The Instruction of Olivia Read online

  THE INSTRUCTION OF OLIVIA

  by

  GEOFFREY ALLEN

  Published by Chimera Books

  ISBN 9781907976100

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  This work is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The author asserts that all characters depicted in this work of fiction are eighteen years of age or older, and that all characters and situations are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Copyright Geoffrey Allen. The right of Geoffrey Allen to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This novel is fiction - in real life practice safe sex.

  Chapter One

  'Olivia Holland!' The court usher poked his head around the door and beckoned with his forefinger. 'Yes, you. Come along girl.'

  Olivia, a tall slender girl of eighteen rose wearily from the bench and followed him into the magistrates' court. Suddenly dressed in her tattered rags and with mud spattered legs she felt very conspicuous and alone in the world. She had been chased the whole length of the High Street for stealing a loaf of bread, which, the constable assured her, was a hanging offence; already the noose seemed to tighten around her neck.

  Her hand went involuntarily to the lump forming in her throat then, conscious of the rip in her dress, she tugged the material tighter over her bosom and stared blankly at the magistrate.

  'Take your hand away from there and stand up straight!' he barked, squinting his eyes in the gloom.

  Olivia came to attention and the lapels fell open, revealing a bust of larger than average size, made more prominent by the slim waist beneath. Indeed, it seemed remarkable that her narrow shoulders could carry so much weight. With all eyes riveted on her bust, Olivia blushed red and knew, to her acute embarrassment, there was nothing she could do to prevent her nipples from hardening upwards, pushing at the thin cotton like young strawberries eager for the sunshine.

  For a few moments the magistrate stared back. In his mind he had already undressed her and was availing himself of those ripe fruits, working his tongue all around them, sucking them raw; a stark contrast to the thin, undernourished waifs he usually sentenced.

  'Stealing is a serious crime,' he said, mopping his brow with a red spotted handkerchief. 'A hanging offence, in fact and normally I would have no hesitation in dispatching you thither. Do you comprehend my meaning?'

  Olivia nodded. A cold sweat had broken out under her armpits and was trickling down her sides; she was sure this was to be her last day on earth. It mattered not that her nipples stiffened further or at any second her bladder would suddenly gush its contents all over the floor; here, in this dismal room, her short life was about to end.

  'Stop snivelling girl, and look at me when I speak to you.'

  Olivia lifted her tear streaked face, and avoiding his penetrating eyes, gazed absently at the clock, watching the hands beat away her remaining minutes. They seemed to go very fast; much faster than they had when she was sat outside on the bench.

  The magistrate stroked his chin thoughtfully. He had no intentions of sending such a splendid body to the gallows, or shipping it off to Australasia. She was the last case to be heard that morning, and with a whole afternoon free other ideas came to the fore.

  'I am sentencing you to six months hard labour in the House of Correction. And,' he added joyfully, 'twenty-four strokes of the birch; half now and half on your admission. Stand down.'

  'I'm not being hanged, sir?' Olivia sobbed, clutching the rail for support.

  'Not at all. But you will be flogged, and flogged hard, you may rest assured of that.'

  He watched her cross the courtroom, his eyes no less riveted on her bottom than they had been on her bust. It seemed remarkable how similar in proportion and appearance was the lower regions of her anatomy to those at the top. Her dress, two sizes too small, hugged her cheeks as she walked. The faded pattern of stripes danced with each frightened step, going into the cleft and out again, stretching over the colliding globes, and threatening to burst at any moment He watched her out of sight and went quickly down the back stairs to the cells beneath, tripping over his gown on the way and almost braining himself in the process.

  Olivia was ahead of him, and at a doorway she halted while another girl came out, clutching her bottom and sobbing bitterly.

  'Twelve strokes they give me!' she exclaimed, as if in some way it were Olivia's fault. 'Twelve strokes on my bare bum. The bastards!' She opened her mouth to utter another oath but was cut short by a hard shove in the small of her back.

  'In here,' said the constable who had sent the girl flying along the corridor.

  Olivia stepped into a cell furnished only with a long low bench and a leather bucket in which the previous occupant had generously relieved herself.

  'That sometimes happens,' the constable remarked dryly, seeing the look of curious fascination on Olivia's face as she peered at the yellow swirling liquid. 'And I daresay that you will be no exception.'

  'I daresay you're right.' The magistrate entered the cell and closed the door behind him. Seen close up and under the soft glow of a lamp, the magistrate had to admit, if only to himself, that Olivia was one of the most stunning looking young ladies he'd ever encountered. There was, he decided, a vague Oriental air about those huge almond eyes, her high cheekbones and voluptuous lips. But the most noticeable aspect was her hair; a vast, tumbling mass of raven locks, which under the lamp assumed a blueish sheen tinged with auburn. For a fleeting moment he was reminded of a picture he saw of an odalisque sprawling across a divan smoking a hookah, the expression on her face suggesting that nothing was beyond her capabilities when it came to pleasuring men.

  But the expression on Olivia's face was now one of abject terror. Her wide, lustrous eyes widened still further at the sight of the birch now swinging to and fro in the constable's hand.

  'I will deliver the punishment myself,' said the magistrate, snapping from his reverie. He glanced at Olivia and then at the bench. 'Lift you skirt,' he commanded, hardly able to contain the trepidation in his voice.

  Olivia bent over and, gathering her skirt in bunches at the knees, slowly drew it upwards. At mid-thigh she stopped and looked up at the magistrate.

  'Well, go on, girl,' he said tartly.

  Olivia swallowed and hoisted the bunched cotton to her waist. Then, as if knowing what was expected of her, she tied it in a knot and took her hands away. The next command had her lower lip trembling, her eyelids flickering, and the two men moving much closer.

  'Please sir,' she whispered, 'I've never taken my drawers off in front of a man before.'

  'Do as you're told,' the constable advised, not unkindly.

  Head bowed, she slipped her fingers under the top of the material and pulled it outwards, wriggling it over the swell of her hips. As she bent lower and slid her drawers reluctantly to her knees both men nearly choked. The heavy weight of her breasts had fallen forward and swung ponderously to and fro, and it was not impossible from where they were standing to see right down her front as far as her naval.

  'Shall I take them right off?' she asked in a foolish whisper,
the tone of which left the magistrate in no doubt that the girl was unused to stripping on demand.

  At a subdued murmur she bent low and dragged them to her feet, stood up again and lifted out her left foot, and with the right, kicked them away. To the utter amazement of her tormentors, her next gesture was to untie the knot of her skirt and let it float around mid-calf.

  'I don't recall giving you permission to cover yourself,' said the magistrate, genuinely shocked. 'Kindly return your skirt to its former position and bend over that bench.'

  The shock on Olivia's face was none the less equally startled. 'Am I to be beaten on my bare bottom?' she asked askance.

  'Did I not tell you that earlier?' he replied.

  He had indeed informed her of that sobering fact but Olivia had forgotten it in the trauma of having to remove her drawers. Now she stood like a stunned cow in a slaughter house, looking all around her, hoping for a last minute reprieve. The door was closed and bolted and she knew full well that even if she got past it she would never reach the end of the passage.

  'This isn't right,' she said suddenly, surprised at her own temerity. 'Beating me on my bare bottom.'

  'Very well,' said the magistrate, 'I shall not beat you on your bare bottom, but on your bare back as well. Now strip off those filthy rags.'

  Olivia's jaw gaped. 'You are going to beat me naked?!'

  'The girl's an imbecile,' said the constable. 'I thought she was.'

  'I am not an imbecile,' replied Olivia, not really understanding the meaning of the word.

  'Then you do comprehend what is required of you. Either you undress yourself or the constable will assist you.'

  Olivia leapt backwards into the corner of the cell and heaved her dress over her head. A low whistle escaped the lips of the constable as he stared agog at the naked young woman cowering in the corner. Her arms were crossed, covering her breasts and accidentally forcing them upwards, making them appear much larger than they really were. When she looked down to see what the magistrate was looking at her hands flew to her fleecy triangle, abruptly releasing her breasts and causing them to burst free and then swing embarrassingly slowly back into place.

  For what seemed an eternity she stood there, frozen like a Greek statue, the only sign of life, a tear which trickled down her cheek.

  'Save your tears and bend over that bench!' the magistrate said harshly.

  Olivia came forward an inch at a time, her feet shuffling over the flags until she drew level with the seat. Her hands were still between her legs, and keeping them there, she lowered her knees to the floor and leaned over. When she was sure her pubic hair was hidden from their view she took her hands away and placed them on the floor in front of her. The seat was narrow enough to only support her middle, allowing her breasts to hang over the edge, yet sufficiently high so that her knees swung clear of the floor, thus suspending her weight solely at the pelvis.

  'A handsome piece of work, your worship,' complimented the constable whilst eyeing Olivia's raised bottom.

  Under the golden glow of the lamp her bottom assumed the colour and shape of a ripe peach, its flawless skin glistened with a fine layer of sweat that gathered at the under-crease and trickled in tiny streams down the backs of her thighs. There was no doubting the comfort those soft cushions could provide between a man and his mattress, or the depths into which he could happily impale himself.

  'Handsome indeed,' the magistrate agreed. 'All the more pity in having to rip them asunder.'

  If he said that to frighten her he most certainly achieved the desired result. Her bottom quivered and twitched uncontrollably. The muscles in her flanks tensed, giving greater emphasis to their splendid structure. The sides of her buttocks caved in to hollows, and at the base of her spine two deep dimples appeared. To Olivia it seemed the whole world was concentrating on her naked rump; bare and defenceless. She gritted her teeth, determined not to cry out. No matter what happened she would deny her cruel tormentors the satisfaction of hearing her shriek. In stoic silence she would take her punishment.

  'Half now and half later,' she heard the magistrate repeat, as he stepped up behind her.

  There came the sound of a mighty rushing wind and the abrupt, sharp crack of twigs breaking on bare skin. Olivia's mouth opened and gulped in a whole lungful of air which was as quickly expelled with a whoosh.

  'That,' the magistrate explained, 'was for committing the crime in the first place.'

  Olivia heard only a muffled garble through the tumbling tresses of her hair. She thought for a moment she had been struck with a railway sleeper full of red-hot nails. An intense fiery pain burned into her cheeks worse than she could ever imagine.

  'Hold her still!' she heard the magistrate command, and a hand, presumably that of the constable, pressed hard and flat between her shoulder blades, pinning her to the seat.

  'And this,' the magistrate exclaimed, 'is for having the audacity to think that you could get away with it!'

  The second blow fell with the full strength of his arm, catching her unawares across the crown of her bottom, striking the base of her spine. Her legs shot outwards and buckled at the knees.

  'And this,' the magistrate continued with great satisfaction, 'is purely for the pleasure of beating you!'

  The birch hissed into the fat of her cheeks like a firebrand, and with such ferocity that Olivia jolted forwards, escaping the hand of the constable, toppling over, and landing upside down, her legs in the air and wide open.

  'Look what we have here,' said the magistrate, eyeing with satisfaction the multiple welts forming across Olivia's cheeks.

  The constable followed his gaze into her fork, wondering whether the magistrate was actually intending to hit her there. But no, he ordered Olivia back over the bench, legs spread and haunches raised, ready for the remainder of the blows.

  The next half dozen came thick and fast, landing square on the centre of her cheeks. Try as she might, Olivia could no longer grind her teeth or deny them the satisfaction of hearing her cry. A long, loud piercing howl rushed from her lips, followed by a longer one when the birch assailed her upper thighs, leaving in its wake a livid array of welts. Two more landed on her back with a vehemence that sent dozens of splinters flying through the air.

  'Well, what have you got to say for yourself now?' the magistrate asked, pausing for breath.

  There was very little Olivia could say. Her head hung almost lifeless over the edge of the bench, and her whole body felt as if it had been set ablaze. She knew that she was crying uncontrollably.

  The last two strokes came at mid-thigh, but Olivia felt little for her hindquarters had lost all sense of feeling. She was aware only of sound; the breaking of twigs and the dull thump as they landed on their target.

  'You can get up now, Holland.'

  Olivia struggled painfully to her feet, clutching her burning bottom and weeping copiously. She had long ago given up caring that she was naked in front of strangers. Now there was no attempt to hide her nakedness under bashful palms.

  'I hope that you feel justly chastised,' said the magistrate, wiping the sweat from his brow. 'I have expended a good deal of effort on your behalf, not to mention the constable who expended an equal amount holding you down. In the House of Correction you will not be afforded such luxuries. There you will find your superiors are much more versed in the correction of their charges. Do you understand?'

  Olivia shook her head. Never in her whole life had she been subjected to such fearful punishment. Quite suddenly she fell to her knees and buried her head in her hands, sobbing and snorting away the pain. The magistrate stepped up beside her, so close that the organ throbbing inside his trousers brushed against her trembling shoulder, and for a while he stayed there letting it pulse while he waited for a reaction, but seeing none he withdrew and turned to the constable.

  'This young harlot,' he said, 'must be dressed and made ready. Bring over her drawers.'

  The constable tossed them into her lap, whilst keeping his
eyes keenly on her breasts. He was sure her nipples had swollen to an even larger dimension than they had hitherto. Indeed, the pimpled discs seemed to have spread to twice their width, but thinking that that was an impossibility, he put it down to a trick of the light and excused himself while he went off to the toilet.

  Olivia wrestled on her drawers, wincing at the enormous pain manifesting itself in her back and bottom. To her, it did seem as if her breasts had swollen and her throbbing backside was indeed twice its normal size.

  The magistrate watched her in studied silence as she pulled her drawers around her reddened cheeks. Her hair had become wild and tangled, falling in twisted coils around her flushed face, lending her an air of gay abandon which he'd seen on the faces of wandering gypsies, whom, he knew from experience, would do anything rather then be shut up in a prison. It was not too wild a leap of the imagination to picture her with bronzed limbs, making free with her charms on some remote and blasted heath. Neither would it be too bold to make the same offer he'd made to all the other good-looking young women he'd flogged raw in these cells.

  'I am in a position to help alleviate your sufferings, Miss Holland,' he said, helping her to her feet.

  Olivia suddenly brightened up. 'You mean I won't be flogged any more, sir?'

  He put his arm around her shoulder and led her to the bench, thoughtfully removing his gown and placing it under her bottom.

  'What I mean is that I am in a position to reduce your sentence, perhaps no more than a month, if you are good.'

  'Oh, I will be good, sir!' she replied, crossing her legs and putting her hands in her lap.

  She stared straight ahead at the slop bucket and her stomach churned. The magistrate could clearly hear the rumbling and gurgling emanating from her belly.

  'Perhaps you would care to use the pail before you show me how good are your intentions.'