#377) Women’s Lib (of a Sort)

This story takes place in the year 1216 A.D. As you probably know, there was no discussion of women’s liberation in this repressively difficult and labor-intensive time. But this tale does concern that topic, in a way, at least.
If you studied your World History, you’ll remember that the Magna Carta was signed in 1215. The world being what it was way back then, it took time for this news to travel. The Magna Carta, you’ll recall, was the first time an agreement was put in writing guaranteeing the rights of barons and limiting the rights of kings. This doesn’t sound huge today, but for King John and English landowners, it was monumental. Among other things, the Magna Carta stipulated that justice shouldn’t be delayed and couldn’t be bought, that a trial by a jury of ones’ peers was now law, and cruel or unusual punishments were against the law.
But enough historical fact, our story concerns the beautiful lass you see above and below my words here. Her name is Mabel, and by the standards of beauty of the age, she was not considered attractive. She was far too slender, therefore susceptible to disease. And she didn’t have wide, child-bearing hips, giving greater likelihood to successfully birthing a large brood of babies. As her brother, David, succinctly put it at the dinner table, “You’d think a milkmaid would have bigger udders!” For this chide, Mabel gave David a sharp elbow in the ribs, for which he returned a smart cuff of her ear with his fist.
At that very dinner, Mabel and David’s parents made several announcements. Because she wasn’t married at the advanced age of twenty five, and without romantic prospects, she’d have to contribute more to the family finances. Mabel’s father had arranged for her to work in the village pub as a serving girl, starting the next day. The chores that she did around their farm, such as the milking of the cows twice daily, would be assumed by David and her parents. The majority of her wage at the pub would be sent home to them, too.
Today, a pub is another word for bar, but back then it was short for public house, a place that served alcohol, yes, because water generally wasn’t safe to drink. But a pub also served food. Families came by to eat and drink all day, and men congregated there in the evenings.
Mabel vaguely knew the proprietor of the pub, as she recognized almost everyone in their village, but did not know him well. His name was Robert, he was about fifteen years older than Mabel, and two things struck her upon meeting him. First, he wore a black armband signifying that he was in mourning. His wife and young daughter had died in a carriage accident a month and a half previous. The horse had spooked, ran away, and the carriage had flipped, breaking both of the occupants necks. It was still all the buzz throughout the village, and was the reason Mabel was now needed to work there. And second, he had the kindest eyes Mabel had ever seen.
Mabel had served meals her whole life long at their farm, but pub work was different. She was expected, for example, to carry five or six large tankards of ale on a serving tray, back and forth, all evening long. It had been a long, tiring day. Mabel remembered to sit the tray down on the bar to place the foaming tankards on it, but she forgot to put the tray down on the table before removing them to serve the customers. With the tray unbalanced, it tipped off her hand and all the contents spilled right down the back of a wealthy patron, a snobbish bureaucrat. The entire pub erupted in gales of laughter, everybody detesting the stuck-up magistrate. This made Esquire Smithson all the more livid.
He stood up trembling with anger, red-faced, and sputtered to Robert, “Beat her!”
“What?” Robert and Mabel asked in unison.
The teeming, bustling public house fell silent. Master Smithson said again, “Beat her.” He drew himself up to his full height (which was only about five foot, two inches in total). “I want to see justice done. Bare her back and beat her hard across it, or I’ll sue you in court.”
“She’s new, just learning,” Robert said.
“I’m so sorry, sir!” Mabel added.
Smithson didn’t even look at her, as if she was too far beneath him to converse with. He addressed Robert, saying, “She ruined my coat, made me an object of derision! I want justice, bare her and beat her. Now!”
Now Mabel was trembling. Robert replied, “I will not,” and Mabel’s heart took a leap. “Not in front of everyone. Not now. After closing…” He drew another tankard and brought it to Smithson himself. Mabel stood dumbfounded, unable to speak. She might have remained rooted to that spot if Robert hadn’t approached her, handed her rags, and said, “Wipe up the ale on the floor, lass.”
The hour until closing time was deceptive. It both seemed to speed by like a run-away horse, and seemed to crawl at a snail’s pace. This was because of what was on Mabel’s mind. Would Robert beat her? He’d defended her initially, maybe he’d be lenient later. Baring a servant’s back and beating them was an everyday occurrence in 13th century England. But not for Mabel. Her father had taken the strap to her just once, when she was thirteen, for lying. He’d been considerate to concentrate the strokes across her buttocks, where she was well padded, but had been stern with the punishment because he didn’t want to raise a liar. Afterward, Mabel had run away to the barn where she could be alone, unlike in the bedroom she shared with David. The strapping had stirred feelings in Mabel for which she was deeply embarrassed. Ever since Mabel had been very young, four or five years old, she’d had fantasies while falling asleep, fantasies of being punished by a controlling, loving man. This actual strapping achieved what her dreams always had; she grew wet between her legs, her sex bloated and aching to be touched. When Mabel fingered her sex, careful not to delve in too deeply and endanger her hymen, she experienced sexual release, something that scared her. In the dozen years since her father’s strapping, Mabel had grown to fear that she was possessed by the devil, perhaps a witch because the feelings inside her had been so monumental, so satisfying, so wrong. As much as Mabel wanted to abstain from those feelings, it proved impossible. About once every two weeks since puberty, Mabel would find herself in the barn, her clothing disheveled, her fingers on her sex, her mind full of enchantments focusing on a man with a strap blistering her backside, bringing her that convulsive release, that rendezvous with the devil. Mabel’s mind was filled with all these remembrances and feelings until she looked up to see the last patrons leaving the pub, Robert locking the door, looking at her.
“Sit down, girl, we must talk,” he said.
Conscious that it might be her last time sitting comfortably for a while, Mabel meekly sat on a bench at a table. Robert brought her a tankard half-filled with mead. She seized the mug and swallowed a mouthful. Fortified, she spoke up.
“It was an accident, for which I’m terribly sorry, sir! It was because I didn’t balance…”
“Shhh!” Robert interrupted. “I know,” he said sympathetically. “But I also know Smithson. He’s a vengeful, small-minded man. He feels wronged and hates being laughed at, for which he’s demanding satisfaction. You heard him. Now let’s get this over with..” With that he stood and started unbuckling his belt.
Mabel felt the blood rush to her face. At the same time, she felt a similar but different kind of warmth fill her sex. She sat frozen in place on the bench, unable to move or speak, until Robert placed his thick belt on the table. Then she felt his hands lifting her to her feet, bending her over the thick slab of wood of the table, and raising her long skirt up to her waist.
If Mabel had been as wealthy as Smithson, she might have worn a corset and knickers. As it was, she only wore underclothes during her time of the month, so her raised skirt revealed her shapely, if unfashionably small, buttocks.
Robert consoled, “Smithson will demand to see your backside tomorrow to verify that you’ve been punished enough. To save you from having to take two beatings, I’m going to strap you very soundly now, so that you’re sure to be well marked. Spread your legs so as to take a better stance, Mabel.” She obeyed, blushing deeper as she thought that her aroused sex might be visible between her parted thighs. She saw him pick up the doubled-up belt, didn’t dare look back over her shoulder, just set her jaw and gripped the edges of the slab. “Relax your bum, you’re all tensed-up…”
The very second she tried to release her grip, he caught her with the first of many strokes with his thick belt. Each one lifted Mabel to her toes, each one made her yelp, each one possessed both bark and bite. The thick belt made a fearsome loud crack as it struck her flesh, then it made an incredible stinging pain in a wide swath across her proffered bum. That sting turned to a glowing warmth before the next stroke landed. The cumulative result was a belt beating that hurt mightily, but aroused with even more intensity. After a dozen strokes, Mabel lost count because the need inside her was so great. She clamped her thighs together and scissored them back and forth, as well as rubbed her lower regions against the hard edge of that slab of a table. The result, of course, was that the devil possessed her more completely than he ever had before. It was like he grabbed Mabel by the throat so that she could barely breathe. It was like he grabbed her lower extremities and possessed them, too. At a time when English men cared greatly about their sexual release, but not a whit about their woman’s, Mabel had a series of intense orgasms. The evidence was as unmistakable as the ruddiness of her cute bottom, Mabel cried out loud vociferously, there was a puddle of her sexual arousal on the table that matted her pubic bush into a slick, sodden thatch, and it smelled of nothing so much as a brackish marsh.
The sensory experience of witnessing a woman in the full blush of heat was as intoxicating as it was bewildering to Robert. His prim wife had never been so aroused.
“Are you alright, Mabel?” he solicited.
She did not, indeed, could not reply, so he picked her up and carried her to the bed he’d made for her in the back, private area of the pub. Her body glistened with sweat, her face streaked from tears, her nipples were hard as rock and her sex inflamed; Robert had never seen a woman as ravishing. He wanted to kiss her, but reminded himself that he’d only lost his wife a scant six weeks before. He rushed upstairs to his living quarters. From the privacy of both of their domiciles, both Robert and Mabel masturbated to the burning vision of the other in their fevered minds.
The next morning, they both remained in total silence as they readied the pub to open. But it wasn’t an awkward silence, more as though they now shared an undefinable bond. The pub didn’t do much business until mid-morning unless there were travelers passing through the village and in need of breakfast. This was not the case this morning; it was just Robert doing some cooking and Mabel doing some cleaning when Esquire Smithson walked in, as imperious as ever.
“Did you beat the wench?”
“I strapped my serving girl,” Robert corrected. “I assume that you’d like a look to satisfy yourself…” Smithson nodded. “Mabel, come here, please…”
Robert did not have to say another word, having broached the subject before the beating. Mabel came forward, bent over the same table where she’d been punished, and flipped her skirt up. Her cute butt was now adorned with all the colors of the rainbow in bruises. Smithson reached out toward her flesh.
Batting the offending hand away briskly, Robert stated, “I said you could look. That’ll be enough! Thank you, Mabel, you’re dismissed to your duties…”
Smithson seemed satisfied that the girl had been punished and his stature was unquestioned, whereas both Robert and Mabel saw him for what he was. But that wasn’t the end of it. Days went by, Mabel seemed to be learning the demands of this trade well, there were no more accidents. Nightly they went to their respective beds and dreamed about the other. But neither saw a way to further the relationship beyond owner and worker, with Robert in mourning as he was. Robert would probably have just maintained that status quo, but Mabel had other ideas.
It was Saturday evening, the pub was bustling. Mabel and Robert were working like a well-oiled machine together, practically reading each other’s minds about what needed doing to keep the customers’ needs met. The night was winding-down, just Smithson was holding court at a table of four other snooty men. Robert announced, “Last call, gentlemen, if you please…” Smithson stood, the cue that the rest of his peers should follow suit. Mabel started to clear the table. She picked up the flagon that Smithson had been drinking out of, and saw that it had two inches of ale remaining at the bottom. She locked eyes with Robert across the now-empty room. She lifted the mug up over her head, behind the back of the stiff and stuffy Smithson. While smiling at her boss, she spilled the contents down Smithson’s back for a second time.
“Oops!” she said, seeming to recover herself, “Ever so sorry, sir! Imagine making that mistake with the same gentleman in one week’s time! I am such a clumsy fool!”
Smithson was much more drunk than the last time, so easier to handle. Robert ushered him out the door assuring Smithson that “the wench would be sternly dealt with.”
Robert came back into the pub steaming only to find Mabel smirking in a self-satisfied way. Without a word exchanged, he began taking off his belt as she began pulling her skirt up as she bent over a table. He would have liked to stare at her newly revealed derriere, how it was no longer bruised, how it was so trim and youthful and erotic. But he had a job to do.
Crack! The belt bit into Mabel’s bum with a loud report.
“We just appeased Smithson! Have you any idea what you’ve done?”
“Yes!” Mabel said proudly through the wincing that the belt caused. “I realized that your strapping of my bottom aroused me mightily, and I wanted that again!”
“I never heard of anything so ridiculous!” Robert muttered.
“Really?” she returned, and reached back to caress his codpiece. It could barely contain his erection straining the seams of the garment. “It seems to me that it arouses you as much as does me…”
Her silken touch was heavenly! Robert wanted Mabel passionately. But he seemed as though he was hooked on the horns of a dilemma. “We cannot act upon our attraction! It would be wrong!”
Tears came to Mabel’s eyes, but they were tears of joy. She loved his acknowledgment as much as what Robert’s strict strapping was doing to her. “After much reflection, I cannot believe that such inspired sexual excitement is wrong! It’s God’s handiwork,” she said, deciding not to voice her concerns that the devil had a hand in it, too.
“I think it was divine intervention that brought us together, a girl who loves her bottom beaten and a man who finds a punished bum arousing. I think God works in mysterious and wonderful ways…”
“It’s only wrong because society says you should be in mourning. But I believe that your dearly departed wife would want you to be happy…”
Unknowingly, Mabel had touched upon the issue that was bedeviling Robert. His wife had never entertained Robert’s fascination with her ass, his boyish playfulness in spanking her. So Mabel’s words touched Robert profoundly. She closed her argument resolutely.
“Society doesn’t know us, doesn’t know what we share. And they don’t have to know! We can share carnal knowledge of each other here in privacy…”
It was an agrarian society, they bred livestock, so knew about fertility. Robert was well known as an astute breeder of horses. “We must chart your cycle, we cannot risk your getting pregnant!” Mabel nodded as she parted her thighs and opened herself to him.
Robert released his rampant charger from the codpiece that presently resembled a stall that had been nearly kicked down by its fiery occupant. Robert was hung like the proverbial horse, and his horse-sized appendage wanted to be exercised, to be raced and pushed to its limits, to be worked into a lather. Oh, my! Mabel thought to herself when she first laid eyes on the massive thing. It had such a fine head, seemed thickly-muscled, roped with bulging veins, but it was the sheer size of the thing that stunned her. He was a draft horse, whereas all other men seemed to be ponies.
“Strap me some more! I need to be well-wetted if I’m going to accommodate that in me…” And so he did, Robert brought her girlish buttocks to a bright blush, and saw beneath them a sex that was swollen and eager and glistening wet.
He guided his throbbing steed up against her inviting slit. That finely formed cockhead breeched her, but only just so before it ran up against the fountainhead of Mabel’s virginity. Robert held Mabel by her slender waist and rammed. The maiden gave a little outcry, and her maidenhead was no more. He erased the memory of the momentary pain with a huge helping of elixir in the form of a right proper fucking. They fucked like they invented the deed, like they were born to it. They fucked like a matched team of horses who knew the other’s strengths and idiosyncrasies and acted to prevent any missteps and maximize their efforts. They fucked in perfect harmony, and brought each other to an ecstatic conclusion.
Afterwards, they laid together on his straw-filled mattress on goose down-filled pillows and talked. Robert was conscious of how naturally bright and inquisitive Mabel was, although, of course, she’d had no formal schooling. He reflected that this new Magna Carta didn’t even concern her, being a low-born woman. Justice would be whatever powerful people like Smithson dictated. But, for her time, Mabel was as self-actualized, as liberated as could be. She knew what she liked and wanted, and went after those things.

15 responses to “#377) Women’s Lib (of a Sort)”

    • Was an impromptu spanking happening out there? I think I’ll bare my butt and dare my man to give me a quick, hard spanking on our daily walk later, all done in the hope that there is some spanko who just might happen to look out the window and see us! I’ll tell you if we get arrested.

      Liked by 1 person

    • Thank you so much, Nora, coming from you, that means a lot! I’m going through an interesting dichotomy where I’m having all my sexual/spanking desires fulfilled, but am still striving to come up with fresh, sexy material. So my mind has wandered to lesbian fantasies. I’d have to describe it as a fevered mind…

      Liked by 1 person

      • I am jealous, my friend. I went through a good five year stretch where I couldn’t think of anything but sex. With Daddy’s health issues, and the constant stress, my libido has abandoned me. But I will get back there someday. Enjoy this time!!! XOXO

        Liked by 1 person

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