with her for me.'
A broad smile crossed the groom's face. All the passion which he had pumped into Maggie's mouth, the love with which he had spangled her thighs and backside, did not restrain his zeal for chastising her. We went into the main part of the tiled stable, where a padded leather bench stood at the centre of the floor. Maggie was stripped to her singlet, made to kneel at one end of the bench and lie forward along it. Her discarded pants and knickers (a pair of stretched cotton briefs) lay discarded on the table. They had tied her blond hair in a short pony-tail, and I was pleased at that. It enabled me to watch more clearly her blue eyes and fair-skinned features. I nodded to the groom, who made the preparations required by the Greystones regulations. Maggie's wrists were strapped to the far end of the bench, her waist buckled down, and her legs belted tightly together just above the knees.
All this will sound so severe, Lizzie, that you will scarcely credit how much pleasure there was for Maggie in her punishment. Yet such was the truth, as I discovered when I made my inspection of her before she was bamboo'd.
I squatted down behind her and studied the area which offered itself as a target to the groom. Maggie's buttocks, firmly and fully presented by her posture, were stretched hard apart. Both the rear pout of her vaginal purse and her anal cleft were in full view. I teased our blond shop girl gently. 'You've been making love, haven't you, Maggie?' I stroked her down the length of her cleavage, between the fair-skinned sturdiness of her buttocks, tickling the rear of her vaginal pouch and finding it moist. She was far away by now, her mouth open a little, and her blue-green eyes blank, as if she could not hear.
Can you guess the truth, Lizzie? Any of the other shop girls punished in this manner-Pat or Jennifer or the rest-would have trembled at the ordeal. Maggie, however, was a lover of that delight known to us as 'Birch in the Boudoir.' Even a prison caning was the occasion for her pleasure. It is true, is it not, that certain girls, like the slave, Janina or the Grecian nymph, Sarita, have found pleasure under the rod of their Turkish masters? Maggie was a worthy novice!
Already I could see that her pale, firm thighs, in all their stocky power, were squeezing rhythmically together. It was impossible to prevent, except by ordering her legs to be strapped apart. To tell you the truth, my curiosity was so great that I could not bear to do that.
'No wonder the men watched you as you set out the harness display, Maggie,' said the first groom, 'if you were misbehaving like that!'
But the young shop girl had no shame, Lizzie! I vow she continued with the thigh-squeezing and the buttock- clenching as if she could not have stopped it for dear life.
The groom cut the air with a trial swish of his bamboo. Our young blonde masturbatrix stopped, frozen in a moment of apprehension, and then resumed her labours of self-love.
'Thirty strokes across your bare bottom, Maggie,' I said softly, and I nodded to the groom to begin the punishment with the long supple bamboo.
How the first stroke of the cane rang out across the firm, pale cheeks of Maggie's bottom! She gasped, cried out, but never ceased to squeeze her love-lips hard between her thighs. Again the cane lashed across her seat, and again. She gave a soft cry but it was hard to say whether pain or pleasure drew it from her. The groom was quite pitiless with her. Believe me, any true disciplinarian who had watched Maggie displaying herself at the window would have approved that. Six times the cane raised a weal across the cheeks of Maggie's bottom-and twice across the backs of her thighs. She cried out with the hurt and with the pleasure of her own thigh-squeezing at the same time. In truth the vicious prison bamboo was a smarting agony across the bare cheeks of her backside. Only the swelling balloon of pleasure in her own lions enabled her to endure it with such insouciance.
After the first fifteen strokes, the groom handed the cane to his colleague for the rest.
'Almost at the summit of your climb, Maggie?' asked the second man. 'I shall let you get there before I cane. Then fifteen wicked strokes across your backside, with no distractions!'
Mag cried out again, begging him to bamboo her in her present state. But he waited until her thighs seemed to beat quickly in their squeezing, like soft white wings. He stood, undid her legs, and strapped them again with knees wide apart. Then he caned the impudent blonde shop girl without compunction.
I was conscious that the lads she had romped with earlier had their eyes pressed to every chink and keyhole in the place. Under the second groom's attentions, Maggie screamed and her green eyes brimmed over. Unlike his predecessor, he was a moralist and no libertine. His righteous anger brought thin ruby trickles from the new weals across her bottom-cheeks.
At last Maggie lay limp and gasping, her behind blushing and marked by swollen stripes. I stroked her blond hair, calming her. 'Come to my room tomorrow morning, Maggie,' I said gently. 'You'll be tanned now until the grooms are satisfied with you. Tomorrow, I'll treat you to some softer discipline of my own.'
Was it pleading or was it gratitude she showed? Maggie, the randy young bitch, brazenly licked my fingers in anticipation! Had she much to be grateful for? It depends which groom was the harder to satisfy. Was she given to the gentler of the two? He would surely allow her to ride the rubber dildo while his rod merely stimulated her passion. But Maggie the young shop girl with her golden-blond hair touching her collar and fringed on her forehead, might well provoke a gentle, affectionate lechery.
Yet the other groom seemed more fiercely provoked. Was it by the rather hard, crude features in the pale oval of her face, or the blue-green eyes with their mascara'd lashes? Did her slight stockiness, the firm young thighs and buttocks, move him even more?
With the first lover, Maggie might play out an amorous comedy. If the second was allowed to take her into the fateful room, a darker drama would ensue. It represents a more sombre scene, shadows falling on a fixed block where Maggie kneels strapped over it, securely gagged. Only her short, black singlet clothes her. I fear the tale must be one of Maggie's wadded screams and flooding tears, her bottom bruised and swollen by weals which will not fade for a week. Even then, I suspect, this wielder of the pony-switch knows no pity.
I wonder which of my suppositions is correct? Perhaps neither. Perhaps, indeed, I malign the second fellow. Yet there was a certain look in his eye. Not that I think him alone in his inclinations towards such a young woman as Mag!
Now, my dearest Lizzie, I send this, my second letter, to you. As of this moment, you will not have received one. But, when you do, how sweet your replies will be to your own adoring,
Charles
LETTER 3
My own Lizzie,
What a fool! What a fool he is, I hear you say. To procure such pleasure for Maggie and her admirers, but never to taste it for himself. Believe me, my dearest, you could not think worse of me than I did myself in that respect. I groaned all night at my folly in having let slip the opportunity to enjoy an evening with Maggie. It shall not happen again, I said to myself. For now it was clear that I was lord and master of the young women whom Miss Martinet-or rather my Uncle Brandon-had provided for me. I could do anything I chose, to whatever girl I chose.
Now the trouble about that state of affairs is that it rather spoils a fellow for choice. I might have spent the next six months making up my mind and changing it again. If there was one young woman who unwittingly saved me from this, she was Noreen.
Yesterday, after two days of remorse and indecision, I went down to the stable-block again. The harness had been polished, and Noreen was rubbing up the tiles with a damp cloth, toiling away in her white singlet and working trousers.
Picture her, Lizzie! A firmly made, quite tall girl of nineteen. Unlike Maggie's easy sluttiness, there was a hard defiance in Noreen's clear, pale features and insolent brown eyes. The dark-brown hair, cut at the collar, fell about her face as she knelt there polishing. From time to tune, she flicked her fringe and shook the straight, dark hair into place.
You may be sure that the passers-by on the path were detained by the sight of her. What did they see? A firm- figured young trollop in clothes so snug-fitting that you might imagine her naked! The singlet, as she knelt on hands
