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and longer than whip or paddle had achieved. Lord Thundridge added loud, blasphemous oaths as her orgasm set his own off and she felt him come inside her, bellowing like a bull.
    For some minutes they lay there. Patience bent over the bedstead, Lord Thundridge slumped, his considerable weight on top of her. His cock, which seemed reluctant to deflate, was still inside her, filling her and making her gurgle with pleasure as the last delightful ripples of her climax subsided. At last they heard the clopping of heels in the corridor. Rousing himself, his Lordship eased himself out of her cunny, provoking a long, last groan from his well whipped and magisterially rogered maid.
    ‘If you please, Sir,’ Mrs Snodgrass said, ‘I thought you might like Constance to see to you. On your knees girl, lick his Lordship’s person quite clean or I will skin you.’
    ‘Uff, very… proper, Mrs Snodgrass, thank you. I am afraid we have a delinquent here.’
    ‘Tsk, tsk, sir. Another one? These girls these days, I don’t know! More correction, is it?
    ‘I promised her a public – oof, yes that’s it, Constance – a public birching. But let us give her a week or so to contemplate her fate.’
    Patience would have murdered for the services of a Constance. But, of course, such privileges were not for her. She was put back into bed, gasping as her sore bottom met the mattress. Gasping again as her latex night-gown was pulled down over her throbbing, welted breasts. With her secured once more, the window was closed, and the door locked behind her visitors. Soon the heat inside the room was stifling again.
    The radiator gurgled. What would a birching feel like? Could it be worse than the titty-whipping or that awful paddling? Patience moaned and writhed as the perspiration built and stuck the latex to her flesh again. The paddle blistering her bottom. His cock thrusting in and out. The whip scalding her breasts. Her master’s brutal fucking. The birch, what would it feel like? His fingers pinching sore and engorged nipples. His cock easing out and then ramming home again. The crack of paddle on her par-boiled bottom. Heat, sweat, the lingering smell of cigar mixed with latex, and the radiator gurgling.
    She was going to be in real trouble if she did not get some sleep.

The Pinkery – Arbella Silkstone
    ‘Constance, Honesty, Verity, carry on with the silver. Patience, Docility, Faith and Duty, dusting the yellow drawing room and polishing the furniture. Loyalty, Joy, Felicity…’ Little groups of maids peeled off to attend their designated duties and Mrs Snodgrass had to raise her voice so as to be heard above the click-clacking of steeple heels on flagstones. Comfort listened out intently, increasingly desperate to catch her own name above the clatter, for as the group of uniformed young women grew ever smaller the sense of tension built. The tasks grew more onerous at the end of the list and all the girls knew what came last of all. Few wished it to be their turn for that particular duty.
    ‘Benevolence, and Fidelity, special duties, trot over to the stables and report to Mr Jackson.’ Comfort caught an almost imperceptible gasp from shy Fidelity and there was just the hint of hesitation before the buxom and beautiful Benevolence, and her slender blonde companion, clip-clopped off to meet their fate, both blushing furiously. Comfort wondered, briefly if she would see either again, for maids sent to the stables did not always return. ‘Sincerity and Clarity,’ Mrs Snodgrass continued. ‘Go over to the walled garden. Mr Blenkinsop has produce for you to take over to the house.’
    The two girls clattered off, looking no more enthusiastic than had the girls sent to the stables. It might be a morning hauling apples and pears to the kitchen, but Comfort knew from personal experience that their duties might just as well as be carrying fresh-cut nettles or holly sprays to her Ladyship. Also, the gardeners were a rough lot, well known