Ancient Hunger

Ancient Hunger sees Catherine Wolseley pursuing an ancient statue in the rural villages of England – where not all are as innocent and respectable as they seem. Miss Wolseley is unfazed by the eccentric collector and his neurotic wife, by the school mistress with a taste for discipline, or by the wanton innkeeper’s daughter. But the Swedish diplomat, Captain Adler, is as intriguing as the ancient statue itself, and in a sense, she suspects, she may have met her match.

This 10-chapter erotic story introduces several new characters – the handsome spy, Captain Adler; the wanton young village girl, Hettie; and a vicar with a supernatural secret – and a host of steamy, erotic encounters with an occult edge.

Ancient Hunger – Chapter 3

Behind the schoolhouse, light shone in the windows of the comfortable cottage. The curtains were drawn across the windows, of course, but those inside had been careless, distracted by more appealing matters than domestic tidiness. The cracks between the curtains were wide enough to allow anyone who might have been outside to have a clear view of what was so distracting them – a young woman of about twenty, kneeling meekly on the floor.

In the centre of the red rug, bathed in light from the oil lamps on the walls and the golden fire that crackled in the grate, the girl knelt in her rough dress, still spattered with slops and grease from a day working in the kitchens of the Inn. Her dark hair, coiled on top of her head and held with a pin, was coming loose, trailing across her face in curls, floating in front of her sparking, eager eyes.

In front of her stood a woman of about thirty, her white blouse buttoned high up her throat, her black skirt long to the ankles of her soft black boots, her hair securely pinned, and her expression severe. She was the epitome of a harsh school mistress in every detail, down to the cruel cane which she flexed between her fingers.

To the side stood an older gentleman in a suit, watching.

The severe woman stepped forward, standing before the kneeling girl, who kept her eyes lowered.

“Girl. You have returned for further tuition.”

The girl nodded.

“Speak up.” The woman lowered the cane, touching its tip to the girl’s lips. “You are here for your tuition?”

“Yes, Madam,” the girl whispered.

“Very good. And you understand the terms of your tuition?”

“I will answer every question, Madam.”

“Exactly. And what else?”

“And I will undertake all tasks. As instructed.”

“Exactly as instructed. Yes.” She let the cane brush across the girl’s cheek. “Without argument.”

“Every task, without argument.”

“And to my satisfaction.”

“Every task,” the girl replied. “Without argument. To your satisfaction.”

“And if you do not answer a question?”

The cane still stroked the girl’s face.

“Then I will be punished, Madam.”

“And if you fail to perform a task?”

“Then I will be punished, Madam.”

“And if I am not completely satisfied?”

“I will be punished, Madam.”

The woman smiled, and crouched down in front of the girl. She took the girl’s chin in her hands and raised it, forcing the girl to look her in the eye. “And do you think that you will be punished a great deal?”

“I… I hope not, Madam.”

“Well,” the woman’s smile was cold as ice. “We will see about that. Won’t we?”

The girl swallowed. “Yes, Madam.”

“And, girl, do you think that it will hurt, when I punish you?”

She nodded nervously. “Yes, Madam.”

“How much will I hurt you, girl?”

“I… maybe… as much as last week?”

“Wrong answer.” She brushed the cane across the girl’s cheek again. “The answer is that I will hurt you just as much as I want. As much as pleases me. You understand?”

“The girl nodded.

“And girl? Understand this. It pleases me a great deal to hurt you. I will be looking for every possible opportunity to hurt you. You understand?”

The kneeling figure nodded.

“So again: how much will I hurt you, girl?”

“As much as you like, Madam,” the girl answered weakly.

“Good.” The older woman stood and walked away. And then turned back to her. “So you are ready for your tuition?”

The girl nodded. “Yes, Madam.”

“Really,” the woman sneered. “Are you really?”

“Yes, Madam!”

She snorted. “And was that an argument? Were you answering back?”

“No Madam – I promise, no. I don’t answer back. I don’t argue.”

“Then I ask again. Are you ready for your tuition?”

“I… I.. if… if you think that I am, Madam,” she stammered, hoping that it was the right answer.

“Better!” the woman nodded. “But look at you. You have come here, privileged as you are, to receive your tuition. How many girls have such a chance?”

“Only me, Madam. Thank you, Madam.”

“Exactly. And yet look at you. Dressed like a dirty char-girl, all splashed in beer and muck. Your dress is dirty. You look filthy.”

“I’m sorry, Madam.”

The woman leaned forward. “Are you a filthy girl?”

“I… if you say so, Madam. Then I am, Madam.”

“Oh, girl. I say that you are. You are a very, very filthy girl. As you will demonstrate, before very long at all.” She stood up and paused. “But that dress will not do.”

“I… I’m sorry, Madam.”

“Take it off.”

“Madam?”

“That dirty dress. Take it off. Throw it away.”

The girl started to rise, but the woman placed the cane on her shoulder. “I did not not give you permission to stand.”

“No, Madam.”

Slowly, awkwardly, the girl began to unbutton her dress, still kneeling. She unclasped each button, and then slipped the dress down her arms, and over her hips, lifting each knee in turn to push it down her legs and kick it away. At last she knelt in a pale corset over a white cotton shift.

“That is better.” The woman nodded. “Now, to your tuition. First we will begin with mathematics. I will ask you questions regarding your multiplication tables. And then Sir will ask you questions about your Latin language skills. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Madam,” the girl nodded, with a nervous glance towards the gentleman to her side.

“And do you remember you multiplication tables?”

“I hope so, Madam.”

“Well,” the woman smiled, “for your sake, so do I…. And your Latin is good?”

“Madam! I have never learned… I mean, I do not know any….” She let the sentence trail off.

“Oh dear! Then that is going to be very painful for you. Isn’t it?”

The girl nodded, still glancing to her side.

“Then let us begin. Stand… Turn left…. Step forward.”

The girl did as she was told, and now stood before a heavy oak desk.

“And bend over.”

She leaned forwards, and with the nervous girl bent over the desk the woman began to fire questions at her.

“Two times two?” – “Four, Madam.” – “Three times four?” – “Twelve Madam.” And slowly the questions became more difficult. “Six times nine?” – “Fifty… four.” – “Thirteen times three?” – “Umm… Thirty nine.”

The woman stepped back. “Really? Are you sure?”

“I… yes… thirty nine, Madam.”

“That is not what you said. Umm thirty nine? Is Umm a number…? What number is Umm? What number does it come after, what number is it before?”

“Umm… I mean… no Madam. That isn’t a number.”

The woman reached forward and slowly lifted the girl’s shift, exposing white stockings tied above the knee with blue ribbons, then bare thighs, and then pale cotton knickers. She piled the folds of fabric on the girl’s back, and looked down at her.

“Umm is not a number.” She stroked the girl’s hair. “If you say Umm again, girl, I will hurt you. You understand?”

“Yes, Madam.”

“Good. Then: six times seven?” – “Forty two.” – “Eight times ten?” – “Eighty.” – “Twelve times twelve?” – “Um – I mean a hundred – a hundred and twenty four!”

“No girl!” She stroked the cane over the cotton that stretched over the girl’s buttocks. “Not umm. Not one hundred and twenty four. So I am going to have to punish you, aren’t I?”

“Yes, Madam.”

“Twice”

“Twice?”

“Once for Umm,” she noted as she hitched her fingers over the waist band of the knickers, “and once for a wrong answer,” she said, as she pulled the knickers down, exposing two firm curves of pale, tender flesh.

“Aaagh!” the girl cried as the cane arced, and bit stingingly into her exposed buttocks. And then, after a pause, the cane swished again. “Aaaarg! Madam, that hurts!”

“Of course it hurts, girl. Now. Eight times nine…?”

And so it continued, with questions asked and answers given or, if the girl stammered or answered incorrectly, with an arc of the cane.

In the calm night outside the window, the cries of pain were clearly audible.

But if the girl managed to answer most of her sums correctly, her Latin instruction was another matter all together.

The gentleman took the cane from the severe woman, and stroked the girl’s sore buttocks before he started, admiring the neat red lines that Madam had raised on the girl’s tender flesh.

“Bonum vesperam.”

She paused. She had no idea. “I… I don’t know, Sir.”

The cane cut the air, and her flesh. “Aaaarghhh!”

“Bonum scire.”

“I – I don’t know! Aaargh!”

“Ego sum scortum.”

“Please Sir, I don’t – aaargh!”

“Nescio.”

“Sir! I don’t know!” She clenched her eyes and gritted her teeth, and waited for the pain. But it did not come.

“Very good, girl. Nescio means: I do not know.”

But it was the only question that she did get right. And now her cries carried out through the window every few seconds, as she failed to answer the questions set and the gentleman thrashed her.

At last, when he stood back, her pale buttocks, before so carefully marked, were now a web of livid welts, and she was breathing deeply, panting as she lay over the desk.

Now the woman stepped forward again. “Oh dear. It seems that you quite failed in your Latin.”

“Yes, Madam,” she murmured.

“And you have suffered for it.”

“Yes, Madam.”

“Perhaps,” the woman mused, in a tone perhaps sympathetic, or perhaps mocking, “your skills do not lie in academia…. Perhaps there is another lesson you should learn.”

“If… if you say so, Madam.”

“I do say so. It will be like last week. When you so failed your geography, and you were taught a new lesson?”

“Yes, Madam.”

“And you did take that lesson so well, didn’t you? All seven inches. Until you nearly choked on it.”

“Yes, Madam.” The girl pushed herself back off the desk and sunk to her knees. She turned, and faced the gentleman, looking at the front of his trousers. She could see how he strained against the fabric, and she parted her lips.

“What are you doing?” the woman chided.

“I… I am getting ready for my lesson, Madam.”

“Oh no, girl.”

“No, Madam?”

“That was last week’s lesson.” The woman reached back around her own skirt, and unfastened it at the waist. She let the fabric slide down her legs, and then pushed down her knickers, stepping out of both. “This week, you have a new lesson.”

The girl looked across, nervous and now surprised. The older woman still wore her severe blouse, her stockings and boots, but nothing covered her mound, and as she stepped close the girl could smell her scent: she was already wet.

“You understand?” the woman asked. And as the girl nodded she stepped across to the desk, perched herself on its edge, and said: “Ensure that I am completely satisfied with your efforts. Completely satisfied!”

“What… how….”

The woman smiled, sternly. “Stand up… Now, approach. Stop. And lean forward.”

As the girl leaned down the woman spread her legs. And slowly, uncertainly, she began to kiss.

“Yes, girl, that’s a good start…. kiss me there… and there… higher… higher – there! Oh, good girl, yes, there…. And lick me… all the way along – oh! Oh you are a filthy girl! Yes… all the way along… and deeper… deeper…. Oh yes! Like that… yes… up, there – just there – keep doing that!” As the younger woman’s tongue toyed and pressed against the older woman’s hood, teasing out her clit, her elder laughed. “Oh you just have to do that! And do not stop…. If you stop, you will be punished! You understand?”

“Hmm,” she nodded slightly, not pulling back her tongue.

But then she felt it. Firm, pressing at the lips of her own slit from behind.

The gentleman, now undressed, placed one hand on her back and slowly eased forward. He was gentle at first, testing her tight pussy. But she was as wet as the woman before her, and as he felt her juices on his helmet he pushed forward, hard.

“Oh God!” She pulled her head back to cry out: “Oh God, yes Sir!”

The woman grabbed a fistful of her hair, pulling it, making her wince. “Did I tell you to stop?”

“No Madam!”

The gentleman stepped back.

“If I tell you to lick, you will lick, until I am satisfied. Yes?”

“Yes Madam, I – aaaarrrghh!” The cane bit harshly, as the hardest stroke of the evening cut across both of her tender buttocks.

“Then lick. And do not stop, until I am satisfied. Whatever happens!”

“Hmmm,” the girl agreed, licking again.

He took hold of her hips, and again pushed into her. She was wet and warm around him, and as he thrust forward she moaned softly – but still she licked. And so he pulled back and pushed forward, then faster, and faster, until her moans were a constant whimper and his hips slammed into her, his cocked buried deep in her sopping pussy as she struggled to lick at the woman in front of her. Her tender arse stung from her thrashing, and ached with each deep thrust, combining the lingering ache from her buttocks with the pleasure of the deep pounding. She closed her eyes, and licked, not wanting him to stop, not wanting to be thrashed, but wanting the hard, full force of his thrusts against her tender arse and deep into her yearning pussy.

“Good girl… good girl… oh yes.. there, like that… that… oh… oh… Oh!” The woman’s hips bucked, and she gripped the edge of the desk, scrunching her eyes shut. “Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!… Yes!” She slid back along the desk, panting, her thighs trembling, and leaned forward to take the young woman’s face in her hand. And she leaned forward and gently kissed her, tasting her own juices smeared across the girl’s lips. The young woman’s breath was hard and deep, as she reveled in the pleasure of the intense fucking, but she kissed Madam back, deeply, longingly until, behind, she heard Sir groan, and his fingers dug into her hips.

“Yes!” he grunted. “Uggh – yes!”

The gentleman stepped back, and the older woman swung her legs off the desk and stood.

The girl stayed where she was. She had not been told to move. Her breathing was still rapid, the welts on her buttocks stung deliciously, and she could feel a warm trickle down her thighs.

“That,” the older woman smiled, “concludes your tuition for this week.”

The girl sank to her knees, and burst out laughing. “Oh my God! Mr Pierson, Miss Simons, that was the best yet!”

“You excelled yourself,” Mr Pierson assured her.

“That was,” the older woman grinned, “rather good. You can do that to me again, you know!”

“Please, yes!” the girl laughed, and then grinned at the gentleman. “So long as you take me like that again!”

“I’m sure that I will!”

Slowly, with much laughter, they dressed, and then at last Mr Pierson guided the girl out into the cold November air.

As they picked their way up the path they did not notice the shadow lurking by the window.

“But Mr Pierson, just one thing!” she giggled in a loud whisper.

“What is that, Hettie?”

“Next time – you can do it ‘arder!”

“Do what harder?”

“All of it!” she laughed. “Thrash me ‘arder! Take me ‘arder!”

“Hush, Hettie – someone might hear!”

“I don’t care!”

“Well have a care – if we are caught we will have to stop your tuition!”

“Oh please never do that!” she giggled again, climbing into his buggy for the short journey back to her parents’ Inn.

– – –

Catherine turned another page of the newspaper, unimpressed. Captain Adler had been gone for well over an hour, and the local news was spectacularly dreary. And at the sound of the front door of the Inn she looked up, and the Captain walked into the lounge bar, ducking through the low door.

“You have not retired for the night?”

“No, Captain, I was waiting for you.” She glanced at the thick-set Inn-keeper’s wife who bustled behind the bar.

He ordered a beer from the woman, and brought it across to Catherine’s table, but said nothing more until the landlady disappeared back into the kitchen, and left them alone in the lounge.

“And did Mr Pierson’s little outing shed any light on matters?”

“It certain shed some light on his… interests. But I doubt that any of this is relevant to our statue.”

“All that we have regarding the statue is a mystery – just questions.”

“Yes, that is so.”

“Then no piece of information on its owner should be discounted as unimportant. Especially since you seem so keen not to share the details.”

“Miss Wolseley, the gentleman neglects his wife. By which I mean that he has an interest in another. Or others. That is not entirely unusual.”

“Others? Plural? It shows ambition, certainly. But my point stands. We do not know if this is relevant.”

“Perhaps not, but you are a well-bred lady, I am a gentleman, and we barely know one and other. You cannot ask me to sit in a public place and recount to you details of an intimately carnal, and quite unusual, manner.”

“I can ask that, and I am asking that – so long as no-one is present to overhear. I am quite sure that you will not shock me.”

“You are quite sure about that?”

She looked him in the eye. “Some years ago I was in Florence, where I stayed in a boarding house where guests would have their own rooms, but dine together. I took to taking breakfast with an lady who, it transpired, had been mistress of a bordello in Rome. Those were, without a doubt, the most educational breakfasts that I have ever had. And I can guarantee that what passed between us over our morning coffees will make whatever you are about to tell me seem quite tame.”

“You want to hear all of the details?” he held her gaze.

“I want to know about Mr Pierson. And so I want to know about his unusual activities. Yes.”

“Very well.” He broke eye contact for just long enough to glance across to the bar, to check that the landlady had not returned. And then, quietly, he began to explain. “Mr Pierson and another woman were giving instruction to the daughter of the Inn-keeper, whose name is Hettie. This instruction involved stripping her part naked, asking her deliberately unfair questions, and then caning her when she could not answer. After perhaps half an hour they moved to more practical tuition. This involved forcing her face between the thighs of the other woman, while Mr Pierson violated her from behind.”

“And was Hettie willing, or unwilling.”

“Miss Wolseley… you really are not shocked, are you?”

“I consider a propensity to be shocked indicative of a poor imagination. I understand that people have a range of interests. There is no point in being judgmental about these things. And so, my question: willing or unwilling?”

“I was not certain at first. But I would say willing. As evidence of this,” he explained, still watching Catherine for a reaction, “she requested that next week she should be both beaten and violated more severely.”

“That is a shame.”

“A shame? What an amazing reaction!”

“Not at all. If you were not so busy being surprised that I can be rational, then you would have come to the same conclusion.”

He thought for a moment. “You mean that if all three are willing, then one cannot easily be turned against the others. And without evidence, and without testimony, there can be no criminal conviction. If there is no danger of criminal conviction, and they know that, then this limits our leverage.”

“There is still the threat of exposing them to social censure. But yes, prison makes a better threat. Unless… you say that Hettie was caned? Would this be hard enough to leave marks?”

“I am not at all an expert. But I suppose it is possible.”

“Then that, at least, we can keep in mind.”

He took a draught of his beer. “If I can ask, Miss Wolseley, how did you become like this?”

“Like what, exactly?”

“So… exceptional.”

She smiled. “Through many happy accidents, and considerable hard work. But what of you? How did you become so exceptional?”

“You think me exceptional?”

“You know that you are, Captain. You know that you are handsome, and you groom yourself carefully to present yourself at your best. You are intelligent. You are confident. I expect that in time I might find other remarkable features. And I am sure that if you were not injured you would have had a glittering military career. But I suppose that it is hard to be an infantry officer with a wounded right hand.”

“Infantry? Miss Wolseley, I was a Captain of Cavalry. But that is quite refreshing. You think you have flawless judgement, but you can sometimes be wrong.” He raised his glass and drained it. “Why are you smiling at me like that?”

“I was not wrong. But I could not decide if your regiment was of cavalry or artillery. If I had not prompted you to correct me, you might not have told me.” She smiled and stood. “But if we are finished for the evening I shall retire. When travelling without a maid a lady must spend an irritatingly long time at her toilette. But perhaps we can talk further at breakfast?”

He stood, and took her hand, motioning to kiss it. “It would be my pleasure.”

“Yes, I know that it would,” she smiled. “But it would also be mine. I am very glad to have met you, and thank you for your company and collaboration. Good night.”