Raped on the Railway

ACACIA VILLA, KELVINSIDE

Brandon would have much liked to know the address of the pretty little woman to whom he had behaved so badly, but the gentlemanly instincts in his character re-asserted themselves, and he drew back when he saw Mrs. Sinclair about to tell the driver the address, and taking off his hat made a low bow, and then stood and watched the cab out of sight.

The vehicle went off at a smart trot, and turning to the west, down one of the broad, straight streets which run parallel to the river, rounded the hill and stopped at a pretty little villa overlooking the Kelvin.

Mrs. Sinclair had been obliged to sit as much as possible on one side, for each jolt of the cab was torture to her wealed and smarting bottom. She seemed so ill when she got out of the cab that the smart housemaid who had opened the front door and run down the garden to receive her mistress, looked quite frightened.

“I am rather tired, Jane; I will go straight to my room,” said Mr. Sinclair, “and you can send me a cup of tea in half an hour.

She tottered across the hall, and with some difficulty ascended the stairs, and entered a pretty, little bedroom painted white and gold. She carefully locked the door, and then undressed with feverish haste. In a moment or two her dress and her snowy petticoats had fallen to the ground, and she stepped out of them. Then she undid her corsets, and released a pair of rather small but well-shaped breasts, the pink nipples of which peeped temptingly over the lace-trimmed hem of the chemise.

A few seconds later and she had removed her drawers, and then she slowly undid a button on each shoulder and the chemise glided off her white shoulders, and as it slipped down disclosed all the charms of her beautifully shaped form, her small and rounded waist, the fair white belly dimpled in its centre with a delightfully impudent looking navel, and below that the broad triangular forest of golden hair which but a few hours before had aroused the painter's lust, and below that the firm white columns of a pair of thighs, which, closed together as they were, concealed a sweeter charm than all, and tapered down to the black stockings on her shapely legs that set off the whiteness of her superb body, and made her look more undressed than though she had been really naked. If Brandon could but have seen her at that moment, he would have been strongly tempted to repeat his offence.

She stepped in front of a cheval-glass, and turning her head over her shoulder, looked sorrowfully at her scarred and wealed bottom, the scarlet hue of which contrasted so vividly with the rest of the delicate white body. Uttering a deep sigh, she walked to the dressing-table, and opening a pot of vaseline, gently applied it with her fingers to her smarting buttocks.

This relieved the smarting, and when she had dabbed on some violet-powder as well, she felt much less pain.

She took off her shoes and stood in all the naked beauty of her glorious womanhood, and pleased to be free from the painful pressure of her clothes, she walked about the room for a few minutes, and then stopped opposite to a framed photograph — the portrait of a good-looking but rather delicate young man.

“All, my poor Ted,” she said as she looked at it. “If you had not gone to India and left your poor little wife at home, this would never have happened. And I do miss you so,” she added, as she looked down at herself, and gently rolled one of the golden curls round her finger. “I believe that cruel beating only made you more excited,” she went on, addressing her bower of bliss, “and that you would be glad if that big artist were to come in again now.”

At that moment she heard the servant coming upstairs, and hastily slipping on her night-dress she unlocked the door, and got into bed.

The servant brought in the tea, and wished to stop and talk of all that had occurred during the absence of her mistress, but Mrs. Sinclair quickly dismissed her, and having finished her cup of tea, lay on her side, and worn out by fatigue and the excitement of the adventures through which she had passed quickly fell asleep.

She did not wake till the following morning, and when she again examined herself in the cheval-glass she was pleased to find that the dull red colour had disappeared from her sacrificed bottom, which was now a bright pink, and that she felt hardly any pain, for the skin had not been broken. Mrs. Sinclair did not leave the house all day, and the next morning she was nearly well, and by the third day no traces remained of the cruel treatment she had received.

Since her return she had received no visitors, for she feared lest some of the persons who were present might have told the story to others, and she dreaded lest her shame should be known.

She had occupied her leisure time in reading all sorts of books and papers. Cases of Rape seemed specially to attract her attention and to have over her mind a peculiar fascination. One evening after dinner, she was reclining on the sofa in the drawing-room when the following case caught her eye in the newspaper she was turning over: