Maid Service (11 page)

“What's so funny?”

“Jesus, Gardiner, don't do that!” Peter exclaimed. “What are you doing here anyway?”

“Waiting for you,” Gardiner answered, stepping out onto the moonlight. “You're going to get me my girl, Katie Vale.”

“Now is really not the time,” Peter answered, gesturing back to the convent, which was a blaze of light, while advancing figures were visible on the playing fields. “In fact we need to go, fast.”

“What's happening?” Gardiner demanded.

“I got caught, nearly,” Peter answered, off guard and with his adrenalin running high. “They couldn't have seen me, not properly. But I had to push a nun over to stop my girlfriend getting caught, and …”

“Oh yeah?” Gardiner interrupted in his nastiest voice. “So what's going to happen if I tell them it was you?”

“You wouldn't do that, not even you?” Peter demanded, stunned.

“Oh yeah?” Gardiner went on. “Maybe I wouldn't, not if I had thirty quid in my pocket and Katie Vale's juicy little titties in my hands.”

“I haven't got thirty quid!” Peter answered. “Not anymore, and I keep telling you, I can't make any of the girls do anything they don't want to. Katie's hardly going to want her tits groped by an ugly troll like you, is she? Now …”

“That'll cost you another fiver,” Gardiner sneered. “And if Katie won't go for it, you'll just have to hold her down for me while I get those little titties out, and lift up that dirty little skirt she wears, and pull down her panties …”

His voice broke off as Peter's fist connected with his nose.

“Finch?” Daniel Stewart said as he poked his head around the bedsit door. “I'm afraid I have to take to you to the Reverend Porter.”

“I've been expecting it,” Peter sighed, rising to his feet. “Lead on Mcduff.”

“Sorry,” Daniel told him.

“Don't be,” Peter answered. “Gardiner would have snitched on me anyway, in the end.”

“I'll get even for you, Finch,” Hunter Rackman promised as Peter started down the corridor between twin lines of his friends. “He's dead meat.”

“I broke his nose,” Peter answered. “Let it be, and if he tries to drop the rest of you in it, just deny everything. You can count on the girls.”

“How about you, Finch?” Clive Sumner asked, his face a mask of worry. “You won't tell, will you, not even if they cane you? Promise me! I'll lose my place at Oxford!”

“Please,” Peter interrupted, holding up a hand. “I know what's about to happen, but I am still a gentleman.”

Clive extended a hand, which Peter shook, then others, until at last he had reached the top of the stairs. His friends were left behind, save for Daniel, who kept pace as they left Grove House and crossed to the Rectory. With one last wry smile from Daniel, Peter was ushered inside, to where the Reverend Porter sat behind the great mahogany desk set against one wall of his study. On the desk lay a scattering of papers; a fine, large fountain pen; a small statue of Michelangelo's David designed as a paperweight; and a thin, brown cane.

“Here I am,” Peter stated. “Shall we dispense with the preliminaries? I take it I'm expelled?”

“No,” the Reverend Porter. “We will not dispense with the preliminaries. Peter Finch, you are an intelligent boy, and yet in my thirty-eight years in the teaching profession I have never, never come across anybody with such utter disregard for … for everything that matters in life. You care nothing for man, nor even for God, you lack even the most basic respect or morality, you …”

“Broke Gardiner's nose for threatening to touch up a girl,” Peter interrupted. “I'd say that showed fairly good moral judgment.”

“A somewhat ironic piece of gallantry, considering your own behavior, don't you think?” Porter demanded.

“Not at all,” Peter insisted. “What I did was with the full consent of my girlfriend, while his intentions were pretty unspeakable.”

“Algernon Gardiner tells a rather different story,” the Headmaster replied. “A story which the evidence tends to support. You were caught fighting with him on the St. Monica's playing fields. He says he followed you in order to be sure you were visiting a girl there, which is a very serious breach of school rules, and which he intended to lay before the proper authorities in the morning. This says nothing of what happened in St. Monica's itself, which I understand is a matter for the police.”

Peter merely shrugged.

“Moreover,” the Headmaster went on, “as if further proof were needed of your delinquency, you arranged for six girls from St. Monica's convent to be spanked! Not only spanked, but spanked for the enjoyment of you and your perverted friends.”

“Ah, but did I?” Peter queried, ready for the sally.

“You did,” Porter went on. “I know you did and you know you did. I have all the evidence I need, but I am going to give you a chance to confess first.”

Peter merely grinned and after a moment the Reverend Porter drew a heavy sigh.

“The truth will come out,” he went on, placing a thoughtful finger on the shaft of the cane. “It always does, with a little persuasion.”

“I believe a member of the Gestapo once made a similar observation to my Uncle Charles,” Peter remarked. “That didn't work either.”

“There is a difference …,” Porter began, only to be cut off by Peter.

“Well, yes. The Gestapo officer in question was probably one of those tall, lean Aryan types, rather than are a flatulent old toad who's likely to have a heart attack during the caning if he gets at all worked up.”

“Are you threatening me?” the Headmaster demanded, his face starting to color. “No, I will not be distracted by your nonsense. So, without further ado, I want the names of everybody who was with you the night of the spanking incident, also the name of the girls involved, and the name of the girl you were with when you broke into St. Monica's last night.”

“Never,” Peter replied.

“Don't play games with me, Finch. Your broke into St. Monica's convent, where you engaged in lewd acts with a girl …”

“Who's of legal age,” Peter pointed out.

“How are we to know?” Porter asked with a sudden smile. “How are we to know when you won't tell us who she is?”

“Good question,” Peter admitted. “But I still won't tell you.”

“Very well, leaving that aside for the time being, do you deny that you assaulted a nun?”

Peter reflected for a moment, then decided that it was pointless to deny the incident.

“She was quite a big nun.”

Porter's face began to color again and his hand closed on the shaft of the cane but Peter raised a finger.

“One moment, if you please. Am I right in thinking that you intend to cane me until I give away my friends, then to expel me formally before handing me over to the police? If so, there's a fault in your logic. Why should I let you cane me if I'm to be expelled and arrested in any case? Really, I would have expected better of a scholar of your standing.”

The headmaster had risen to his feet, his face now dark with risen blood, his fingers clenching and unclenching on the handle of the cane. Outside, a police car was drawing up by the curb.

“Cheerio then,” Peter remarked as he sauntered from the room.

Peter propped himself up against the bar and took a sip from his glass of brandy as he cast a critical and approving eye over the club. The take at the door had been good, so good that he could seriously consider giving up his job as a cab driver to concentrate on the club and party scene. Now that he was getting more people through the door he could also consider bigger premises, better equipment, hopefully building the reputation of Club S as the number one party night for fetishists in London. With that, and the regular spanking parties, he might eventually be able to give up renting and put a deposit down on a house. Meanwhile, it was a lot of fun.

Directly opposite him, fixed to one of the pillars supporting the premises' basement ceiling, was a tall St. Andrew's cross. On the cross was one of his regular girls, Michelle to her friends, Candy Doll to the rest. Her long, naturally blonde hair, petite frame and fleshy little bottom always made her a firm favorite. She was stark naked, which was fairly normal for her, her wrists secured to the arms of the cross with leather straps, and her legs kept apart by a spreader. Her luscious backside was pushed out to a flogger wielded by his House Domina, Miss Lash, otherwise known as Karen. Fairly slight in build but heightened by six inch heels, Karen was in a PVC catsuit that showed off every contour of her slender body, including a nicely rounded bottom that not even Peter was permitted to touch, let alone spank.

A crowd had collected around the two girls, mainly men but with a fair sprinkling of women, watching in amusement and arousal as Michelle's sweetly outthrust butt cheeks were slowly whipped up to a glowing red. Karen was good, using the heavy, suede-tailed flogger with skill and precision across Michelle's bottom and up between her thighs. The technique made for an excellent show, with Michelle ensuring that each push of her rump gave a teasing glimpse of her pretty shaved pussy and the pink pucker of her ass.

Certainly the audience were fascinated, with one man's cock already in his girlfriend's hand and another couple kissing as they watched sidelong. There was more going on elsewhere: one sweetly plump girl draped over her boyfriend's knee, her rubber skirt turned up as she was spanked; several men knelt before more dominant women, either licking and kissing at high-heeled shoes and boots or simply groveling for the sake of it; while in the shadows of one corner an enormously fat man who appeared to be dressed as Friar Tuck was having his cock sucked by a girl who looked for all the world to be less than half the friar's age.

Peter allowed himself a happy but complacent nod, pleased to see his guests enjoying themselves. His tastes had stayed the same since his days at Broadfields, first and foremost for pretty girls with well-turned bottoms, preferably spanked into endorphin-fueled ecstasy before receiving his cock wherever it would provide them with the most pleasure. Yet with one club and two spanking parties every month, mere voyeurism did little more than whet his appetite, allowing his arousal to build slowly until he could take his satisfaction at leisure toward the end of the evening. He was now ready, and keen to improve his acquaintance with the delectable Michelle.

He glanced at his watch. It was just past 2am, the time at which the bar license expired. But with a hundred people still having fun in the club it seemed foolish to close down. Outside, the streets of Putney would be quiet, with just a few late revelers heading home, while the music was only faintly audible from the door at the top of the stairs that led down to the basement. The bar manager didn't seem to care in any case, still serving drinks while simultaneously trying to admire Michelle's flayed and splayed rear. Michelle was truly in her element, her peeping pussy wet with excitement, and so very close to orgasm. She gasped and shuddered as the heavy suede thongs smacked up between her thighs to an even, purposeful rhythm.

Again Peter nodded, this time in admiration for Karen's skill with the whip, and as Michelle at last cried out in ecstasy he joined in the applause before stepping forward to give her bottom a couple of firm smacks. She was in the dreamy, satisfied state she always reached after a good whipping, especially if she'd been brought to orgasm, and correspondingly vulnerable. Peter lost no time in taking advantage. Supporting her half limp body as he and Karen unfastened the straps of the St. Andrew's Cross, he let his hands wander freely over her body. She merely purred in response, nestling against his chest and kissing at his neck, even when his finger slipped between her cheeks to tease at the mouth of her anus.

“I'll take it from here, thanks, Karen,” he stated.

“Sure, have fun,” Karen answered. “You'd better pick up her keys and money.”

Peter picked up the small blue purse from behind the cross and Karen returned to the more casual work of whipping and tormenting those men who lacked regular playmates of their own.

“Are you going to spank me, Peter?” Michelle asked, her voice thick with arousal. “Why don't you take me into a quiet corner and spank me?”

She said the final two words with immense relish, and his cock had already began to stiffen in response to her body and the state of abandoned submission into which she'd been whipped. Lifting her, he slung her over his shoulder, making her giggle as one warm, naked buttock nestled against his cheek. The audience parted as he stepped away from the cross, with many an amused or envious glance and one or two slaps across Michelle's backside from those who knew her well enough to take the liberty.

Peter was grinning as he carried her to one of the club's numerous alcoves, his glass of brandy in hand as he used her bottom to push his way through the crowd. Quite a few people had followed, eager to watch whatever he had in mind for her, which made it all the more enjoyable as he settled himself down and turned her across his knee. She gave no resistance at all, passively accepting her fate as her ass was adjusted into spanking position and his hand settled across her hot cheeks. His cock could not help but respond, now fully hard as he anticipated dealing with her soundly before putting her on her knees to suck and slurp as she knelt on the grubby floor with her back arched and her bottom thrust out for the sake of her own humiliation and the enjoyment of the crowd. He'd been threatening to do just that to her for some time … and that time had come. He decided to tease her, to build her up gradually, knowing that his teasing would both test her willingness and elevate her feelings of shame which, like Tiffany, Michelle also seemed to relish.

“This time, Candy Doll,” he chided as he began to spank her. “This time you're going to have to say thank you for your spanking in the traditional fashion. Not with a quick peck on the cheek, not with a wiggle of your juicy little ass, but by getting down on your knees and sucking my penis. Is that understood?”

Her sigh of pleasure was all the answer he needed, and as he began spanking she pushed her bottom higher still, making a thoroughly rude display of herself, her wet and ready cunt and the soft pink dimple of her anus flaunted to the audience. Peter was soon ready for her to give thanks in the way he had prescribed. But he made a point of showing off, talking to the dozen or so eager watchers as he continued to spank.

“As you no doubt notice, she's an eager little slut and thoroughly enjoys a good spanking, which makes this the ideal opportunity to demonstrate a few techniques to those among you who may be less familiar with the art of chastising errant females. For instance, using just the tips of my fingers, like so, produces a sharp stinging sensation and is ideal for the first few smacks, to warm her rump before the spanking really begins. Still, as Candy's rump is already hot enough to fry an egg, firm slaps delivered with the open palm are more appropriate, especially when delivered to the juiciest part of her ass, where her cheeks tuck down to either side of her disgracefully wet cunt. Or, should you wish a particularly noisy spanking, perhaps to attract attention to her situation, you simply cup your hand, like so.”

He had demonstrated each technique as he talked, while Michelle had kept her bottom high and her thighs wide, deliberately showing herself off. Most of the audience were regulars and merely grinned, familiar with the game. But one, a tall man in black leather, spoke up.

“And how much do you have to pay her to behave like that?”

There was something peculiar about his tone of voice, but Peter was enjoying himself too much to worry and pushed his concern aside as he gave an answer designed far more to amplify Michelle's predicament than to answer the question.

“Pay her? Not a penny, not today. But yes, you can pay to roast her fat little rump, if you're so inclined. Because she's a little whore as well as a slut, isn't that right, Candy?”

“Yes,” Michelle sobbed, twisting around to make eye contact with the tall man. “You can spank me … sir … if you like?”

“Now there's an offer that's hard to refuse,” Peter went on. “And given that you're a guest at my club I'm even prepared to postpone my blow-job for a while so that you can give this little slut a thrashing. Okay, Candy …”

“I'd rather not,” the man broke in.

“Suit yourself,” Peter answered and continued to spank Michelle, only a little less enthusiastically, until the man suddenly moved away through the crowd.

The others had no such qualms, pressing close, one man even extending a hand to stroke Michelle's succulent curves and the hot, reddened skin. Peter raised a cautionary finger.

“I don't think you know her, sir. In this case, it's polite to ask first. Well, Candy Doll, may the gentleman touch you?”

Michelle responded with a soft moan that both Peter and the man chose to accept as acquiescence. Peter cocked up one knee to make her more fully available and the man began to stroke her flesh. When all at once he pulled back as a sudden commotion broke out in the main body of the club—voices raised in protest or command, angry shouts, then a single clear instruction.

“This is the police. Remain where you are.”

“Fuck that,” Peter muttered, drained his brandy and made for the fire escape, towing Michelle behind him.

He'd always been aware of the chance of being raided. He'd paid the owners of the club in cash, never used his real name and he'd also worked out an escape strategy. The fire-escape doors led up to the street and were sure to be guarded. But they also continued up into the building above, where several small firms kept their offices. He'd also made his staff aware of this plan. But Michelle was frightened and far from prepared for a nimble escape. Only a moment ago she'd been in a post-orgasmic haze, coasting in a sub-zone of humility, spanked by numerous hands, and preparing to please her dominant partner. That, and maybe a touch too much champagne throughout the evening, meant that Michelle was more of a dazed doe than a fleet fox. On top of that, she was naked and there was no time to retrieve her clothes. Instead, Peter gave her his jacket, taking a moment to enjoy the way her reddened cheeks peeped out from beneath the hem as he hurried her up the stairs in front of him.

They'd reached the second floor before he heard the fire door slam at the bottom of the stairwell. Cursing, he hurried Michelle on and up, reaching the door to the roof with the sound of heavy boots now pounding up the stairs behind him. He thrust Michelle through the door, expecting her to keep running. To his surprise, she simply sat down on the casing of a skylight. Peter could only sigh. Together, they would never have outrun the policeman who was quickly closing on them. But it was also clear that he had next to no chance of outrunning the cop even without her. Again he cursed, as he stepped behind the door and waited. The sound of boots drew closer and stopped. The policeman reached the doorframe and stared in surprise at the naked Michelle seated before him. Taking advantage of the officer's lapse of concentration, Peter kicked out, slamming the door closed and sending the man behind it back down the stairs.

Guilt and worry hit him immediately. But the furious cursing and threats from behind the door told him that the policeman could not be too badly hurt. With his concern somewhat alleviated, Peter grabbed Michelle and hustled her away. The roof of their building was flat, as was the next, which ended with the corner of the street. Gabled roofs rose beyond, dipping gently towards the river. They made the most the most of the flat terrain, darting behind ventilation ducts and air conditioning units until they were quickly out of sight, the urgency of their flight and the cool night air having revived Michelle considerably.

Now helping each other, they crossed a series of roofs to where the fire escape from the local cinema led down to an alley, and from there they risked a dash to his car. The one-way system left him no choice but to drive past the front of the club, where police vehicles were parked and angled halfway across the street, with people milling around on the pavement and others being hustled into the back of vans.

“Bastards!” he spat. “Why can't they leave us in peace? We weren't hurting anybody.”

“They hate sex,” Michelle answered. “Especially kinky sex. A lot of people do.”

“Only a minority,” Peter insisted. “But then again it only takes one asshole in the wrong place. Did you focus on that guy in the leather, the one who asked how much you charge? He was one of them, I'm sure of it, gathering evidence.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I don't know. Obviously we'll have to find a new venue, and not too close. But maybe we ought to take a break for a while, just in case.”

“What about the spanking parties? Please don't cancel, Peter. I've got my rent to pay, and bills, and …”

“Don't worry, we'll still have the parties.”

Michelle didn't answer, but rested her head against the window, the yellow light from the street lamps flickering over her face as they drove. With her pensive expression and one small breast showing in the gap at the front of his jacket she looked pretty and vulnerable, making him feel both protective and angry. His initial guilt for kicking the door shut in the policeman's face had faded. They'd simply been enjoying themselves, a group of consenting adults indulging their private fantasies, harming nobody. From what he'd seen outside the club some of them had even been taken into custody. That number almost certainly included Karen, who never backed down to anybody and was sure to have told the police exactly what she thought.