Being a Girl

by Chloë Thurlow

  ‘You’ve committed a crime.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to.’

  ‘Ignorance is no excuse in the eyes of the law, lassie,’ he said. ‘You may be able to get away with this behaviour in London. Not here.’

  He turned to warm his big hands and I felt a tingle of fear run up my spine, fear and déjà vu. The Laird turned back and faced me again, feet apart, hands behind his back, the pose of an old-fashioned policeman.

  ‘Take your blouse off, lassie.’

  The words entered the room as if from a distance. Of course Mister Cartier that day in his office had started out saying the same thing. That’s where it had started; that’s where it always starts, I imagined. But it was different this time. There was no escape. We were in the Laird’s clutches. He could do whatever he wanted. My throat felt constricted and my heart was hammering inside my chest.

  ‘Please,’ I said eventually. ‘I’ll pay for the lock.’

  ‘You’ll pay?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Anything.’

  ‘You hear that, Byron: anything, she said. Do you believe her?’

  ‘I wouldnae like to say, Milord.’

  ‘I will. Honest.’

  Again we were silent. His eyes drilled into me. ‘Take off your blouse,’ he said. His voice now was melodious, almost playful.

  ‘I didn’t mean that . . .’

  He laughed. ‘Ah, you see, Byron, you were right. You’ve never been right before, but this time you’re right. You should write it doon in your diary.’ The Laird recovered his mobile phone from somewhere inside his kilt. ‘What’s the number of Sergeant Doyle?’

  ‘It’s in the phone, I told you. You just press the letter P.’

  ‘Why’s it P and not D, for heaven’s sake, mon?’

  Byron didn’t answer.

  The Laird stared down at the machine, his huge digit hovering over the keyboard. I wasn’t sure how things had got to this position, and the last thing I wanted was the police to get involved over some silly offence, ruining my chance of going to Cambridge before I’d even been offered a place. He pressed the appropriate key and lifted the phone to his ear.

  ‘Please,’ I said.

  He stared back at me, his brow crinkled, a smile emerging from his beard.

  ‘Ah, there you are, mon. It’s Hamish the Black Watch . . .’

  He listened.

  ‘Aye, and a good evening to you, Sergeant. I wanted to report there’s a couple of trespassers on my property, a couple of lassies . . .’

  He watched as my fingers hurried like scuttling insects for the buttons on my blouse, unhooking the first.

  There was another pause.

  ‘We can probably handle it in the normal way.’

  I undid another button while he nodded into the phone. Then a third.

  ‘Aye, mon, and a very pleasant night for it,’ he said, and closed the machine.

  The Laird sat back in his winged armchair, watching me. I had undone all the buttons on my blouse and stood with my hands clasping the front together. I glanced at Binky. She was staring at the floor. It was typical that my step-sister had broken the lock and I was standing there half undressed. The fine hair on her legs was golden in the firelight. I suppose in a way it was because she had taken off her flares that I had agreed to the humiliation of removing my blouse. Not that I had taken it off yet. I looked automatically back at the Laird and it was like he could read my mind.

  ‘Aye, lassie,’ he said.

  He spoke softly, kindly, his voice not booming but soothing, a chant. The room was lit by an orange glow. The sky outside was slowly darkening, the long July day turning to night. I peeled the blouse from my shoulders, down my arms and held it in front of me.

  ‘Over here,’ he said, pointing at the mesh grille around the fireside.

  I hung the blouse beside Binky’s flares.

  ‘What’s your name, girl?’

  ‘Milly Petacci.’

  ‘So, you have the hot blood of a Latin in your veins, do you,’ he said, and thought about that for a moment. ‘Why did you do it, Milly? What possessed you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If you were caught short you could have gone outside. But oh no, you have to piddle on my property.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I murmured.

  I knew it didn’t matter what I said. The Laird of the Black Watch had power over us and was enjoying it.

  ‘So you’re sorry, are you?’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  ‘And you’ll do anything?’

  I didn’t answer and he glanced again at Byron.

  ‘I did hear right, or am I going deaf like Mrs McTavish?’

  Byron sniffed and changed positions. ‘I’ll do anything. That’s what I heard.’

  ‘It’s just an itzy wee thing, Milly. Indulge an old hill farmer who doesnae understand your London ways.’

  He didn’t say what the itzy wee thing was. He didn’t need to. He was just a dirty old man. He wanted me to take off my bra, but if that wasn’t bad enough, what I couldn’t understand was that the fear had made my breasts swell and my nipples had hardened. I could feel them tingling, pushing against the soft fabric. My breasts were betraying me. My breasts were traitors.

  A log broke and sparks chased up the chimney. It gave us something to watch, but once the fire settled it was like the interval in a play was over and the curtain had risen again. My mouth was dry, and mechanically my skinny arms doubled behind my back, my damp nervous fingers slipped the hook from the hasp, and the straps of my bra fell from my shoulders.

  No one spoke, but the room appeared to sigh. I went of my own accord to the fireside and dropped the little white fold of fabric on top of my blouse. When I went back to where I had been standing, my first instinct was to slump forward in shame, but I didn’t. I straightened my shoulders and even bowed my back a little, stretching my sides. My breasts stood out proud from my chest, high and rounded, the rosy buds so painful I wanted to reach for them, soothe the ache, and it was only willpower that kept my hands modestly behind my back.

  The mood had changed. The fire seemed warmer. The Laird stood. Byron moved forward, and the two men studied my breasts as if they had never seen breasts before. I really wasn’t sure why men had this obsession.

  ‘Now, lassie, doesn’t that feel better?’ the Laird asked. His tone was soft, rhythmic, the voice of someone used to being obeyed.

  I don’t know why I nodded my head but I did, and he appeared so pleased I thought I’d scored a valuable point. I hated being exposed like this, my breasts being scrutinised, but the absurdity of the situation, even the faint awe in the faces of the two men, calmed my nerves and made me feel vaguely superior. Binky was sitting on the edge of the chair, staring at me intensely. The Laird observed her gaze, and when he turned to her it was obvious what was going to happen next.

  ‘Now, lassie,’ he said. ‘What are you hiding down that wee shirt of yours? You havenae been swiping my antique snuff boxes while I wasnae looking?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Then let’s not delay more than’s necessary. Off it comes, girl. On your feet.’

  Her cheeks were flushed. Her flat tummy was going in and out as she stood, her breasts throbbing. It was odd but, like the Laird, like Byron, I was now waiting in the same salacious way to see her strip down to her underwear. She shrugged, trying to look blasé, and, as I’d always been good at reading my sister, I had the impression that she was competing with me, that she didn’t want to be outdone in any way.

  She stretched her arms to pull the T-shirt over her head. She shook her blonde hair free and, as she placed the shirt by the fire, the Laird raised his bushy eyebrows, nodding just slightly. There was no escaping his meaning.

  Binky lingered for a moment, slipped the bra straps from her shoulders and lowered the strips of material over her elbows. She turned, not really meaning to wiggle, and her breasts quivered seductively as she unhooked the clasp. Her heart, I knew, was pounding, and it made
her white breasts tremble all the more.

  She dropped the bra on the pile and stood at my side, fragile and defenceless wearing nothing but little knickers, the few wisps of hair escaping from around the elastic all the more endearing. The Laird approached and stood towering over us, legs apart, hands on hips, his eyes flicking between our breasts.

  ‘Now, isn’t that better, girls?’ he said, but he didn’t expect an answer. ‘What do you think, Byron, have you ever seen finer titties? It must be something in the water they’ve got doon there in London.’

  Byron stood at his master’s side, gazing at our breasts in the same studious manner. The room was hot, the fire roaring. I was perspiring. I could smell fear and anticipation on my skin. I had no idea what this big man was going to do to us and I realised at that moment he really could do anything he wanted. No one knew where we were. We were lost on a dark night and my breasts tingled, my nipples pointing at him like two accusing fingers. I looked up into his eyes and he smiled as he scratched the thick red hair on his cheek.

  ‘Look, now, mon, we have a dark one and a light one.’ He leaned back and shook his head. ‘Same height, too.’

  ‘That’s useful,’ said Byron, nodding with approval as he glanced up at the beams on the ceiling.

  Later I would know what they were talking about. The damp on my back formed a bead of sweat that ran down my spine. The fire roared. My breasts were full and heavy, my breath threading the silence like a needle passing through silk. I glanced down: my pink nipples had turned dark like ripe plums and hummed as if with a charge of electricity. I was wet and tremulous, the Laird’s soft voice like a prayer when he spoke.

  ‘Slip those trousers off like a good girl, now. Just like your wee friend.’

  I swallowed hard. I didn’t want to, but Binky was standing there in nothing but her knickers and I rationalised that it was only fair. I looked up into the Laird’s eyes and got the odd sensation that I was about to sit on a mat at the top of the helter-skelter, and once I pushed off I would slide into oblivion.

  ‘No,’ I said, softly, without conviction.

  ‘I don’t want to fight you, lassie. Be a good girl and do as you’re told.’

  I didn’t want to, but how could I have refused? I was trapped. We were rushing towards something new, unexplored, incomprehensible. It was like watching the view from a moving train, seeing everything without quite being a part of it. The room was still except for the crackle of the fire. Binky was staring at me, willing me on. Our eyes met and, as I slipped the button in my waistband from its place, I felt a rush of wind as I went spiralling down, down, down into nothingness. I pulled at the zip, shuffled my jeans over my bottom, and eased them down over my knees.

  ‘You should lend your wee friend a hand, girlie,’ the Laird said to Binky, and she looked back at him.

  ‘She’s my sister,’ she said, and he smiled as he cast his eyes over us once more.

  ‘Sisters,’ he said. ‘Of course, I knew there was something.’

  ‘Same eyes,’ said Byron.

  ‘Aye, green as emeralds,’ the Laird said. ‘Come on, let’s be getting a move on.’

  Binky helped me keep balance as I pulled my jeans over my feet. I was wearing pink panties with tulips embroidered in the elastic, flimsy and feminine. They seemed to hold great interest for the Laird and he studied the swell of my pubis for a long time before turning again to Binky.

  ‘You did that very well, lassie, very well. Now, help your sister, do this last teeny wee thing for me.’

  The horror of what he was suggesting made the breath catch in my throat. Up until then it had seemed almost innocent. He was punishing us for damaging his property. We were a couple of city girls, and he was a hill farmer making fun of us. I’d thought about old Mrs McTavish making dinner in the kitchen and had felt safe with her there. Binky was trembling, unable to speak.

  ‘Don’t,’ I said, my voice a whisper.

  He turned from Binky to me, his blue eyes like fire. He was about to speak, but took a great gasp of air and, in one movement, his left hand was around my back, and with his right he grabbed the front of my knickers and pulled them down to my feet. The breath went out of me. I was naked. Completely naked. My armpits were damp, my breasts were swollen and my nipples really hurt.

  ‘There now,’ he said, as if something had been proved, and folded his arms.

  What self-respect I had left disappeared as Byron slipped my knickers over my feet and stood, staring into the gusset. I knew they were sticky and felt so ashamed as he held the damp strip of cotton under his nose. When Jean-Luc Cartier had sniffed at my knickers in his office I had been mortified and imagined only a Frenchman would have such a sordid fascination with girls’ underwear. I was wrong, obviously. Byron seemed transfixed by my soiled pants and looked as if he might stand there all night inspecting the pale yellow stain.

  ‘Well, have you finished, mon?’

  ‘I’m just checking.’

  ‘So I see,’ said the Laird, and turned to Binky.

  In the same way that she had not been told to remove her bra before she did so, she hooked her thumbs in the elastic of her white panties and wriggled them delicately down her legs. The Laird held out his hand, and the triangle of cotton looked like the head of an orchid stretched across his palm. He gave her warm knickers to Byron, who again gazed lewdly in the gusset before running the fabric under his nose. The Laird watched impatiently.

  ‘Well?’ he asked.

  ‘Ripe, I’d say, Hamish.’

  The Laird nodded sagely before turning to Binky. ‘You’re a good girl,’ he said, and glanced back at me.

  He made me feel as if I were the bad girl. He had blamed me for breaking the padlock, for soiling his fresh hay. I was utterly exposed, humiliated. I was shaking, my breasts hurt, and I know hindsight is all very well, but I had known when I had taken that first sip of buck’s fizz at the King’s Head that Binky was going to get me into trouble.

  ‘Now, what do you think of this, Byron McBride? Has a more pretty sight ever crossed those wretched eyeballs of yours?’

  ‘Not in this lifetime, Hamish. It’s a rare and lovely sight, a rare and lovely sight indeed.’

  ‘Aye, and what are we going to do to punish these defiant Jezebels?’

  ‘It’s not for me to say. It’s for me to obey.’

  ‘Ah, it must be the muse that’s brought the poetry out in you, laddie.’

  They were gazing at us in wonder. At our pert breasts and lush pussies, our tiny waists and thin shoulders. I suppose we had never looked better and there was some youthful arrogance in the way I kept my back straight, my chin high. There was fear in me, shame, too, but also a weird inexplicable excitement.

  I glanced towards the uncurtained windows, as if someone might be passing, not that anyone would ever pass that house. The sky was black. The storm had moved on and a sprinkling of stars had come out. Orange flames floated across the grate like dancers and the Laird’s blue eyes were the eyes of a serpent, drawing me back, holding me in their power. I was naked, utterly exposed, my breasts tingling, my tummy filled with butterflies. My breath came in hot rushes and I realised I was panting.

  Binky was staring at me. The Laird took her hand, directing it to the base of my spine. Our hips crossed, locking together, and I turned nervously as she began to stroke the soft flesh of my bottom, over the sloping hill to the undercurve and back again, her caress warming the moisture inside me, and I felt a dampness like dew on the lips of my vagina. The beautiful woman in the painting above the fire was staring down with a knowing expression, her dark eyes full of sadness and secrets.

  In the darkness the two men had become shadows. It felt as if we were alone, two naked girls discovering something that had been hidden, our bodies drawn naturally, subconsciously together. Our breasts touched and my nipples burned like the fire in the grate. Binky’s eyes flickered and closed. She had thrown back her head, presenting her long neck, which I kissed, softly biting the ivory
skin, her hand on my bottom running up my back to the nape of my neck.

  I circled her waist. I ran my tongue over her neck, her chin, into her mouth, her plump lips sucking at my lips, and I thought back to that first fleeting peck as we’d entered the barn. I had never kissed my sister before and it was exquisite, her soft tongue circling my tongue, our engorged lips sliding into new positions, pushing greedily as if we were devouring some rare gorgeous feast.

  Our pubic mounts were touching and we swivelled our hips, grinding the bones together. I ran my hand over Binky’s back. I had never appreciated how slight and fragile she was, her narrow waist widening over slender hips, her spine that I now traversed, up over the well-defined little nubs and down to the hollows in the small of her back. Her thin body relaxed as if it were a bowstring too tightly wound. Her bottom was soft, round, springy, and I felt a syrupy ooze between her cheeks. Binky’s hand made the same journey, over my back, then through the crack in my bottom where she found the same oily wetness, the smell of our arousal so rich and shocking it took my breath away. We were the same height, the same size, and it was like touching yourself, like masturbating.

  When the Laird’s big hands rested in the middle of our shoulders, one on each side, the mood was disturbed, the passion drifting away like the swell of the tide retreating back to sea.

  ‘Shush, now, shush. Be still.’

  His voice was a chant and when we realised what was happening it was already too late. Byron was on his knees attaching leather straps to our ankles, binding us together. We struggled, but the Laird’s hands pressed like the jaws of a vice and we were paralysed. Byron strapped our wrists, swiftly, with skilful fingers, right to left, and we had to widen our legs to keep balance.

  The Laird still kept his hands on our backs. I looked up to plead with him but his eyes were glazed. He was staring across the room at the portrait of the lady and I imagined with a sick feeling the long history of debauchery that haunted this secluded manor house.

  Byron dragged a heavy dining chair towards us and the Laird stepped up on the red upholstered seat. Immediately above on the beam were two hooks. Byron passed the Laird two lengths of leather which he attached. He reached down for our bound wrists, the swivel join between the straps allowing him to hoist our arms above our heads. He connected our wrists to the straps, first one side, then the other. We struggled, even though it was pointless. Byron was holding Binky because she looked as if she were ready to faint and, though I squirmed and screamed, I couldn’t move, and there was no one to hear me. The Laird tightened the straps in such a way that our feet only just touched the ground.