A Baroness' Whip Lust Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part of our laughter came from the fact that none of the other girls had any idea of what we had been up to the night before.

  A Baroness’ Whip Lust

  by J.A. Schenley

  ISBN: 978-1-939916-77-8

  A Pink Flamingo Ebook Publication

  Copyright © 2013, All rights reserved

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying recording or otherwise without prior written permission of the publishers.

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  Part One

  The three-masted ship left Portsmouth, England yesterday. Before I left, I was told that we would average eight knots. That would mean seventeen more days at sea before we reached New York. Rather than a burden, I viewed this journey as a holiday that only the wealthy could afford.

  I decided to wear my best bodice as I strolled the deck, pushing-up my twenty year-old breasts to the rest of the world. I was proud to sport such pretty firm breasts; I was overjoyed to be departing dreary England.

  What a perfect day on the Atlantic! What a perfect moment for me, a young woman from the poor south end of London bound for the prosperity of America! The air was clear as it is in winter, but it was August. The bright sunshine warmed my face while the breezes from the chilled sea made my nipples erect.

  A few soft white clouds dangled so low enough that they seemed but a few fathoms beyond the reach of my slender fingers. I had only seen the sea before from the shore. While a few of the passengers expressed fear at not being able to see the land, I was thrilled at the sight of nothing but water. No adventure, after all, is without risk.

  This was the same ocean of Ericson and Columbus centuries ago. They plied these same waters with no maps at all. Their minds must have been filled with images of giant monsters capable of destroying an entire ship with a single bite or a swipe from a gargantuan tentacle. I thought of the courage they must have had, not fully knowing what might lie at the end of this unimaginably huge sea.

  The sounds came from the waves and the gentle groaning from the wooden lathing of the ship. The sails were quiet as they were filled with wind. I looked up at them, filled with the clear air, as a sign that my fortunes would be so much better soon. I had heard that America was a place where chance meant something totally different than it did in England in the 1890's.

  In America, a girl like me could turn her skills in baking pastries into prosperity, so long as I was willing to work the long hours I would have to work anyway.

  In America I would have customers. In England, I would have an employer.

  My fulsome breasts and high cheekbones had attracted the attentions of all the crew and most of the male passengers. I would soon learn that my buxom figure was also noticed by The Baroness of Cardiff.

  She was lovely, with medium blonde hair about the same color as mine. She was no more than three years older than me, but there was something about the structure of her face that informed everyone that she was of Royal lineage. Even if she had not worn the clothing of a noble woman, simply the way she walked expressed the privilege of her birth. Though she was by no means unattractive, she did lack my female endowment.

  The Baroness was accompanied by a beautiful auburn-haired lady in waiting named Emily, of no more than 19 years of age. They both seemed quite jealous of the attentions paid to me by the men on board. I would soon learn that a combination of power and jealously could give form to oppression and brutality. Had I been better schooled in England, I would have known this.

  I only noticed the stares of all the men on board and it became a point of pride for me. I never had thought of myself as beautiful, or even especially pretty. Yet these stares made me blush with a pride I had never felt before. I did always prefer the stares of young ladies, but in Victorian England that was something not even to be thought about.

  The sleek, fast barkentine ship knifed through the water with its three mainsails. The ship itself became a sexual image for me. So fast, so proud, so undeniable in its forward progress! As I watched the water being cut by the ship's bow, I began to imagine such wicked scenes! Would some of these men actually fight each other for a chance to FUCK my 20-year-old pussy? I played-out scenarios in my mind as to which young man would win a brutal fight to stab his turgid dick inside my cunny,

  Maybe even more erotic was the idea of which wealthy gentleman would be the highest bidder in British Sterling for that same pleasure. I would be left with a pussy filled with male seed in either event. It would be of far more benefit to me if an older wealthy man left me with a valuable tribute after the event was over. At least, it would compensate me for a possible pregnancy.

  I wavered in my fantasies. Which scenario would produce a more intense orgasm? In some ways the idea of taking payment to surrender my virginity excited me more than being penetrated by a younger and harder penis.

  I did enjoy all the attentions. I returned the smiles of every man on the ship. For the first time in my life, I felt as though I was the center of attention. I had never needed much to light the fuse of my erotic imagination. It made my heart race to think of myself as a 'trollop'.

  Somehow, the thought of being a whore was a liberating rebellion against my strict upbringing. It made my little cunny moisten to think of how shocked my family and British society would be. Perhaps I was rationalizing my journey to America. I did want so much more opportunity, but I also welcomed escape from the late Victorian era's Anglican view of women as servants.

  My thoughts tugged at me like the ocean tides. I watched the water peel away from the bow like liquid soil parted by a plow. Was this just the result of the attention I was getting? Did I deserve punishment for my wild thoughts, or should I feel a sense of freedom because of them?

  I thought back to the day when I witnessed a 'farewell whipping' of a woman in her early twenties at Bridewell Prison in London. She was being released from a month-long sentence for adultery. Though hard to prove, it was common for a wife of any even a common man to spend time in prison for unfaithfulness to her husband.

  In a female prison in the 1890's, it was the practice to whip a prisoner on her first and last day of incarceration. I had seen handwritten bulletins posted in the marketplace announcing such whippings. I had always been filled with a morbid curiosity about what a cruel whipping on the bare back of a young woman would be like. What would it sound like and look like?

  I had sometimes dared to imagine what it would be like to be the victim of such cruelty. One day, nearly two years ago, I decided to see for myself. what suffering would occur in such a punishment. I was afraid of what I might see. That's what makes everyone go to see new things, a suspicion of the unknown. And that's why I was there.

  I arrived at the prison courtyard within an hour of the scheduled whipping and immediately noticed a circus atmosphere to it all.. There was a buzz of chatter among the mostly male crowd, but I was mildly surprised to see couples and even families there.

  The focus of all attention was on a raised wooden platform with a rough upright wooden beam that served as the whipping post. The platform was raised at least a fathom above the dirt floor of the prison-yard. The wooden platform, the whipping post and even the planks that we all sat on were bare and gray with age.

  Only prosperous British families had wooden homes
that were painted with linseed oil paints colored with brick dust and berry juice. I thought of conversations among those in government and imagined someone saying, “Why waste paint on a prison?”

  Two thick cast-iron cuffs connected by short chains spiked to the whipping post awaited the wrists of the victim. The cuffs pivoted on a crude hinge. The outward edge of the cuffs had half circles that would be closed together with a tapered iron spike..All of this wrought iron work shined with beef tallow to prevent it from rusting.

  I was surprised by the laughing and giggling that I overheard amongst families, even young girls. I listened to the comments near me. “I wonder if she'll faint.” “Will she scream?” “Will the whip kill her?” “Can anyone give her mercy?” I began to think about leaving, but I wondered those very same questions and I had to have them answered.

  At the Noon hour, a tall, skinny and homely woman of about 30 announced the victim's name, her offense and her sentence. I remember that her first name was Nell. She would receive twenty lashes on her bare back from a cruel braided cat-o-nine tails. I sat immobilized by the idea of what was to come. The mere name, cat-o-nine tails, frightened me.

  My blood began to stir because I had never seen a real whipping. My mind darted between a vision of the victim's back laced by the whip, and wondering what it would be like to be in her place!

  A moment later, a man in a hangman's mask led the young woman up the stairs to the platform. Her bodice had been lowered to her waist in calculated preparation for the whipping. This afforded a vivid view of her pale, smooth back and firm breasts.

  I remember staring at her small breasts, capped as they were by pretty pink nipples. With her head lowered and her cute breasts bouncing, she mounted the same thirteen steps she would climb for a hanging. The crowd began cheering loudly..Her head and shoulders bobbed up and down from weeping.

  I caught myself cheering as well, anticipating the spectacle to come,. Then I felt so ashamed of myself! This young woman was going to suffer and here I was, with all the others, deriving some dark satisfaction from it.

  It took just moments for her slender wrists to be clamped in those iron cuffs. I strained to hear the sounds of the clanking iron cuffs and the victim's sobbing, but I could not. The sounds of the crowd grew louder as it was obvious that this whipping would begin in but a moment.

  There was a single nod from the long nosed woman and the man in the mask returned her nod. The masked brute drew-back the fearsome whip and then, the punishment started!

  At least twenty yards away from the platform, I had no trouble hearing the crack of the lash on her bare back! “ONE!”, the woman on the platform called-out. The crowd of men and women cheered loudly as my mouth went totally dry.

  The poor young woman tugged at the iron rings in a futile effort to get loose. The crowd cheered louder as the lashing continued and the victim screamed, “NO MORE, PLEASE!!!” Her breasts bounced with each lash and the futile tugs she made at the iron cuffs and chains.

  “FOUR! FIVE! SIX!”, counted the long-nosed, skinny woman in charge.

  “SEVEN!”, she called-out. The whipping was not even halfway through and Nell was begging for mercy, a mercy that all knew would not be given. It was evident to that Nell's weepy pleadings would do her no good at all. More likely, they served as fuel for more suffering.

  Again and again, the loud THWIKKKKK from the whip landed on her bare back, followed by her blubbering and weeping and pleading. With each lash of the cat-o-nine tails, the homely woman would announce the number of lashes with total dispassion. As the whip punished the poor girl, she would tug at the iron cuffs harder..

  The braided whip shoved Nell's chest against the harsh square wooden whipping post each time that it landed on her bare back. “HAVE MERCY ON ME!”, she said several times during this terrible punishment. She would pull at the iron wrist-cuffs at each landing of the whip. Her arms jiggled as she used her muscles to try to escape.

  I stared at this cruel spectacle! The red stripes on Nell's lovely back grew with each muscular administration of the whip! My mind was emptied of any rational thought. I hated myself for wanting to see the conclusion of this cruel punishment, but I DID WANT IT!

  “Continue this whipping”, I spoke to myself.

  CRAAAKKKK!! “SIXTEEN!”, called-out the matron. The victim's knees were now wobbly, and she said in loud scream, “NO MORE!” The roar of the crowd prevented me from hearing the sounds of Nell's reaction to the final four lashes. The only sounds I could hear made a cruel concerto of the crack of the whip and the cheering crowd.

  By now, Nell dangled from her cast-iron cuffs. The whip had wilted the strength in her legs. Her bare back had livid red stripes, nearly covering her pretty pale skin.. Her pretty breasts dangled, unharmed by the lash. I recalled only the colors of the bright red of her back and the gray of the whipping platform.

  I had wanted to see her led-away from the whipping post, thinking it would fuel my fantasies of what might next happen to her. Would she have her skirts raised and be raped? Would she have to perform oral sex on the matron or her whip-master?

  Or, would she simply be returned to her angry and jealous husband for even more punishment?

  Before we could know the answer, we were all ushered and ordered out of the prison yard as the poor woman still hung limp in her iron cuffs, her legs no longer supporting her weight.

  I called to mind that scene as I descended the stairs to my quite plain quarters. I had in mind the scowls of the Baroness. Would SHE take the place of the prison matron because she was jealous of me? I reminded myself that we were on a British ship. The Baroness could exert any level of privilege she wanted over me. Could she could have me whipped, or even hung?

  Back in my tiny quarters with eight other girls, I was so inflamed by so many different sexual visions! I began to message my nipples while facing the inside walls of the ship, so that none of them would notice me. The sun was beginning to set, and the only light came through the portholes on my port side. The girls in the starboard bunks were nearly in darkness. Phoebe, just across the aisle from me and only eighteen, must have heard my soft moans. As I pinched my nipples and tried to stifle my moans, I was startled by her hand stroking my face and her whispering voice in my ear. She said, “Let me help you..”

  She kissed my cheek and began to suckle my right nipple. What a shock it was to me that a girl would be able to see inside my lustful mind and take over with her pretty lips where my groping hands had left-off.

  Phoebe had short tonsured brunette hair and much smaller breasts than I. She did have a delightful smile. I liked her from the moment we met. And now, her pretty lips were on my nipples! I whispered into her ear,.”Phoebe, we have to wait until the others are all asleep!”

  She nodded to me in the orange light of sunset. She spoke quietly. “We can have this now.” Phoebe kissed me deeply and then returned her wet mouth to my nipples. I stroked her very short hair and reached-down to caress her little breasts as she took my right nipple into her mouth.

  She drove me over the edge when she ran the sharpness of her front teeth side-to-side over my engorged nipples. She didn't bite them, rather her teeth suggested that she would bite them. I threw my own hand over my mouth to muffle my loud groans of orgasm.

  I looked directly into her brown eyes with my blue eyes and said in whisper, “Please, Phoebe, just wait for a few minutes..” I kissed her so hard that it made my own pussy wet.

  When total darkness came to our quarters, and after we had both stripped, I slid into Phoebe's bunk. We giggled as we both heard the soft snores of a few of the other girls.

  I kissed her hard again and ran my hands down to her little cute breasts, feeling her young softness.

  As I started to take her little right breast into my mouth, my hand wandered to her silken pussy. I owed Phoebe an orgasm, and I always paid-off my debts. Her slender legs were so smooth and her little cunny-lips were already sopping wet as I pushed two of my fingers inside her.
I shoved them both deep into Phoebe's nether lips and felt her pinkness yield to me.

  “Oh Emma!”, she gasped as I was raping her with my fingers. Her nipples grew in my mouth. Her pussy grew wetter as I fingered her faster. The feel of her cunny was just like my own when I would masturbate. I wanted nothing but to return the favor she had done for me a few minutes earlier.

  She grabbed my hair so hard, I thought it might be ripped from my scalp. Her whole slender body twitched as though she was having a terrible seizure. Then, I felt the warm flood of her girl's essence on my fingers. She flopped in the little canvass bed like a fish.

  I wondered if she was still even conscious.

  She took only a minute to recover, then dove to my pussy. She shoved her tongue inside my wet slit. I twisted like gymnast to throw her legs apart and began to lick her cunny-lips. I couldn't see the contours or her lovely legs and buns, but like the blind, I could see them. Often, after I masturbated, I would taste my own fingers out of curiosity. This was the same taste, and I relished it.

  Phoebe's darting tongue suggested to me that she had performed this act on many other girls. She could elicit my deepest responses without knowing me at all. I went for a moment in my mind to a place where I no longer cared about the admiring men on the ship. None of them, I thought, could make me feel these things..

  As I sank my tongue into Phoebe's pussy, she gently bit my clitty and I couldn't take anymore! I surrendered my climax into Phoebe's mouth in the same way that the poor young woman at Bridewell Prison surrendered her ability to stand on her own legs.

  I licked Phoebe's pussy deeply as I gushed from my own! She had been so intent on my orgasm, that I wasn't sure if she had another one of her own. I kissed Phoebe dozens of times! I tasted her mouth with the taste of my own pussy on it! I whispered into her ear that we both had to dress and sleep in our own beds.

  I was crying in my release of sexual energy as I slipped into my bed. I could hear Phoebe crying too. I gave her one last deep kiss and a nod before we went to sleep.