Arbuthnot Abbey

[Boccaccio]

It's nice to know that Cruxton isn't the only den of iniquity in the land!

'Twill not be so long as I remain Lord Arbuthnot's faithful Boswell, recounting his, um, achievements to generations yet unborn.

Boswell wrote of Johnson,

“Everything about his character and manners was forcible and violent; there never was any moderation; many a day did he fast, many a year did he refrain from wine; but when he did eat, it was voraciously; when he did drink wine, it was copiously. He could practise abstinence, but not temperance.”

And so it was with Lord Arbuthnot, in matters concerning the fair sex. His appetites were voracious, his conquests copious, his schemes for their subjugation both cunning and intemperate.

 

[windar]

You know, It just struck me a few seconds ago when I saw the title in an archive that your 'Cruxton Abbey' is a venue of some renown here, although I don't think i've more than glanced at any of the Cruxton threads.

I'm sure that I had seen that designation in some of the thread listings, but I would like to say that I did not consciously borrow the notion of an abbey from you. I considered Arbuthnot Castle, Arbuthnot Abbey and Arbuthnot Manor, and perhaps subliminally 'Abbey' was fresher in my mind.

But it was only just now that I noticed the coincidence. My apologies for drawing a blank on it earlier.

Good writers borrow, great writers steal-T S Eliot

So maybe you should say you stole it rather than borrowed it

 

[Boccaccio]

We do seem to be collecting ecclesiastical architecture, in any case, what with everyone moving into old abbeys.

Until you mentioned that, I had quite forgotten a story I wrote many years ago that was set in an abbey.

It began ...


Aria Belladonna, Martyr to Lust

"It had been several years since a new novice had joined the abbey, which together with its companion monastery,
dominated the rocky island off the coast of Napoli. The local fishermen from the mainland, when asked the name of the
island, looked nervously over their shoulders before whispering, "Montemartirio" -- the Hill of Martyrdom.

The forbidding island, unpopulated save for the convent and monastery, is separated from the mainland by little more
than a mile, but the seas are so rough, the coastline so rugged, that no man, much less a slender young woman, had ever been known to flee the island.

Imagine the joy of the brooding monks when they learned that Signorina Aria Belladonna, the stunningly beautiful but wayward daughter of the Duke of Calabria, had been sent to their rocky isle in hopes that her sinful and sensual nature might be curbed."

It's quite an exciting story. The licentious monks of Montemartirio turn out to be far more worldly than pious.

It's a shame I never finished it.

 

[Boccaccio]

So maybe you should say you stole it rather than borrowed it

As I wrote, I didn't consciously do either.

 

[Boccaccio]

It was not until the second year of Lord Arbuthnot's amatory adventures that he added two new weapons to his repertoire -- the cane, and his loyal, unquestioningly obedient manservant Rupert Collins



Reginald Wilkins, a gentleman who shared Arbuthnot's interests, had hosted a gentlemen's evening while his Lordship was visiting London.

"I have a surprise for you tonight, gentlemen," he chuckled as he opened the door of a bedroom on the second floor.

A shapely young woman lay spread eagled on a wide bed, a sturdy looking cane positioned across the backs of her thighs.



"This is Mandy, the laundress here at my London digs," Wilkins began. "She knows I like my collars well-starched, don't you, Mandy?"

"Yes, sir," the girl whimpered. Arbuthnot looked on spellbound watching the girls's rounded buttocks twitching madly. Clearly she had been through something like this before, and she knew what was coming.

"And did you starch my collar properly for the dinner party last night, Mandy?

"No sir," she murmured timorously.

At this point Wilkins picked up the glossy new cane and slowly slid it back and forth across Mandy's thighs, giving her a sense of its crisp rigidity.

"Please, sir ..." Mandy began.

THWICKK!! Wilkins slashed the cans down across the ripest summits of Mandy's quivering bottomcheeks.

"Do not "Please" me, you lazy wench! Clearly, gentlemen, this indolent slut needs a reminder of the importance of her duties. Indeed I've gone to the trouble of purchasing a new cane in hopes of improving her character."

Wilkins glanced down at the red mark he had left. "Let's see. There are seven of us. Hopefully two strokes apiece will
be enough to leach her a good lesson. What do you say to one stroke each to those pretty legs and that shapely derriere, gentlemen? Thompson, why don't you start us off.

Harold Thompson, a banker in the City, quickly stepped forward and slashed the cane down on Mandy's legs that her body nearly rose up off the bed.

Lord Arbuthnot, who had never so much as held a cane was fifth in queue. Emulating Wilkins, he took a moment to slide the cane back and forth across Mandy's upper thighs, and then, altering his position slightly, he pressed the tip of the rod firmly against Mandy's labia and twirled it around, noting the girl's mounting shame and discomfort.

His first stroke, across her mid-thighs was only moderately well delivered, but during the second rotation, he whipped the cane into her rosy backside with a resounding THWICCKK!! that won plaudits from his colleagues.

And so it was that another Knight of the Cane was born.

 

[windar]

It was not until the second year of Lord Arbuthnot's amatory adventures that he added two new weapons to his repertoire -- the cane, and his loyal, unquestioningly obedient manservant Rupert Collins



Reginald Wilkins, a gentleman who shared Arbuthnot's interests, had hosted a gentlemen's evening while his Lordship was visiting London.

"I have a surprise for you tonight, gentlemen," he chuckled as he opened the door of a bedroom on the second floor.

A shapely young woman lay spread eagled on a wide bed, a sturdy looking cane positioned across the backs of her thighs.

View attachment 478965

"This is Mandy, the laundress here at my London digs," Wilkins began. "She knows I like my collars well-starched, don't you, Mandy?"

"Yes, sir," the girl whimpered. Arbuthnot looked on spellbound watching the girls's rounded buttocks twitching madly. Clearly she had been through something like this before, and she knew what was coming.

"And did you starch my collar properly for the dinner party last night, Mandy?

"No sir," she murmured timorously.

At this point Wilkins picked up the glossy new cane and slowly slid it back and forth across Mandy's thighs, giving her a sense of its crisp rigidity.

"Please, sir ..." Mandy began.

THWICKK!! Wilkins slashed the cans down across the ripest summits of Mandy's quivering bottomcheeks.

"Do not "Please" me, you lazy wench! Clearly, gentlemen, this indolent slut needs a reminder of the importance of her duties. Indeed I've gone to the trouble of purchasing a new cane in hopes of improving her character."

Wilkins glanced down at the red mark he had left. "Let's see. There are seven of us. Hopefully two strokes apiece will
be enough to leach her a good lesson. What do you say to one stroke each to those pretty legs and that shapely derriere, gentlemen? Thompson, why don't you start us off.

Harold Thompson, a banker in the City, quickly stepped forward and slashed the cane down on Mandy's legs that her body nearly rose up off the bed.

Lord Arbuthnot, who had never so much as held a cane was fifth in queue. Emulating Wilkins, he took a moment to slide the cane back and forth across Mandy's upper thighs, and then, altering his position slightly, he pressed the tip of the rod firmly against Mandy's labia and twirled it around, noting the girl's mounting shame and discomfort.

His first stroke, across her mid-thighs was only moderately well delivered, but during the second rotation, he whipped the cane into her rosy backside with a resounding THWICCKK!! that won plaudits from his colleagues.

And so it was that another Knight of the Cane was born.

Is Mandy any good at shoveling snow?

 

[Barbaria1]

Is Mandy any good at shoveling snow?

Geeze!!!

 

[Boccaccio]

A day or two after the incident with Mandy, Lord Arbuthnot, still in London, happened to be on hand when a gentlemen of his acquaintance had had occasion to chastise a beautiful blonde servant.




His lordship's excitement grew as each firm stroke hastened the transition of her huddling bottomglobes from pinkness to redness. Eight or ten strokes into the flogging, Arbuthnot tentatively raised his hand, and adjured his friend to pause for a moment. The young lord stepped forward to caress the blonde's well-curved buttocks, moving his hand in slow, sensuous circles over the rondures of her ass, intoxicated by the warmth of her bottomflesh.

The very next day, Arbuthnot picked out a sturdy rattan cane at a shop on Portobello Road.



Upon returning to Cranfordshire, he quickly broke the cane in over the next fortnight.



Jessica was the first member of his domestic staff to feel the bite of his Lordship's cane.




A few nights later it was Rosalie's turn





And the following week it was Gladys's voluptuous backside that felt the cruel sting of the rattan.



By the end of that fortnight, Lord Arbuthnot had broadened his horizons. From time to time thereafter, he experimented with the cane on other parts of the feminine body.




Delia, a lovely young creature from the poorest hamlet in Cranfordshire, desperately wanted to attend university, but lacked the funds. Lord Arbuthnot, a generous man by nature, graciously offered to help her with her finances. In return for a weakly quarter-hour session. At first he had confined himself to Delia's shapely buttocks and thighs, but after a few weeks the temptation to use the can on her flat belly and her exquisite breasts got the better of him.

He had blindfolded her so that she could not see where the strokes would fall. Of the four and twenty cane strokes he gave her that day, he directed five at her lovely breasts. Not with full force, of course, but with enough bite to set her lovely mounds ablaze.

After Delia there was no turning back ....

 

[windar]

After Delia there was no turning back ....

But plenty of turning front...

 

[Boccaccio]

Is Mandy any good at shoveling snow?

I've gone to the trouble of contacting the Met Office (The British National Meteorolical Service) and, upon inquiring, was told that there is no record of snow every having fallen in the county of Cranfordshire.

And I'll have you know that I didn't care one bit for their tone of voice.

 

[Barbaria1]

I've gone to the trouble of contacting the Met Office (The British National Meteorolical Service) and, upon inquiring, was told that there is no record of snow every having fallen in the county of Cranfordshire.

And I'll have you know that I didn't care one bit for their tone of voice.

What? Did they sneer at you?

 

[Boccaccio]

What? Did they sneer at you?

They might as well have done. When I demanded to speak to his superior, he refused. I did get his name, for all the good it will do me. Oliver St. John-Mollusc. He *did* mumble something about his father being a cabinet minister and his mother winning the Derby.

 

[Wragg]

View attachment 478983 What? Did they sneer at you?

They might as well have done. When I demanded to speak to his superior, he refused. I did get his name, for all the good it will do me. Oliver St. John-Mollusc. He *did* mumble something about his father being a cabinet minister and his mother winning the Derby.

You can get the OBE over here for sneering at Americans...

 

[Barbaria1]

You can get the OBE over here for sneering at Americans...

Other Buggers Efforts

 

[RacingRodent]

I've gone to the trouble of contacting the Met Office (The British National Meteorolical Service) and, upon inquiring, was told that there is no record of snow every having fallen in the county of Cranfordshire.

And I'll have you know that I didn't care one bit for their tone of voice.

They are just down the road, I can have a word if you like?

 

[RacingRodent]

Other Buggers Efforts

You'd fit in well with our Civil Service

 

[Barbaria1]

You'd fit in well with our Civil Service

well, I can be very civil, at times ...

 

[Wragg]

Other Buggers Efforts

Oh, yes indeed...

Sneering involves a lot of facial muscles.

Why have a servant and sneer yourself?

 

[Boccaccio]

A few more captives of Lord Arbuthnot's cane




There were few backsides in Cranfordshire as well formed for the cane as Jennifer's. A timid, accident-prone young maid, Arbuthnot found an excuse to give her 'six of the best' on an almost weekly basis. Jennifer's fear of her master, only compounded her nervousness -- and her castigations.






Some parts of the ancient Norman Abbey were in virtual ruins. For some reason Lord Arbuthnot took special pleasure in administering discipline among the crumbling thousand-year-old stones of the north tower. He quite enjoyed chasing blind-folded, scantily clad maidens through the ruins, swatting at them furiously with the cane when they were within reach and watching them cannon into flesh-abrading stones in an attempt to escape the sting of the rattan.




Sophia was a farm girl, with broad hips that attracted his lordship's cane like a lodestone attracts metal filings. In this image you will note that she has been made to straddle a low bench, and that an artfully designed breast harness encircles her generous mounds. Both of those clever touches were the work of Rupert Collins, a manservant who came to work for Lord Arbuthnot about this time.

 

[Boccaccio]

Lord Arbuthnot admitted Rupert Collins into his service following the death of Henry Hobson, a weallthy octogenarian who had never lost his passion for disciplining pretty young servant girls. In his last decade, when his physical strength, if not his ardor, began to flag, he had engaged Rupert Collins a man as taciturn as Hobson was garrulous. Two consecutive sentences were, for Collins, as lengthy a pronouncement as "O, what a peasant slave am I" had been for Hamlet.

Rupert Collins was not a big man, but his rather ordinary build belied a wiry strength and an inflexible will. He did as he was bid, stoically and silently. Most importantly, he could be relied upon to keep his mouth shut. For Henry Hobson, Rupert had been a facilitator of Hobson's dark desires, combining the roles of pimp and rigger and enforcer.

He brought those virtues to Cranfordshire upon his master's death. Lord Arbuthnot had hardly noticed Rupert during his visits to Hobson's estate, because he seemed almost to wear a cloak of invisibility, melting into the background until he was needed, and then appearing, on the instant, like a diabolus ex machina, to seize a young woman, to strip her or bind her effectively and artistically, and to mete out such punishments as Hobson or his guests deemed appropriate, all without putting himself forward in the least.

After making a few enquiries of those who had known Hobson better than he had, and a lengthy interview, Lord Arbuthnot offered Rupert a lucrative salary, leaving unspoken the ancillary benefits both me knew were associated with such an unusual position.

Here are just a few of the creative bondages the two men jointly devised during the first year of their association: