Linda Smythe

By Abe

You may wonder how I arrived at my present strange condition.  I'll tell you.  My name is Linda Smythe.  My father was Simon Smythe, esq., a successful barrister.  They say I resemble my mother, tall, slim, blonde, with blue eyes and very fair skin.  My mother died when I was twelve, and I was sent away to the Maidenhead Academy for Girls, a boarding school where young ladies are groomed for marriage.  It was there that I first had my monthlies, where I grew several inches in height, and my breasts developed.  They are no bigger than a tea cup, but nicely formed.  All of the girls were instructed in how to be attractive to a man, how to dance, how to flirt, and how to remain as innocent and chaste as it is possible to be.  Of course, there was whispering at night about girls, none of us, who were not chaste, servant girls, for example, who let young men touch them improperly or even see them partially undressed. 

We wore what amounted to a school uniform, all white.  We all wore corsets, as proper young ladies do.  First, there was a short shift, usually cotton, though some of the older girls preferred silk.  Over that, the stiff boned corsets, plural because there are two pieces, joined in the front with a sort of hinge and laced together in the back.  The hinge is purely for emergencies; it can be unhooked, but normally it is impossible to get out of the corsets without help.  Someone must unlace them, and, of course, to put them back on someone must lace them up.  Over the corsets, a chemise, which can function as a night dress, and then underskirts and a dress, which buttons up the back, so the dress also requires help.  A proper lady would have a lady's maid, but at school we did each other.  There are purposes for the corsets.  Laced tightly, they compressed the lower ribs and raised the waistline, which yielded a fashionable figure and compressed the stomach, preventing the sin of gluttony.  Corsets compelled one to sit and stand straight and tall, since one cannot bend at the waist, and they caused one to breathe with the rib cage, not the diaphram, which causes the bosom to rise and fall attractively. They generally announced to the world that the wearer could not possibly perform any menial tasks; she is of the idle rich class.  We wore no drawers, for there would be no practical way to remove them to attend to bodily functions.  One simply squats over a chamber pot, which can be done, if absolutely necessary, in mixed company, as not an inch of leg will show.  At some schools, I have heard, girls are caned on the bare bottom, but at ours, if punishment was necessary, we simply gathered up our skirts part way and took our whipping on the backs of the legs.

The only time our bodies were exposed was on Saturdays, in preparation for chapel on Sunday.  Cleanliness is next to godliness, we were told.  We helped each other undress as far as the shift, and took turns bathing, in private, sitting in a tin tub with about two inches of warm water, using a wash cloth to clean our bodies.  Then we would dry with a towel, put on a clean shift,  and a classmate would lace up the corsets, very tightly, and button the dress.  At night, we would help each other unbutton the dress, but even at age fifteen, I had never seen a mature woman naked, and, of course, no one, male or female, had ever seen me undressed. When I returned home on holidays, my father insisted that I should carry on as at school, and one of our maids, Kate, who was hardly older than I, assisted with the buttons and laces.

While I was away at school, my father met and married a widow who had a daughter, Sarah, a year older than I.  I was told to call my father's new wife Mother and to consider Sarah to be my sister.  Sarah was sent to a fashionable school in Windsor, where, her mother judged, the chances of her meeting a desirable suitor would be maximized.

Then, disaster.  My father had come to visit me at school, and Saturday afternoon, with me clean and freshly dressed, he took me boating on the river.  We were in a punt, a flat bottomed boat which draws barely two inches of water and is propelled with a punt pole.  I sat in the bow, the front, and father stood in the stern, pushing the pole against the bottom.  It had rained a lot lately, and the current was strong.  Suddenly my father raised his head, gave a little cry, dropped the pole, and sank to his knees in the bottom of the punt.  There was little I could do.  The current swept us over the weir, the dam which maintains the water level for the locks, and we were both plunged into the turbulent waters below.    The lock keeper and his son managed to pull me from the water, but it was too late for my father.

Charles, my father's  manservant, came to the school, gathered my things, and took me home.  Charles had been my father's gentleman's gentleman for more than twenty years, since before father's first marriage.  Now, he was more than my father's valet and his closest friend; he was the butler and effectively the man of the house in my father's absence.  My father had made Charles promise that, if anything happened to Father, Charles would stay on in Mrs. Smythe's service and see that we girls were raised properly.  Charles arranged for my father's funeral and took control, with Mother's permission, of the running of the house.  It was clear that we would have to economize, for father's  fees were long longer income, and his investments would not yield enough to keep us as we had lived.  I did not return to school, though Sarah stayed at hers, for her mother was counting on her marrying well and providing for her mother in her old age.  Most of the  servants were let go.  Charles and Mother did the cooking, and a servant, Kate, who was hardly older than I, and I cleaned the house and did the weekly laundry.  My white dress was replaced with black, partly in mourning and partly in keeping with my new status as a maid.  I understood the necessity of that and worked enthusiastically, as well as I could, for I still wore my corsets.  Charles insisted on the Saturday bathing ritual, explaining that while we could not afford to send me to school, we could still raise me as a lady.  The bath and corsets were symbolic, the last remnants of my former life.

Mother became more and more depressed, frustrated that her circumstances were so reduced, and she could no longer strut pridefully with her former friends.   One Saturday, to my surprise, when I emerged from my bath, my shift and corsets were gone, and I had nothing to wear but the towel.  I called for Kate, but it was Mother who came.  She ordered me to lie on my bed, face down, without a stitch on!  Then she took some leather straps and bound my wrists and ankles to the bedposts, so I was unable to move.  It was embarrassing, especially as my legs were parted in a vee, and I knew she could see my most private places.  She left me immobilized and returned with Charles and Kate.  Kate seemed excited, anxious to see what would happen next.  Charles seemed confused and embarrassed.  He was forced to view my naked body, stretched out on the bed.

Mother handed him a horse whip, black braided leather as long as my arm.   “It is Saturday”, she said, “four weeks since Linda caused her father's death, and it is time that she is punished for murdering my husband!  You will administer the whip until I tell you to stop.”

“Surely, Mrs. Smythe, you cannot blame Linda for an accident,” he protested.

“I can, and I am ordering you to whip her bare body, from her shoulders to the soles of her feet.”

“I cannot.  I promised her father to look out for her.”

“If you refuse my order,” hissed Mother, “I shall dismiss you from my employ, and then you will never see Linda again, will be unable to look out for her.  I order her to be punished.”

Reluctantly, Charles took the whip and swished it a couple of times.  “Do it!” screamed Mother.

The first blow landed across my shoulder blades, and it hurt worse than anything I had ever experienced.  I cried out in pain and pleaded for mercy, but Mother simply pointed to a spot an inch or so from the mark of the whip and told Charles to continue, and harder.  I screamed and squirmed and went nearly mad as my slender body was marked with parallel bruises down my back, across my bottom, down my thighs and calves.  Each foot received five blows, and Mother directed blows along my ribs and the sides of my thighs.  “Leave her to contemplate her sins,” said Mother.

Charles remained behind a moment and said, “Please forgive me, Miss Linda.  I had no choice.” I was left there, stretched on the bed and unable to move, the hurt of a hundred bruises tormenting me.  I was sure I would not be able to walk, with my feet so badly abused.

In time Mother came back and allowed me to dress.  She tightened the laces of my corsets and buttoned my dress.  I returned to my bed,  forced to lie on my front and unable to walk and having no appetite to eat.

Sunday went as usual, and the rest of the week, until Friday.  The fear of Saturday distracted me.  I sat, twisting my hair, wringing my hands, and I did not sleep at all well Friday night.  By Saturday, I was shivering with fear, and I tried to hide in the privy at the foot of the garden, but Charles found me and delivered me to Mother.  She supervised my bath and examined my body, which was covered with purple and green bruises.  Without comment, she handed me a clean shift and laced my corsets.

Three more weeks passed, with no threat of another beating.  Then, unexpectedly, Mother ordered me to lie on my bed after my bath.  I tried to resist, but she and Kate overpowered me and stretched me out with the leather straps.  Charles was summoned.

Charles asked for a few minutes alone with me and, for some reason I never understood, Mother and Kate left us alone.  “Miss Linda,” Charles said, “You know that I do not want to hurt you, but I must.  However... “ He slipped his hand between my parted thighs.

“Charles!  You mustn't touch me like that,” I screamed.

“Hush, Miss Linda,” he said softly.  “I have never been married, but I am not entirely ignorant of female physiology.  Allow me to try to help you.”  His finger slid forward, sliding over the short curly hairs of my peach After the initial shock of a man touching my private place, I tried to relax, and I found it bearable.  Gently, the pressure of his finger induced the lips of my lower mouth to part, and I found that he could slide his finger easily, as I was wet down there.  I began to enjoy his attention, and unfamiliar sensations seemed to radiate from between my thighs.  Skillfully, he pressed on a spot near the front of my cleft, and I cried out, not in pain but in pleasure.  The sensations became stronger.  My hidden spot became terribly sensitive, almost painfully so, and suddenly I lost control, gasping and shaking and feeling as if some animal were struggling within me. My brain reeled, and when Mother directed the beating, starting at my feet and passing upward across my bottom, I was so mentally disorganized and confused that, while the blows hurt, I seemed to accept them as part of the sensory overload.  When my punishment was complete, and I was left stretched on the bed, Charles once more insinuated his hand between by thighs and worked his magic with his fingers.  Very quickly, I  reached the paroxysm of passion and quite forgot my pain for a time.

“Am I ruined, Charles?” I asked.

“You are still a virgin, Miss Linda, but perhaps a little less chaste.  You are innocent, but less ignorant.  Did I succeed in helping you to bear the punishment?”

“Yes, thank you, Charles,” I replied, still glowing from the effects of his touching me.

Later, when I was released and once more dressed, I tried to explore with my fingers and find that sensitive spot.  Dressed as I was, encased in corsets and underskirts, I could not find the spot. I suddenly had a feeling of shame, based on my schooling about purity, and gave up.

Only a few days later, Sarah, my stepsister, came home for a visit, and Mother decided I must be punished, with Sarah watching.  There was no bath first, no warning.  Mother and Kate and Sarah overpowered me, stripped off my clothes, and threw me down on my bed, strapping my hands and feet to the bedposts.  Charles was sent for.

He was visibly surprised to see me naked and to be handed the horsewhip.  “I will not do this,” he said.  “You go too far.”

“Charles, do as I say,” ordered Mother.

“She is still covered with bruises.  I thought you would be satisfied with punishing her once, but clearly you will never stop.  I will not participate,” replied Charles.

“Charles, you are dismissed.  Gather your things and leave this house as soon as possible,” was Mother's response.  Charles turned and left the room, taking the horsewhip with him.

“Our headmistress,” said Sarah, “disciplines her students with a cane, applied to the bare bottom.  The cane leaves terrible marks, but it's all written up, the statement of charges, the judgment, the execution of the punishment, so a student will get nowhere complaining, even with the evidence of  her striped bottom.  We older students discipline the younger ones with methods which leave no lasting marks.  If a girl complains, there is no physical evidence.  It's her word against ours.”

“Can you show me?” asked Mother.

“I knew you would ask,” said Sarah.  “Do you have any nettles or know where to get some?”

“No.  I think they are out of season.”

“No matter, Mama, I'll show you some of our other methods.” Sarah released my hands and my right ankle from the foot of the bed.  I struggled to get away, but it was hopeless.  They flopped me on my back, across the bed, and strapped my right ankle to the head of the bed, so my legs were wide spread, painfully so.  My wrists were strapped to the head and foot, almost like crucifying me, and they raised my feet, so my weight was on my shoulders and back, with my bottom inches above the bed.  If I lifted my head, I could see my breasts and my curly hair covered mound, but that was stressful, so I let my head flop backward over the side of the bed.  They left me there, with the overstretched muscles of my lags complaining with pain, and my private places fully exposed to view.  Sarah left the room, while Kate stared at my cunny and Mother stroked my breasts and pulled on my nipples.

Sarah returned with several items.  She had a mortar and pestle in which she was mixing a  creamy paste of several ingredients.  I could smell mustard, ginger, and turpentine, paint thinner.  She also had two pickled cucumbers and a box of hat pins.  She dipped one end of a pickle  into the yellow paste and then placed the end against my rosebud shithole.  With a quick shove she drove it halfway into me, and the paste burned me terribly.  I tried to clench my teeth and not give them the satisfaction of screaming, but they could see I was in pain, and they enjoyed that.  With another push, the pickle disappeared inside me, but my rosebud was still dilated, with a half inch long stem sticking out.  A green end of the vegetable about the size of a sixpence was visible.  Of course, I could not see that, but Sarah pointed it out to Mother,who expressed her approval.

Next, Sarah took a larger pickle and coated it with the creamy mixture.  She slid the pointy end up and own between my lower lips, burning my tender membranes, and then she pushed it deep into my cunny.  “Oops,” she said, “Linda seems to have lost her virginity. My burning insides tried to contract and expel the invader, but Sarah pushed it in as far as it could go and then held it in place by pushing hat pins, two on each side, through my stretched lower lips and into the flesh of the vegetable.  Mother examined her work and expressed approval.

Next, Sarah pinched my right nipple and pulled it upward.  She pinched and twisted it until I could no longer keep quiet, and then she thrust a hat pin right through the nipple.  She did the same to the left nipple, and she used half a dozen hat pins to push right into the softness of my breasts, leaving them standing up like flag poles.  “Kate,” she said, “Go fetch a lighted candle.  Let's see if she can keep quiet when we heat those hat pins.” Kate ran off enthusiastically.

It seemed several minutes passed, with me in pain, while my stepmother and stepsister appreciated my torment.  Mother pushed more hat pins though my lower lips, while Sarah tormented me by pulling on the pins through my nipples.  “What is keeping that girl?” complained Sarah, who finally left to find Kate.  More time passed, and Mother  left to look for both Sarah and Kate.  I was left there, my limbs stretched, my arse and cunny burning, and my moist sensitive parts pierced with hat pins.  Time passed very slowly.

Suddenly, Charles was there.  He removed the hat pins and released my tortured limbs.  He pulled the pickle from my cunny and, with me trying to help, extracted the pickle from my bottom.  I explained to him about the smelly mixture and how it still burned my insides.  He left for a while and returned with a large metal syringe which he used to pump water into me, irrigating me until the burning was only a tolerable warmth.  Then he told me to get dressed, leaving the corsets and choosing a frock which I  can button myself.

I  found Charles in the kitchen.  Kate, gagged with a rag, hung by her wrists from a hook in the ceiling, along with strings of onions and garlics and bunches of herbs.  Mother, also gagged, was tied to a chair, with the horsewhip on her lap.  Charles was just finishing with Sarah.  He had overpowered her and gagged her when she came looking for Kate,  but now he had her on her back, and he was roping her feet to the legs of a table, so she was in a position much as I had been.  When she was secured, Charles pushed a few hat pins through the bodice of her dress, which made her scream into her gag.

“Miss Linda,” he said, “You can see the horsewhip.  You might want to use it on your stepmother.”

“I think not,” I replied.  “It wouldn't be Christian.”

Charles did not respond to me.  He was busy pulling on Sarah's skirts and exposing her furry little pussy.  He swirled the pestle in the mixture in the mortar.  Then he plunged it into Sarah's cunny,  as she had with the pickle in mine.  Sarah screamed into her gag and writhed on the floor as Charles moved the pestle in and out and in circles, utterly humiliating her.  Then he took the mortar and poured the remaining mixture over and into her cleft.

“Charles,” I said, “we can't just leave them here.  When they get loose they will charge us with assault.”

He led me out of the kitchen.  “Yes, Miss Linda, but by the time I send someone to free them you and I will be gone.”

“Won't the police be looking for us?” 

“I have a brother in Australia.  He has urged me to emmigrate, and I have been saving to buy a first class passage.  I have enough to buy passage for us both, if we go steerage.  Once you get to Australia, a pretty girl like you, there will be lots of handsome young men asking you to marry them.”

“But Charles,” I said, “I am ruined, no longer a virgin.  What decent man would want to marry me?”

“All of them, Miss Linda.  I would be honored to marry you.”

I smiled and threw my arms around his neck.  “I accept your proposal, Charles.  Can the captain of the ship marry us?”