question, when he knew the girl was a trollop by nature, and would respond as she should. “Are you ready to please me?”
“Yes, my lord.” She spoke the words with such unexpected composure that for a moment Nele’s fingers paused in their steady rhythm upon her cunt. The strange emotion he had felt at dinner, looking into her face, which he couldn’t name then and he couldn’t name now, returned. All he knew was that something about her called out to him—and now he began to wonder if any girl had ever called out to him that way, let alone a fallen girl like this trollop Sue.
Partly to cover his confusion and partly to advance matters, he said, in his sternest voice, “Go to the bed and bend over its foot. I am going to spank you.”