Portrait of a Disciplinarian (4 page)

By the time she got to Driscoll’s it was dark, and had been for some time. The lights of both dining room and drawing room were on, suggesting that dinner had reached the stage when the ladies retired to leave the gentlemen to their port, while rhythmic, fleshy smacks punctuated by heartfelt squeals suggested that her little sister was being spanked. Stephanie bit her lip, wondering whether she would suffer the same fate as soon as Hermione had been finished with, assuming she entered the drawing room at all. A much better plan was to go in by the tradesmen’s entrance, where she would find Catchpole the butler, who was a kindly soul and could be relied on for a badly needed sandwich.

She had already decided on her story, concocted during the long slow drive across the moor, with the
driver
prattling of this and that, either unaware of or indifferent to her sulky expression and terse answers. If she admitted she had crashed it would mean the cane for certain, but if she claimed she had run out of petrol they were unlikely to do more than smack her bottom for being a silly girl, maybe not even that. Or so she had thought, but now, with Hermione already spanked, they would be in the mood for chastisement. If they’d had rather too much wine, they might do something really awful, like pass her around from lap to lap, taking turns with her bottom, which seemed to be what was happening to her sister. Maybe they would accept her story and ask her to take her turn with Hermione, but probably not.

It was much less risky to slip upstairs and pretend she’d arrived after everybody but the servants had gone to bed, then blame the garage for the time it took to get the car back. That presented another problem, because the bill was likely to eat up so much of what remained of her allowance that she would be unable to sneak back to London for the Gaspers election, as she was determined to do. For the time being, though, all that mattered was getting safely upstairs to bed with her bottom still in pristine condition.

Catchpole was everything she had hoped and more, a dispenser of not only sympathy and sandwiches but bottled beer, two kinds of pie and a kitchen-maid to act as look-out while Stephanie nipped up the servants’ staircase to the Blue Room, which had already been prepared for her. Exhausted, she undressed, risked a quick visit to the bathroom while the aunts who lived at Beare House were being put into a car, slipped into the short cotton nightgown that had been laid out for her, and collapsed into bed.

Her eyes closed, only to open again in irritation. Whoever had chosen the nightgown must have thought she was about six, or eight at the outside. As Vera didn’t seem to have arrived, presumably it had been Mrs
Catchpole
, who kept house. On her previous birthday she had presented Stephanie with a golliwog and set of bricks. The woman was plainly dotty but had been with the family for ever and was the soul of kindness, so it was pointless to complain.

She rolled on to her front, telling herself she would just have to put up with it, but the new position was even worse. The nightie had been made at the height of the war, when economy was considered the prime virtue, and had been short then. Now it was hopelessly inadequate and didn’t even cover her bottom, leaving her acutely conscious of the way her bare cheeks stuck out below the hem, even though there was nobody to see. She felt vulnerable, as if she was due to be spanked, and rude, as if Freddie Drake or perhaps the drayman, whom she knew only as Lias, had made her lift her dress to show off her bottom.

Again she turned over and tugged the nightie down, but the moment she reached up to cuddle her pillow in her favourite sleeping position the garment rode up again, showing her quim. The urge to touch was almost overwhelming, preferably with her legs spread in the position she knew she would be obliged to adopt on her wedding night but was not supposed to think about until then. Yet again she rolled on to her front, but it only made matters worse, tempting her to stick her bottom up in an even ruder position, to caress her cheeks and slip a finger between them to find her hole, which badly needed a tickle.

She turned on to her side, pushing the disturbing thoughts away, and began to count sheep, but they turned into rams, each with a pendulous purple-headed cock swinging from its woolly underside. She pulled the nightie right up, so that at least the lace trim wouldn’t tickle her bottom and thighs, but that made her feel more vulnerable still.

Finally she gave in, kicking the sheets down and rolling on to her back. Her thighs came up and open
and
she spread her quim to the cool night air as she imagined how one day she would offer herself to a man whose hard cock was ready to puncture the taut knot of flesh that blocked her virgin opening. She knew he’d probably want to see her breasts too, just as Lias the drayman had done, and she quickly pulled the nightie all the way up to her neck, baring her chest.

With her eyes lightly closed she began to explore her body, thinking of Freddie Drake and how rude he’d been with her bottom. She ran her finger over the low mounds of her breasts, pausing to tease her nipples to erection before moving lower, across the gentle bulge of her tummy and around her thighs to the swell of her bottom cheeks. One long fingernail found her bottom hole and she sighed in pleasure as she gave the tiny, wrinkled opening a much needed tickle. She began to giggle at how naughty she was being, imaging what Freddie would think if he saw her as she was, how rude he’d think her and what he’d want to do with her. At the least he’d make her suck his penis, as the drayman had done, and when she remembered how it had felt to kneel naked but for her stockings and shoes and hat and take an erect cock in her mouth she gave in completely. Spreading her thighs as wide as they would go, she began to stroke her quim, touching the plump fleshy lips and the moist folds between, at the same time teasing one nipple, while she struggled to think of Freddie Drake instead of the lecherous drayman.

It was no good. She gave in with a resigned sigh and her mind was filled with memories of the taste and smell and feel of his big dark cock. She began to masturbate. He’d been such a beast to her, making her strip, making her suck, but he was really no worse than Freddie, rubbing himself on her bottom until he did it all over her. Men were like that, utter beasts, doing rude things to girls with their horrible ugly cocks, cocks which she wanted to suck and lick and hold, to rub on her breasts
and
between the cheeks of her bottom, to have thrust up her virgin quim and into the rude little hole behind.

Her back arched in pleasure as she found herself wishing the drayman had taken her, and Freddie too, maybe the mechanic as well, and his mate, all four of them making utter pigs of themselves with her helpless body, using her in her mouth and her quim at the same time, maybe up her bottom as well, taking turns with her, but Freddie first, taking her virginity as the others clapped and cheered their approval, then making her suck her own maiden blood from his penis while the others filled her up between her thighs.

Stephanie bit her lip as the exquisite sensation hit her, determined not to repeat the fifth most embarrassing moment of her life, when she had been doing exactly the same thing and cried out in her ecstasy. Great-aunt Victoria had come into the room just in time to catch her grand-niece at the supreme moment of climax, spread-eagled naked on the bed with a small candle up her bottom.

Two

STEPHANIE TRUSCOTT AWOKE
to bright sunshine filtering through a crack in the curtains and an assortment of thoughts, good and bad. For a while she lay still, considering each and putting it in its proper place. On the bad side she had been exiled to Devon, but on the good she was in Devon. On the bad side she had crashed the car, but on the good none of her relatives knew. On the bad side she had been made to suck a man’s penis, but on the good side she had really rather enjoyed it. On the bad side she had Vera Clapshott as her personal maid and no less fewer than six aunts all of whom seemed to consider a day wasted unless it involved the application of a hand to her bare bottom. On the good side she hadn’t actually been spanked yet.

Unfortunately there were also Freddie Drake and Myrtle Finch-Farmiloe, which left her ledger heavier on the debit side, and she was frowning as she got up. The air was a little cold and she hurried to wash, hoping nobody would be about as she scampered across the corridor, her bare bottom showing beneath the hem of her abbreviated nightie. Reaching the bathroom door, she quickly pushed it open, entered and locked it behind her, glad she had not been seen – only to turn around and discover a man standing at the washbasin, a rotund, elderly man with a moustache so abundant that he appeared to be staring out from above a quickset hedge, while his notably corpulent body was clad in pyjamas of a stupefying mauve.

Stephanie stopped, staring at this unexpected apparition, which she recognised as Sir Murgatroyd Drake, Freddie’s father and a neighbouring landowner. He was no less surprised than she, his small protuberant eyes moving from her face down to the neat naked V between her thighs, whereupon she remembered just how much she was showing and fled, treating him to a display of her bottom cheeks as well.

Telling herself that the incident wasn’t even worthy of her top ten most embarrassing moments did nothing to abate her blushes, and she cursed Sir Murgatroyd, Mrs Catchpole and Vera Clapshott indiscriminately as she hurriedly put on her clothes. Still pink-cheeked, she completed her ablutions in a different bathroom and made her way downstairs, listening for prowling aunts as she approached the morning-room.

None were present, only Hermione, who glanced up from a plate of kedgeree, her freckled face immediately breaking into a broad smile.

‘Hi, Stiffy! Catchpole said you were down. Have you got the car?’

‘No,’ Stephanie admitted. She paused to kiss her sister and made her way to the row of tureens on the sideboard. ‘Actually, you might be able to help me with that, but anyway, what’s old Murgatroyd Drake doing here? I met him in the bathroom, looking positively foul in mauve pyjamas.’

‘He was here for dinner,’ Hermione explained. ‘He got so beastly drunk last night he couldn’t drive his car home.’

‘Yes, but why was he here at all?’ Stephanie demanded. ‘The last time I was down, Grandpapa was threatening to shoot him if he came near the place.’

‘They want to buy each other’s pigs,’ Hermione went on, ‘so they’ve called a sort of truce while they offer each other more and more money.’

‘Grandpapa would never sell the Emperor,’ Stephanie said with conviction, ‘but that’s good news, because
now
he won’t kick so much when I tell him I’m engaged to Freddie.’

‘You’re engaged!’ Hermione exclaimed.

‘As good as,’ Stephanie answered. ‘We haven’t actually named the day, but … well, he has to marry me.’

‘You didn’t!’ Hermione shrieked, and immediately put a hand over her mouth.

There was a moment of silence while both sisters looked apprehensively towards the door, before Stephanie continued.

‘Not that, no, but nearly.’

‘Tell me!’ Hermione demanded in an urgent whisper.

Stephanie merely smiled, preferring to remain mysterious than to explain the truth, which she knew would only make her sister laugh. Instead, she began to investigate the contents of the tureens, which contained, in order of progression along the sideboard, bacon, fried eggs, kedgeree, kippers and a peculiar American substance with the consistency and flavour of cardboard, favoured by her Aunt Lettice, who was vegetarian. She helped herself to bacon and eggs and went to sit opposite her sister. Bright sunlight was streaming through the window. The gardens, the wooded slope of Burley Down and the hills and moors beyond were a patchwork of yellow and vivid greens, a scene at once so familiar and beautiful that she found herself smiling happily as she tucked into her breakfast. Hermione did not seem to share her enthusiasm, her face now sulky, and yet there was an odd trace of pride in her voice as she spoke.

‘I got spanked last night.’

‘I know,’ Stephanie replied. ‘I heard. That’s why I didn’t come in. I thought they’d do me too.’

‘Quite likely,’ Hermione agreed. ‘They were very cross, and all because I put a toad in Aunt Lettice’s salad.’

Stephanie chuckled.

‘It was a really good one, big and fat, with lots of wattles. I couldn’t waste it.’

‘Of course not,’ Stephanie agreed.

‘I mean, it’s not every day you find a toad like that,’ Hermione went on, ‘and I was going to put it down Sir Murgatroyd’s bed, but there was the salad, sitting on the sideboard, and it was just too tempting. She really screamed.’

‘I bet she did,’ Stephanie replied, ‘but I’m not surprised they spanked you.’

‘It was hardly fair,’ Hermione protested. ‘Just Aunt Lettice, yes, but upstairs in my room, in private, not in the drawing room where Grandpapa and Sir Murgatroyd could hear through the door, and they took turns with me as well, and on the bare. Great-aunt Victoria used a hairbrush.’

‘Ouch,’ said Stephanie sympathetically.

‘Ouch is about right,’ Hermione agreed. ‘I’m still sore this morning. Look.’

She got up and, after a brief silence to listen for anybody approaching, lifted her dress and quickly unbuttoned the union suit she was wearing underneath, displaying two round bottom cheeks, still meaty with puppy fat, each topped by a smudge of purple bruising. Stephanie took a moment to appraise her sister’s bottom before delivering her considered opinion.

‘That’s not too bad.’

‘I was red all over last night,’ Hermione pointed out.

‘I’d put your bottom away if I were you,’ Stephanie advised, ‘or you’ll be red all over this morning too, at both ends if Sir Murgatroyd comes down while you’re being done.’

Hermione nodded, covered herself up and then sat down again, wincing slightly as her bottom settled on to the chair. Stephanie grimaced in sympathy, spent a moment carefully piling bacon and egg on to her fork, ate them, then spoke again.

‘Anyway, what’s the QV?’

‘I suspect Aunt Lettice is still cross about the toad,’ Hermione informed her, ‘and you know what Great-aunt
Victoria’s
like. Aunt Gertrude’s taken up political campaigning again. She says the new bill to let women under thirty vote is all wrong. Apparently we’re irresponsible.’