“Yeah, we already built a coupla starter mansions, but we wanted somethin' with class—old, ya know”
Rita the Realtor smiled tightly. “This listing certainly has that,” she said. “Built in 1709, 10 bedrooms, Great Hall, professional grade kitchen, two servants--”
“Oh, yeah? Manservant and maid?”
“Butler and housekeeper, actually,” said Rita.
“Okay, whatever. This the garage?”
“Yes. Converted stables. And there's--”
“What's in here?” he asked, opening a door off the yard. “WOW! What's all this?
“This – equipment – belonged to the third Mister Pickney,” answered Smythe, the butler. “He had rather peculiar ideas of enforcing household discipline. These items have not been used in many years.”
“Huh,” said the prospective buyer. “Whaddya think, Marnie?”
“What? Oh, it's all right I guess,” said the tall, glamorous piece of arm candy who had come along. She had been far more interested in the closets, or lack of them, than in the yard and garages.
“Ooookkkkayy”, drawled the Prospective Buyer. “We'll be in touch. Thanks.” He and the blonde walked out through the classic foyer and to their Corvette.
A few days passed. The P.B. did make contact. “I want to meet back out at that big house to check into some details,” he said. “Wear somethin' cheap and sexy.” Rita, puzzled by this, drove out to the house at the designated time. P.B's 'Vette was already there.
“Hello?” called Rita
“We're up in the old servant's quarters,” came the reply. Rita followed the voice up the stairs and all the way to the back. Here she discovered her prospect, his ladyfriend Marnie, Smythe the butler and Mrs. Abrams, the housekeeper. Marnie was dressed bizarrely, in a short blue satiny dress with petticoats and a pinafore apron, a frilly cap, fishnet tights and shiny black high heeled pumps. Smythe and Mrs. Abrams were looking at her distastefully, and she was looking at Rita with a certain amount of jealousy.
“Hey, Rita,” the P.B. greeted her. “I thought I'd try out that stuff we found in the stables, and figgured you might be curious, too. Care to join us?”
Several different thoughts flung themselves around Rita's head. The one that came up first was the commission on this sale. “Why, yes, of course I would.”
“Great! Let me get these on you.” he held out a set of freshly-polished old fashioned handcuffs. Rita took off her blazer and allowed her wrists to be secured behind her back. The cool, smooth metal encircled her wrists firmly. As she stood watching, Smythe applied similar cuffs to Mrs. Abrams.
“If I may suggest, sir,” he said as the P.B. approached Marnie with a third pair of cuffs, “Put them on your lady with her hands in front.”
“Okay, but then let's put this on her now,” replied the other man. He opened a package, pulling out a network of leather straps with a red rubber ball entrapped in them. Shortly, Marnie's head was entrapped, the ball firmly in her mouth.
The three captive women were led to the back of the house and down the servant's stairs. The treads were surprisingly wide and easy to negotiate. “The fourth Mister Pickney realized that ladies would be negotiating these stairs in heels, without the use of their hands,” explained Smythe. They walked down a short corridor and out into the yard. Three pieces of apparatus had been set up in a straw-covered corner. Smythe led Mrs. Abrams over to one of them.
“This device,” he said formally, “was traditionally used by the Master on the Head Housekeeper. If the servants had failed their duty, she was likewise punished.” Mrs. Abrams seated herself on a low stool and extended her legs. Smythe placed her ankles into stocks and closed the upper piece. Unlocking her cuffs, he secured her wrists into stocks on either side of the stool. Another wood piece encircled her neck at the top of a wooden pole. After adding leather straps around the post over and under her breasts and around her waist, he stepped away.
“Now, Miss Rita, if you will come this way?” Smythe led Rita over to a wood plank on top of a post. “This is a traditional pillory,” he said. “I think you find it surprisingly comfortable.” He placed her neck and wrists through the holes in the plank and lowered the top piece into place. Rita was pinned, her head and hands emerging through the wood, bent over, ass sticking out behind her. By turning her head sideways, she could see the third piece of equipment as Smythe and the P.B. led Marnie over to it.
Smythe did something to the girl's cuffs, uncoupling them. Each cuff was connected to a line that led upwards and outwards to the tip of a “Y” shaped piece. As the lines were tightened, she was pulled forwards, her arms drawn up and outwards, meanwhile forced to straddle the thick round wood stem of the Y. Smythe buckled cuffs to her ankles, connecting them to chains that held her legs even farther apart. There she stood in her abbreviated costume, her arms and legs spread wide, her cunt pressing into the rough wood of the structure.
“This was where the female servants were flogged,” said Smythe to the P.B. “On Monday mornings, the servants would be lined up, and made to watch those of their number who had committed infractions receive their punishment. Ten lashes for failure of duty, twenty for breaking a piece of crockery – there was quite a list. Once, I understand, an upstairs maid attacked the Lady of the house, and was actually hanged – not killed, of course, but she was bound, hooded, and dangled from a noose around her neck for a moment before being lowered.”
“Heavens!” gasped Rita. Marnie screamed through the rubber ball fouling her mouth. Mrs. Abrams said nothing.
“I suggest the Cat of Nine Tails, sir,” continued Smythe. “It is suitably – informative – under the circumstances. It would be best to loosen the young lady’s costume so that it may be applied to her bare back.” The P.B. grinned, untied the bow of her apron and pulled down the zipper, pushing the blue satin apart. Standing to one side, he shook out the tails of the whip. Then he swung.
Rita gasped. The girl arched back against the cuffs binding her to the Y. He swung again, and again there was the sound of impact against soft flesh. The girl emitted a gag-smothered scream. On the sixth stroke, the man's cell phone trilled. He handed the Cat back to Smythe. “Gotta take this,” he mumbled. Marnie hung from the arms of the Y, sobbing. Rita stood helplessly in the pillory. Mrs. Abrams sat stoically in the stocks.
The P.B. closed his phone and walked briskly back to Rita. “Sorry, Darlin' he said, in a tone that didn't sound sorry at all. “That was my broker. Things are going south on my investments. I don't have the wherewithal for a house like this.” he glanced around. “It's kewl, though. Hope you find a buyer for it.” Standing up, he walked around Rita, patting her on her out-thrust ass as he did. She tried to jab him with her spike heel, but missed. Smythe had finished releasing Marnie from the whipping tree. The girl had made a remarkable recovery, no longer weeping, gathering the top of her maid's costume around her.
“Are you really broke?” she asked.
“Naaa, just less rich. It'll be all right. But don't throw away the costume.”
“Will I need it go get a job?” she asked'
“Ya never know, kid,” They left the yard. A few moments later came the sound of the 'Vette leaving.
“My apologies, Miss,” said Smythe as he lifted the wooden [piece from the pillory, releasing Rita.
“How could you let him whip that woman like that?” she asked, angrily.
“Ah,” he responded, unabashed. “The Cat is quite soft, and only stings slightly on impact. If I may demonstrate?” Bemused, she allowed herself to be led over to the Y. He waited while she removed her blouse, then strung her up the same way Marnie had been. Standing back, he brought the 'Cat down across her back. Rita jumped – but although it had startled and stung her, it hadn't been bad. In fact, with her skirt hiked up and her legs spread so that her crotch pressed against the wood, it was quite – stimulating. “Oh – do that again – Please?” she requested. With a slight bow, Smythe did as requested. On the eighth blow, Rita suddenly arched against her restraints, pressing herself against the wood, eyes closed, then sagging down against the cuffs holding her.
“Th – thank you,” she gasped as Smythe, always attentive, released her and helped her to sit down. She pulled her blouse back on, tried a couple of times before she got it buttoned properly, then, distracted, found her purse and blazer.
“Must – must be going,” she temporized, gathering her self. “Have to find a buyer for this place. Another one of those dot com millionaires, hope he appreciates good woodwork, er, craftsmanship. Who knows, maybe I need more incentive – need to get whipper into shape, er, didn't mean,...” Her heels clicked unevenly through the house to the front.
Smythe watched her go until her car was down the driveway and on the main road. Then he turned to Mrs. Abrams, who still sat in the housekeeper's stocks. “Ready to be let loose, honey?” he asked in a much less stiffly formal tone.
“Here you have a lady pinned down helplessly, unable to escape your attentions – what do you think?” she said with a smile.
Bending down, he cupped her breast, squeezing the hard tissue he found there. She moaned, and lifted her knee as much as the stocks would allow. He thrust his hand under the skirt of her black dress, stroking her thigh above the lace top of her stocking. Knowing that seeing not one but two women get flogged would make her most wonderfully randy, he wasted no more time, but unclasped the restraints holding her in the stocks. When he had her standing, he locked her hands behind her back, added a strap around her arms, and gagged her with a black silk riband. Prisoner secure, he marched her back towards the master bedroom, knowing that they would not be disturbed until that flaky real estate lady come up with another Potential Buyer.
End
Copyright 2012 Cynthia Trusscot
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26.03.13