From the Top Shelf - In a Mist, Chapter 3

Do you remember Florence, the maid who got into trouble for wearing faux-silk panties last week? No, I hadn't forgotten either, and neither had the Master.

IN A MIST - Chapter 3 - Florence learns the price of clumsiness...and underwear!

Below stairs in the cavernous stone-flagged kitchen, the domestic staff of Lymchurch House took their ease, the day's duties over. Florence sat sewing with the other women at the large, white-scrubbed table. The men lounged around in a huddle, contentedly puffing their pipes by the back door that stood open to let in the balmy night air.

Suddenly the door at the opposite end of the room, leading to the rest of the house, was flung wide. "Mr. Tomms, a word with you please." It was Mrs. Anderson, forbidding in her high-necked starched blouse and funereal black bombazine skirt.

Florence went hot and cold all over as the burly chauffeur strolled nonchalantly over to the housekeeper. He was the only one among the servants to regard himself as being beyond Mrs. Anderson's jurisdiction. An uneasy truce existed between them. He conceded to her supreme sway over all household affairs, in return for which he came and went, indoors and out, just exactly as he pleased.

Mrs.Anderson whispered something in his ear and they both turned to stare at Florence. "Ten o'clock tonight in the tackroom, Flo, Master's orders," Tomms announced grimly. Florence blushed and bent her head low over her sewing. She'd been expecting the axe to fall ever since her telling-off at dinner, and in a way she felt almost relieved now that it had finally come. The cruellest thing of all had been the frail hope she had been nursing all along that somehow there would be a miraculous stay of execution.

The other servants winked knowingly at each other. The women began to titter and the men exchanged ribald remarks. Florence's chair grated on the stone floor as she pushed it back. She rose and fled hurriedly upstairs to the privacy of her tiny room, her cheeks burning with shame.

The tack room, where all the saddles and harness were kept, was part of the coach house with the stables adjoining. It was a well-scrubbed, dimly lit room with a grey tiled floor, and smelt of saddle soap, boot polish and leather.

It was a few minutes after ten when Florence entered, looking pale and sickly. She was a sturdy, big-boned girl, inveterately lazy and prone to acts of stupid clumsiness - as had been proved already that evening. Her big, fat bottom was no stranger to Tomms' broad black leather belt. Her normally rosy cheeks were ashen grey and her wide vacuous mouth drooped at the corners, giving her a sulky, petulant air.

"Well, what are you standing there for, like m'lady at a vicar's tea party?" Tomms taunted her cruelly,itching to lay his hands on her. "You ought to have learnt the drill b'now! Gawd knows I've belted yer arse often enough!"

With a long drawn-out sigh, Florence turned her back and lifted up her dress and petticoat, disclosing soft fleshy thighs above the tops of her black stockings attached to thick elastic garter straps - and those white artificial silk panties with frilly hems for which she was about to pay dearly for daring to wear them while on duty.

Tomms gave a little whistle of appreciation. He was used to seeing Florence's bottom clad in shapeless calico drawers.

"Oh ho, you saucy trollop," he grunted lecherously, "just asking for a prize whipping, ain't you!" Florence gasped, feeling the urgent prodding of his prick within his corduroy breeches, as he pressed himself up against her rump. He stepped back a pace or two and cupped each clearly defined bottom cheek in his hands. Then he thrust his hand down inside her panties and squeezed both buttocks hard until she squealed with pain.

Knowing that the time for her whipping was fast drawing near, in desperation she stuck out her bottom, rotating and wriggling it as seductively as she could, raising herself up on her heels so that Tomms' busy fingers, poking and kneading inside her tightly stretched panties, found their way eventually into the cleft between her legs.

"Why, you filthy slut, you're soaking wet!" Tomms cried hoarsely, his excitement growing by the second. "You know what happens to dirty girls who wet their panties, don't you, Flo!"

Florence nodded in dismal resignation as Tomms seized the waistband of the panties and, almost ripping them in his haste, wrenched them down over her broad hips past her stocking tops, letting them slide all the way down her legs until they flopped to the floor in a shapeless triangle around her feet.

Florence's big bare bottom wobbled invitingly like a white blancmange. Tomms scrutinised it, looking to see if there were any visible signs remaining from her previous whipping. Invariably there were: small mottled bruises, like birthmarks, showing up clearly against the whiteness of her flesh.

Then, despite her snivelling pleas and protests, he propelled her over to the bench where most of the cleaning and polishing of the riding tackle was done during the day, but which Tomms had already taken pains to clear of such workaday impediments as cakes of saddle soap, brushes and rags.

It was a high bench, made of oak, and Florence had to raise herself on tiptoe in order to place her soft white belly across its ample width. Above her, a row of thinly tapering riding switches hung vertically from hooks. Florence deliberately avoided looking at them - her one remaining hope being that, as he had already hinted, Tomms would use his belt on her which, painful though it was, was nothing compared to the unbearable agony inflicted by one of those slim supple crops.

She sighed in relief to hear the familiar "clunk" of the belt buckle being unfastened from around his waist. Folding the thick leather belt in two, Tomms gripped both ends together and raised the belt high above his shoulders.

Then, with a cruel flick of the wrist, he sent it snaking downwards. It sang through the air, making a vicious whirring sound, before wrapping itself painfully around Florence's bottom, pulling the cheeks together in an excruciatingly stinging embrace. The loud 'CRACK!' rang through the stone-tiled room. Florence uttered a cry of dismay, and her whole body shook as it fought to control the throbbing smart.

The belt hissed downwards and struck her again. She jerked upwards and yelled shrilly. Again and again the belt exploded against her buttocks with slow measured regularity. Florence began to whimper and sob, swivelling big womanly hips vainly from side to side, to try and escape the punishing strokes of the belt. But this only succeeded in goading the excited Tomms into wielding it with even greater ferocity. Her bottom rapidly pinkened, then reddened into crimson as each fresh stroke imparted yet another smarting stripe to the, by now, plum-coloured flesh.

"Oooooohh Mr. Tomms, please, no more - I can't stand it!" she blubbered, but Tomms was enjoying his cruel sport too much to want to end it just yet....

Ten minutes elapsed. Still the wicked black belt hissed and sang. Florence was howling vociferously, her bottom, from hip to thigh, one mass of purple bruising with a horizontal patterning of thick banded weals. Her frantic cries had attracted a little crowd outside the tack room.

It was an all male gathering, jostling and murmuring in their excitement. Florence's bottom, glowing like a fireball from within the dimly-lit room, held them spellbound.

"Blimey, just look at the state of 'er arse! Old Tomms ain't 'alf belting the 'ell out of it!" Rick, the stable boy, exclaimed in awe, pressing his nose against the bleared window pane.

"Ar, she be a real sturdy wench," said a calmer, more philosophical voice among the onlookers. "Wi' a backside as big as that, I reckon she'd take any amount o' whippin'."

Rick's hand clutched the growing bulge in the front of his trousers and he began to rub rhythmically as again and again the belt landed on poor Florence's blazing welted bottom, and her howls continued to pierce the silence of the night.

"What's the betting he'll shag her afterwards?" said Harry.

"She damn well deserves it." observed Joe. "She's askin' for a good shaggin' and no mistake, wigglin' 'er arse about like that. Ain't the girl got no shame?"

At long last Tomms flung down the belt. His arm ached with exhaustion. He stood wiping the sweat from his brow while Florence was allowed the indescribable luxury of rubbing her burning bottom-flesh.

But this was only a temporary respite for her. In a moment, Tomms began to unfasten his breeches. The spectators were immensely amused at the sight of the red-faced, perspiring chauffeur, struggling and swearing, his breeches entangled in his gaiters, and his enormous prick protruding from beneath his shirt.

He caught side of his audience and, shaking his fist with rage, lunged towards the window. The onlookers scattered and fled, for none of them much fancied receiving a black eye and a bloody nose from Edward Tomms.

Turning once more to Florence who was quietly weeping in the corner, he ordered her to bend over the seat of one of the work stools, her legs splayed wide apart, her hands clutching the lower rungs on the far side, while he guided his monstrously distended prick into the well-lubricated opening she was so obligingly presenting.

"Oooooooohh, Mr.Tomms!" she moaned, her eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets, as he slipped her his inordinate length. Grunting with pleasure, he insinuated himself deeper and deeper inside her. Then his heavy buttocks began to pound up and down as he established a rhythm, his great beer-belly slapping against her aching, bruised bottom.

The old stool creaked and lurched perilously beneath their combined weight. It even skidded an inch or two across the grey-tiled floor, as Tomms, entering the home straight, pounded towards his climax with animal-like groans and hammer-blow thrustings. His grizzled beard glistened with saliva.

Florence's face, now as red as her bottom, took on a look of furious concentration as she flet herself near to coming. As Tomms withdrew his sticky, glistening penis just in time to discharge a flood of milky semen all over her sorely maltreated buttocks, Florence let out a squeal of delight as a great wave of bliss suddenly overtook her....

Afterwards she cooed like a roosting dove while Tomms insisted on anointing her bottom all over with his come. Despite its salty sting, it felt like balm.

"Oh Mr. Tomms," she whispered in shocked amazement, "you ain't 'alf a caution and no mistake!"

Had the dourly puritanical Mrs. Anderson received a complete account of the goings on in the tack room that night, she would never have allowed the parlour maid within a mile of Edward Tomms.

Can you imagine that happening at Downton Abbey?