Lieutenant-General Sir Richard George would never become accustomed to mornings in this god-forsaken colony. The squawking cockatoos’ addiction to slumber sundering meant he started every day on the wrong foot. Yawning, he slipped from their four-poster bed, careful not to disturb his more-sanguine wife, who, he’d always imagined, could sleep through anything, even mafficking parrots.
However, despite Lady Elizabeth’s eyes remaining closed, she too had woken at first squawk. Further sleep had become a casualty of her gnawing realization that each day was now a rerun of the last few week's collie shangles. Inevitably her husband’s morning irritation with the birds would crystalize into an evening pique at their situation.
Being Her Majesty’s Governor of New South Wales was by no means a sinecure, but it’d become increasingly obvious that being Sydney Town’s Grand Poobah brought with it the prestige of a London prison warden, albeit a gaoler with a more impressive clothing allowance.
They knew he’d been shafted by the Colonial Office’s conservative braggarts. “Old boy, what might one do with that young liberal whippersnapper? You know the one: a church bell wife, and held in high regard by Queen Victoria’s German,” had undoubtedly been asked over a late-night whisky in their Pall Mall club.
“Sent as far from London as possible,” surely was the departing reply of a curmudgeonly colonial administrator while being assisted by the butler into his thick coat, felted fur top hat, and leather gloves. While he took his cane from the doorman and headed outdoors to a new-fangled steam-powered Hackney that would return him to lodgings, those that remained had made a straightforward decision. After they’d copped a mouse from those revolting Boston renegades, the ends of the earth were precisely where Her Majesty’s newest penal colony was located.
As the lieutenant-general abluted, his wife pondered how she might be of assistance to her husband. Though she managed a smile as her index finger instinctively touched morning dew on the lips of her lady jane. The irony of lying in bed thinking of England, the extent of mama’s matrimonial advice, wasn’t lost on her.
Being sent out of sight didn’t mean one could vanish from the Colonial Office’s mind. The local magistrates and employers knew that and weren’t bubbling around anymore. Their apparent sabre rattling had turned threatening: they’d petition Her Majesty if the Governor went through with an odious legislative interference with their legal rights. Surely all right-thinking men understood that convicts would keep on being convicts unless their betters kept lashing them, again and again, to be certain their wickedness had bled out of their sinful bodies.
The Governor, having finished his rudimentary ablutions, dressed, assisted by his valet, in full military regalia, including ceremonial sword and emu feathers in his hat, and headed downstairs to start his day reading the increasingly recalcitrant Sydney Morning Herald’s latest podsnappery.
Elizabeth, finger having massaged lady jane’s stickiness into her waking button, would now be undisturbed and, rather than thinking about the Governor’s situation, she’d start her day in an altogether more satisfying manner.
She grasped a bag o’ mystery shaped object from her bedside table. The brass cylinder with a small key at one end had been a token of appreciation from a freed convict who, unbeknown to her husband, his wife had become all chuckaboo with. She resolved to visit Brigid later that morning to enquire whether those new-fangled technologies might be of assistance to Sir Richard.
Lady Elizabeth wound the key until the instrument’s internal spring was tighter than the corset she’d worn to the Governor’s Ball. As always, scooping stickiness from her quim and lubricating the contraption’s smooth brass head, had guilt frissons breaking out on her skin.
Pleasure was, according to the consensus of preaching vicars, the devil’s work. But, having paid prayerful attention to the Good Book, she realized the Good Lord had actually been silent on the subject of self-pleasure. It seemed obvious then that the Almighty wouldn’t have sent her this deep into a social backwater without allowing her a least a modicum of fetching mettle from the fairest flower brought into the colonies.
The dappled sunlight from the gum trees outside her bedroom window fell upon her pale thighs and the dark curls of her quim. Relaxing in the morning warmth, she eased the first four sticky inches of clockwork machinery into her velvet. More fulfilling than the Governor, that first stretch of brass always took her breath away.
Her finger released the key. She whimpered at the first sound of the spring unwinding. Each turn of the gears pulsed three brass inches from the contraption which impaled themselves deep in her lady jane. There was only one speed; again and again, the toy thrust hard and fast into her now squelching quim. That speed came with a unique and delectable vibration that rumbled through her entire nether regions.
She embraced the morning’s more leisurely build in her pleasure, content that she didn’t need to, as she did on high days and holidays, anxiously push herself fearing the Governor’s capacity to quickly wind down. It only took a minute or two’s key turning to reenergize the mechanical John Thomas, which was more than could be said for Lieutenant-General Sir Richard George, Her Majesty’s Governor of New South Wales.
Holding herself at the cliff top of the agony of bliss, she rewound the spring, wondering what the cream of Sydney society, such as it was, would think of her daily dalliance with the pleasures of the flesh. That they’d actually know didn’t bear thinking about, but that secrecy somehow enhanced the pleasure of the flood of bliss and its rumbling aftershocks as they coursed through her.
Keeping her morning routine private was why she was the first Governor’s wife who’d gone to the trouble of insisting on drawing her own bath and selecting her own garments. God forbid that the gossip mongers downstairs should ever glimpse the toy or inhale the scent of a Lady’s satiated cloven inlet. Though a maid had to be permitted into her corset room, after all, one couldn’t tighten one's laces oneself.
Her dress selection was always of a lighter fabric, cut a little shorter than in London. She’d let it be known that the tropical heat had given her pause to rethink colonial fashions; the new cage crinolines were strong enough to support wide skirts without the need for burdensome petticoats. Multiple layers and London lengths were, therefore, not expected of Sydney society—a corset, cage crinoline and a lightweight dress were all that were obligatory. That message, though often honoured in the breach, was one the younger ladies, desirous of avoiding the vapours brought on by un-London-like temperatures, appreciated.
Having breakfasted, she took a sun parasol from the butler but grimaced at his insistence on assisting her to step up into one of the Governor’s horse-drawn sulkies. The one that had a specific seat design that allowed a Lady to repose semi-comfortably with the cage crinoline partially tucked under the seat.
They wound down the hill from Government House, through the Georgian administrative buildings, and headed for the docks on the western side of the Tank stream. Ironically choosing Sydney Cove as the location of the first settlement had been driven by access to that fresh water. But the stench intensified as one got closer to the cesspit that stream had become. Her husband had to spend the entirety of his first year’s appropriated monies from the Colonial Office on engineering works that now brought fresh water to the growing town from miles away.
In truth, the horseman was nervous about taking her ladyship to the ramshackle convict side of the stream. Not just from a safety perspective, but also because many thought Miss Brigid O'Sullivan was a witch. He knew she’d solidified her importance, if not her likability, in the community by, at the Governor’s behest, successfully building a steam-driven riverboat which plied the rivers feeding the harbour. But that raised in his mind the fear that Lady Elizabeth might be consulting Miss Brigid about steam-powered carriages.
That concern was in fact well placed. Not that transport was to be the subject of today’s conversation. But if the conversation didn’t go well, that would be the story Lady Elizabeth would tell her husband that evening. He’d be fascinated; rolling out the steam-driven carriage technology would place Sydney second in the Empire, after London. The Governor’s reaction she expected would be totally different to when she’d first advocated for Miss Brigid’s shipping suggestion.
“What? A female convict! Lady engineers don’t invent steam paddle ships?”
“Yes, dear. Let’s set the Irish convict free and see if she’s up to the task. We’ve nothing to lose. Imagine how your reputation would be enhanced if we get agricultural produce quickly down the Paramatta river.”
His wife’s vision had come to pass. Two years into his tenure, the Governor’s reputation was rock solid; he’d secured improved access to food and water for Sydney. But apparently, that wasn’t good enough to make his proposal to limit the number of lashes a convict could receive to less than fifty a week acceptable to self-professed right-thinking people.
Brigid’s welcome to the fumy workshop office was as effusive as one’s de facto patron could reasonably have expected. Like many of the ex-convicts, she didn’t dress in the mode of an English gentlewoman: Dutch-style knickerbockers and a leather jerkin were the extent of her fashion sense.
Having served tea in the only fine china she’d ever owned, Brigid asked, in her lilting Irish accent, after the clockwork toy she’d presented her ladyship.
“The contraption is, um … quite pleasurable.”
“I’m developing a steam-generated version. More pleasurable, methinks.”
“Too noisy for the Governor’s mansion?”
“Yes, bigger too. You sit on it as if on a horse’s saddle. As a gentleman would of course, not side saddle.”
“You’re particularly inventive.”
“Thank you, my lady. But I’m guessing my steam Sybian isn’t the purpose of your visit?”
“Indeed. You’ve seen the Sydney Morning Herald?”
“Yes. I admire the Governor: lashing is inhumane and ineffective. But he’ll be shafted by the Colonial Office.”
“That’s my fear. Do you think it is possible to have a steam-powered flogger? One that looks more fearsome than it actually is?”
“Well, I’ve tried my hand at a steam-spanking machine. There’s a successful prototype at the back of the workshop. I’d have to experiment with adding cat-o-nine-tails to be sure I can meet the Governor’s requirements. But I daresay it’s possible.”
“Perhaps it’s best I don’t ask why you invented that.”
Brigid went so far as to blush. “Indeed. Let me show you. I’ll need young Maude’s help.”
Maude’s entrance to the workshop office would have reduced polite society to apoplexy. Her corset, one of the new-fangled steam-moulded ones, was not only worn without a chemise beneath and a dress above, but also was of a black and red minimalist design that both over-emphasized and under-bound her fulsome décolletage. Harlot, jezebel, and strumpet were amongst the words a right-and-proper person should have uttered.
Elizabeth on the other hand was rendered mute. “Isn’t Maude just the jammiest of the jam, my Lady?” At that the young woman pirouetted; her wobbling chest would have drawn more of Elizabeth’s shocked attention, but she’d never imagined the possibility of such scandalously truncated drawers that seemingly were moulded onto a pert bottom.
“Take Lady George out the back, Maude. She wishes to observe the spanking machine.”
“My pleasure, Miss.” Maude extended her delicate hand into which Elizabeth, stunned into compliance, placed hers. Giggling, her bosom heaving, the young woman led her Ladyship past various half-built steam contraptions of uncertain use to the back of the workshop, and unlocked the door to a smaller room.
“Miss Brigid is just securing the rest of the workshop. This is her steam spanking machine. I’ll load the firebox.”
Above the firebox was a large brass water cylinder from which a pipe ran past a valve. That was clearly designed to feed steam into a circular construction which would then move like a waterwheel. The three long and thick leather straps, which limply hung side by side from the bottom of the circular object, would then spin through the air.
By the time Brigid arrived, steam was flowing out of the valve and drifting out through a small open window. As she partially closed the valve, the spanking straps started to slowly circle. “For the Governor to succeed, convicts must appear more damaged than they actually are. It helps that a cat-o-nine-tails cuts the flesh. But let me show you why deep bruising need not mean excruciating pain.”
Elizabeth gasped as Maude slid her drawers down her legs. Not just because she had exposed her bottom; but also, because said posterior was covered with vivid rainbow-coloured bruising. “My bottom’s now at its prettiest, your ladyship. Miss soundly spanked me three days ago.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Oh yes. Dreamy pain.” Maude rested her forearms on the back of an armchair. She edged her pert posterior back towards the slowly spinning leather until a smack echoed off the walls. After two more slaps, a light pink was added to what little of her posterior wasn’t already deeply rainbow-coloured.
“I never start at full speed, my Lady. By first warming the muscles, a subsequent hard spanking is less painful. You ready Maude?”
“Yes please, Miss.”
Brigid fully closed the valve. “Don’t clench your cheeks. Let’s show her Ladyship the colours of a fresh spanking.”
“Yes, Miss.” Maude exhaled before the slap resounded off her bottom. As the machine sped up the intervals between the spanks shortened. Her deep breaths turned into pants. A fiery red colour was painted on and around the rainbow on her pert posterior.
“Have you noticed Maude’s cloven inlet, my Lady? That dampness indicates pleasure though her bottom indicates pain.”
Lady Elizabeth looked more closely. She was stunned to see a strand of lady-juice hanging from Maude’s lady jane. The fear of an attack of the vapours, compelled her to sit on a nearby chair.
The spanking was relentless, and the skin colour deepened, turning dark red and blueish purple, as bruising emerged. Despite that, Maude’s eyes closed and she started to whimper as each slap connected.
Those whimpers turned into an extended, desperate moan. “Please, Miss.”
“Yes, you harlot. Show her ladyship the pleasure one can find in pain.”
Maude’s fingers disappeared between her legs. Despite the noise of the steam spanker, Elizabeth could hear that familiar squelching sound of an oozing lady jane being penetrated again and again. Maude’s back arched. She invoked the deity. She screamed. A gush dribbled down her inner thighs.
She moved forward, out of the way of the leather blades, and leant on the couch recovering her breath.
“Good girl, Maude. Look at that bottom, my lady, it looks so painful. But appearances can be deceiving; Maude’s actually recovering from an overdose of pleasure, not pain.”
“I see your point. Though it’s difficult to be clear if that’s a function of the machine or the robustness of Maude’s posterior.”
Maude gingerly stepped over to Elizabeth. “There’s only one way for you to be sure, your Ladyship.” Her fingers started to loosen the dress of the Governor’s wife.
“You can’t be serious.”
“What do you think, Miss.” Lady Elizabeth’s dress puddled on the floor.
“Maude is right, my Lady. You can’t confidently advise your husband without self-knowledge of the machine.”
Maude loosened the cage crinoline, leaving Elizabeth clad, more than somewhat indecently for a Lady, only in drawers, chemise, and a tight corset.
“Miss will control the speed; starting slow. If you say, ‘Stop,’ we stop. Best not to give up easily, your ladyship. Don’t miss out on seeing if you too feel pleasure in pain.”
Elizabeth bent over, placing her forearms on the back of the armchair. Copying what Maude had done, she pushed her bottom out and back. Hands surprised, gripping her drawers, and dragging them down to her ankles. “Maude!”
“Much better directly feeling the leather.” There was no time for debate. Hearing the blades swish through the air, Elizabeth clenched her peachy cheeks. Maude crouched in front of her, entwining their fingers together. “Push back. Breathe out. Relax, your ladyship.”
As the air left her lungs, the tension left her muscles and the straps slapped against her bottom. The ache was only surface deep and yet she sucked her breath between clenched teeth. The second slap accentuated that lingering ache, and the burn from the third seemingly started to burrow into her body.
“Shall I increase the speed, your ladyship?”
Elizabeth smiled wanly at Maude who glanced over and nodded to Brigid.
Then Maude locked eyes with the Governor’s wife, repeatedly whispering, “Relax,” just before the thick supple leather smacked against Elizabeth’s fleshy bottom. The dark burning ache deepened with every slap.
Elizabeth eventually broke eye contact, focusing on Maude’s soothing voice, as the intervals between the word, “Relax,” shortened. Screams echoed, louder and louder, off the walls. “Focus on letting the pain assume control, your ladyship.”
Elizabeth had never been the type of woman who gave in. She kept repeating a mantra in her head, “Not saying stop. Not saying stop.” as the frequent and darker stabs of pain coursed deeper and deeper into her.
Brigid noticed the monotone red of Elizabeth’s bottom had changed; now dark red and blueish purple. There was also a strand of arousal hanging from her lady jane. She nodded at Maude and ratcheted up the steam flow.
Maude grasped one of Elizabeth’s hands. “Feel the pain caress your button, your ladyship.” Her ladyship focused as the fast-spinning leather thudded into her bottom again and again. She realized that her pleasure was building in a much more intense way than when she used the clockwork toy that morning.
“Yes,” she stuttered.
Maude’s other hand reached down. A finger and thumb stroked and then rolled Elizabeth’s button. The greater intensity of the leather slaps entwined pain into pleasure in a wonderfully unexpected way. But it was Maude’s touch that drove Elizabeth past the point of no return. She couldn’t hold back the dam that was her quim. She gushed hard, monstrous tremors were accentuated by the repeated pain shocks on her bottom.
Elizabeth sucked in mouthfuls of warm air, her quim still quivering with aftershocks, as Brigid opened the steam vent. The spanking straps slowly slowed but the sudden increase in humidity had bodies glowing, it wasn’t just her ladyship’s quim that was sodden.
“Your posterior is bruised yet that was pleasurable, my Lady. Tomorrow I’ll set this up with cat-of-nine-tails. The impact of a steam flogging machine on the skin while bloody won’t be as painful as convicts usually endure. Your husband should get what he wants, a reduction in brutality. His political opponents should get what they want, unlimited lashes.”
“While that sounds good, your Ladyship,” Maude added, “You can’t be seen in polite society looking like a strumpet. Let me bathe you: there’s a private seawater bath, in the next room.”
Lady Elizabeth’s capabilities didn’t yet extend to forming a sentence. She did manage to nod supportively, twice in fact.
Maude opened the door to the bathroom. Clasp by clasp, Elizabeth slowly undid the front of her corset; her eyes focused on the sway of Maude’s multi-coloured bruised bottom as she hand-pumped seawater from below until the bath was half-full.
As her corset slid down her body onto the wooden floor, Elizabeth’s skin tingled. No eyes, not even those of her husband, had ever raked over her body before. Maude smiled knowingly, then offered her hand. Elizabeth accepted. Her fingers entwined with those of the younger woman. She stepped daintily into the bath.
Brigid glanced into the room just as the Governor’s wife’s red and purple derrière descended into the refreshingly cold water. “For the right woman, Lady Elizabeth, Maude has the makings of a perfect personal maid. Interested?”
Maude cupped some of the water in her hands, then let it dribble, drop by drop, through her fingers and splatter on her ladyship’s stiffening nipples. “Please.”
“Total discretion?”
“Absolutely, your Ladyship.”
“That means no one else will ever know you’re a harlot.”
“Only for you then, my Lady.”
“Yes, Maude; I’d like that.”
Brigid took note of the blushes breaking out as sly looks passed between the two women. Not bad for a transported Irish convict: on track to securing a future. Once she got the steam flogging machine working, she’d be even more influential; perhaps on her way to becoming the second most powerful woman in all of Sydney Town.
To be continued.
