‘Rudolph the red-cocked reindeer,’ she hummed tunelessly, applying the sheath roughly. ‘That tree needs decorating,’ she observed. ‘You use the mistletoe on him. Whip him long and hard.’
Annette swished the supple sprig down across Faulkner’s already punished buttocks. Tiny white berries danced in the air, landing on the carpet. One waxy bead settled in the crease between his clenched cheeks. Annette paused, lowering her lash, and fingered the berry out of his cleft and flicked it away. By the time Faulkner had filled his third condom – which Jane hung daintily from the silver branches of the artificial tree – there were no berries left on the cruel sprig.
‘Leave him to me, now, darling,’ Jane whispered. ‘The manager will be looking for a replacement in the New Year. Go out and pretend to be busy. When he comes through here, he’ll find Santa taking this lucky little chap for a ride.’
Dressed and composed, Annette turned, one hand on the office door. On the floor, still handcuffed but with his gag and blindfold removed, Faulkner scrambled on all fours as a naked Santa, her slit nuzzling his creased neck, urged him on. Black shiny boots dug into his pale thighs and a whip of berryless mistletoe reddened his already thrashed buttocks.
5
The Mousetrap
The sleepy village of Steeple Creighton stirred as it woke to the sound of the 6.40 milk train from distant Lessingham. Dark smoke rose into the pale dawn sky from the engine huffing through the cutting behind the apple orchards. The train whistled its approach to the village station, scattering the chickens in the garden of Bramble Cottage.
Upstairs, in the low-ceilinged bedroom of Bramble Cottage, Miss Allensby, the young village librarian, rolled over in her crisply laundered sheets and tried to resume her delicious dream. In that dream, the County Librarian had just pressed an ink date stamp into the nape of Miss Allensby’s neck. Naked and trembling as she bent over her issuing desk, her breasts squashed into the narrow tray of small, yellow tickets, Miss Allensby held her breath. The cold kiss of the date stamp, fleetingly pressed between her shoulder blades, caused her to cry out softly.
‘Silence,’ the County Librarian hissed sternly, briskly spanking Miss Allensby’s bare bottom.
In her dream, the naked librarian clenched her spanked buttocks and shivered as she waited for the ink date stamp to imprint itself down her dimpled spine. Soon, it would be pressed firmly against her left buttock.
In her dream, the village librarian parted her lips to squeal. A train whistle shrieked. Chickens clucked noisily.
‘No chickens in the library,’ the County Librarian said crossly, raising a spanking hand up above the quivering buttocks below.
Miss Allensby woke and rubbed her eyes – and then her warm, moist pussy. Rising reluctantly from her bed, she stood naked before her full-length mirror. Her fingers strummed at the dark patch of coiled hair at her pubis, then dipped in between the wet velvet of her sticky labia. Her nipples, dark and stubby against the smooth cream of her generous breasts, thickened and peaked as she remembered the date. Today, the County Librarian was visiting the village to inspect the tiny library in Back Church Lane.
Miss Allensby cupped her breasts and squeezed them. The thought of the County Librarian, an austere brunette in her early forties, always made Miss Allensby’s pussy grow moist as it softened. Squeezing her captive breasts more urgently, and pretending to herself that it was the controlling hands of the dominant County Librarian that brought such pleasurable pain to her bosom, Miss Allensby considered what she should wear. A crisp white blouse with a black velvet choker at her throat. No. The broader band of blue velvet with the exquisite white cameo, she decided. A sensible skirt, belted. Nothing pleated or frilly. Seamed stockings, of course. A light tan, and her black lace-up brogues. Girdle or bra with suspender belt? Miss Allensby hesitated. Twisting slightly at her hips, then turning fully, she glimpsed over her shoulder at her bare bottom. In the mirror, it loomed large. Large and inviting, with a temptingly dark cleft between the heavily fleshed cheeks. Inching her bare bottom into the cold glass briefly, she hugged her breasts fiercely and shuddered with pleasure. Girdle, she decided, recovering from the frisson of the mirror’s stern kiss. A girdle – hoping that the strictures of the stiff white foundation garment would accentuate her waist and hips and tame and mould her swollen cheeks. Tame and mould them, presenting her bottom in the most flattering, the most seductive way to her important visitor.
Taking down her skirt and blouse and fishing out her stockings and panties from her lingerie drawer, Miss Allensby suddenly remembered that her best white girdle was still hanging out on the clothes line in her back garden.
The sharp whistle of the 6.40 froze the crouching figure in his tracks. Seconds later, he rose from the protective screen of blackcurrant bushes and, avoiding the betraying crunch of the cinder path, tiptoed over the soft loam towards the two pear trees flanking a decent-sized but uncut patch of lawn. Strung between the two pear trees, a line of washing fluttered gently in the warm air of a late summer dawn. Crouching down once more, the man glanced up at the bedroom window. The curtains remained drawn. Rising, he loped forwards, stumbling once as he slipped on the dew-silvered turf. At the clothes line, he ignored the two hand towels and the stark white pillow cases, reaching up with a trembling hand to delicately finger the stiff contours of a white girdle. Closing his eyes and swallowing hard, he squeezed the empty cup that had held the warmth of the wearer’s right breast. Grunting softly, he pinched the fabric of the cup where the berry-hard nipple would peak proudly.
A crow fluttered in a nearby elm, cawing noisily. The man opened his eyes and wiped the sweat from his brow. Snatching the girdle down from the line, he buried his face into the garment. He breathed in deeply, fleetingly intoxicated by the haunting perfume of washing soap and female fragrance. He kissed the stretchy, starched fabric and licked at the gusset flap which had strained at the pungent pussy of the girdle’s owner.
Up above in the tall elm, the crow flapped its ragged wings, fluttering restlessly. In the distance, the faint whistle of the milk train leaving the station brought the man clutching the stolen girdle to his senses. Turning, he scuttled across the lawn, the white garment gripped in his tightened fist. As he scuttled through the blackcurrant bushes, the hens scattered, clucking their annoyance.
Drawn to her bedroom window by the noise of her distressed poultry, Miss Allensby twitched her net curtain. Down in the garden of Bramble Cottage, all seemed peaceful and undisturbed. Pressing her naked breasts against the window pane, and causing her already erect nipples to peak in sharp pleasure, Miss Allensby frowned. Stepping back into her bedroom, she fingered her nipples, her thoughts on the white girdle she had pegged out on the clothes line in yesterday’s sunset. Back at the window, her net curtains parted, she peered down and gasped. Between the pillow cases and the hand towel there was a gap. A gap that should not have been there. Miss Allensby’s frown deepened into an angry grimace.
Set back from the village green, in the shadow of the squat-steepled Norman church, the vicarage of Steeple Creighton was already astir. Bacon, fried bread and mushrooms sizzled on the Aga, filling the airy kitchen with their delicious aroma. From the polished beechwood Cossor radio, the Third Network filled the air with gentle music.
‘Vaughan Williams. So very English. And quite right for a warm September, don’t you think?’ Harriet Bentley pronounced as she gently placed an opaque majolica vase down into a deep white sink.
‘Delius for me,’ her inseparable companion, ‘Fierce’ Bierce, replied, busy bullying the bacon.
Harriet Bentley nodded. Taking up a pair of scissors, she snipped the purple Michaelmas daisies into suitable lengths and crammed them into the majolica.
‘Better take George his through to the study on a tray,’ Fierce Bierce declared aloud. ‘No, not like that, dear. Honestly, you’re quite hopeless with flowers.’
‘Would you?’ Harriet sighed, abandoning the daisies. ‘He’s got the Somersby funeral tod
ay and is worried about the eulogy.’
‘Colonel Somersby had a decent war. We need men of his kidney now, with Suez brewing up. Tell your brother to say that.’
‘No, darling,’ Harriet murmured. ‘Best keep politics out of the pulpit.’
With her brother brooding over his funeral in the study, Harriet enjoyed her breakfast with Miss Bierce. They had hardly slept a wink last night, their lovemaking had been so ferocious. Harriet’s breasts and thighs ached sweetly. Dark purple bruises mottled her upper arms and buttocks where Fierce Bierce had bitten and sucked. That was why she had plucked the purple Michaelmas daisies and not the bronze-gold chrysanthemums.
Biting into a sweet mushroom, Harriet gazed across the spotless table cloth at her lover. They had breakfasted together, without exception, since the age of sixteen when they had boarded together. Their schoolgirl passion had proved long-lasting, and when the Reverend Bentley had assumed the living at Steeple Creighton, extending an open invitation to his sister to join him and run the vicarage, it was inevitable that her chum would be joining her. Nicknamed ‘Fierce’ because of her strict administration of the slipper to naughty bare bottoms in the dorm, Miss Bierce had been given a room at the end of the draughty landing. Every night, when the Reverend Bentley dozed over next Sunday’s sermon, or nodded over his translation of Horace, Fierce would steal out of her bedroom and join Harriet in her large, warm bed. Just as they had breakfasted together for over fourteen years, so they had shared the same bed.
The telephone rang.
‘Now, who on earth could that possibly be?’
Village etiquette was quite strict on the use of the telephone.
‘I’ll go. Finish your bacon,’ Fierce said, wiping her lips with her napkin.
She returned, minutes later, and gently closed the dining room door.
‘Well?’ Harriet’s eyebrows rose inquiringly as she sipped her tea.
‘Bit more of that funny business going on,’ Fierce said softly. ‘You know, our washing line thief.’
Harriet placed her cup down in its saucer. ‘Who –?’
‘Bramble Cottage. Miss Allensby. Didn’t see anything. Lost a girdle. Pretty cut up about it, our librarian is. Damn furious, in fact.’
Harriet closed her eyes, imagining the village librarian in her white girdle, her breasts and heavy buttocks squeezed within the figure-hugging stretchy fabric. With the poppers on the gusset pressed into place, how those splendidly ripe cheeks would bulge –
‘Harriet,’ Fierce warned.
The vicar’s sister flushed and opened her eyes to meekly meet her lover’s stern gaze. ‘Sorry, I was just –’
‘I know very well what you were just –’
‘I wondered,’ Harriet continued quickly, ‘when the telephone rang. People simply don’t ring quite so early. It had to be some sort of emergency.’ She paused. ‘Fierce,’ she murmured, ‘why do they always ring us?’
‘You mean?’
‘The school mistress, when her nylon stockings were taken, and only last week, young Susan at the Fox and Goose –’
‘Young Susan won’t see twenty-nine again,’ Fierce snorted, ‘and barmaid or not, she should be ashamed to even admit to owning fancy black lace panties, let alone having them pinched. These unfortunate women telephone us, my dear,’ she continued imperiously, ‘because no woman wants to discuss her lingerie with that oaf Perkins.’
Harriet nodded. That oaf Perkins, the village bobby, must – like her brother the vicar – be kept in ignorance of the recent outbreak of intimate thefts plaguing the village of Steeple Creighton.
‘No,’ Fierce observed, fiddling with the Michaelmas daisies until she had them all standing to attention, ‘it is better that we girls stick together. And we don’t want The Gazette to get wind of any of it. Just imagine having those Sunday dreadfuls down from Fleet Street if they got hold of the story.’
‘No,’ Harriet agreed, secretly envying her lover’s way with flowers. ‘But something must be done, Fierce, don’t you think?’
As her brother gazed upon the respectful lowering of the late Colonel Somersby’s yew coffin into his freshly dug earthen grave, Harriet, squatting naked on a cork-topped stool, watched the heavy buttocks and smooth thighs of Fierce Bierce being lowered into the steaming bath.
Approaching, then kneeling down at the edge of the bath tub, she gathered up the loofah and plied it with wicked innocence. Fierce writhed and gripped the sides of the steaming tub as the loofah nuzzled impudently between her splayed thighs.
‘Little devil,’ she chuckled, her knuckles whitening.
‘It can’t be the fish. That’s every Tuesday and Friday,’ Harriet murmured, absently twisting her wrist and driving the loofah home.
Grunting her pleasure, Fierce managed to nod. It couldn’t be the fish. The village received its supply of skate, herrings and cod on those two mornings – usually after ten o’clock – from Lupins of Lessingham. True, young Lupin had been observed coming out of Old Forge cottage adjusting his blue-and-white striped apron after giving the widowed Mrs Cakebread her weekly turbot – but the timing – and the days, too – were all wrong. No, it wasn’t the fish.
‘And the coke and coal is fortnightly,’ Harriet mused, jabbing the snout of the loofah now with vicious tenderness.
‘No, not the coke and coal,’ Fierce screamed softly, grinding her soft buttocks into the rubber mat in a paroxysm of ecstasy.
‘So we’re looking for somebody –’
‘Some man,’ Fierce managed waspishly.
‘Some man,’ Harriet conceded, ‘who is out and about very early almost every morning. Fierce,’ she squealed excitedly, ramming the loofah savagely.
Fierce moaned and sank beneath the bubbles.
‘It’s the post. It’s got to be. Early morning run. Daily deliveries. And nobody really notices –’
‘The postman,’ Fierce announced, surfacing with a splutter. ‘Well done, my dear.’
The glistening nude eased herself back so that her bobbing breasts shone as they rose up. Splaying her thighs wide, she gestured impatiently for the return of the loofah to her smiling labia.
‘But how are we going to catch him?’ Harriet murmured, kneeling down to dry her lover’s legs and thighs with a large white towel.
‘Don’t worry,’ Fierce smiled, gasping slightly as the towel raked her deep cleft firmly. ‘No dawn patrols in Wellington boots or skulking in dripping laurel bushes with field-glasses.’
‘Then how?’ the kneeling woman repeated, dabbing at the pubic plum with a fistful of towelling.
‘Brains,’ Fierce pronounced decisively. ‘First, we’ll get some sort of proof. If not proof positive, something highly suggestive. Some evidence.’
‘Like an actual pair of panties?’
‘Like an actual pair of panties. Then, when we’re sure of our little mouse, we’ll set a trap.’
‘Rat, dear, surely?’
‘Mouse. We’re looking for a shy, timid man, I think. One who cannot get close to women in the flesh but who likes to finger and possess their scanties.’
‘Mouse it is,’ Harriet agreed, thumbing away a stray pubic coil from the outer labial fleshfold.
Fierce spasmed slightly in response to the thumbtip, her heavy buttocks joggling. ‘We know,’ she continued, sighing contentedly as Harriet kissed and sucked at her hot pussy, ‘the sort of cheese our little mouse prefers. So we’ll bait the trap and snap –’
‘And snap?’ Harriet mumbled, slurping at the juicy fragrance at her lips.
‘Snap, my dear, denotes the leather strap whistling down across our naughty postman’s backside.’
‘Oh,’ Harriet grunted, biting softly now. ‘That sort of snap. As in snap, crack.’
‘As in snap, crack,’ Fierce gasped, battling helplessly against the surge of her imminent climax.
Harriet’s swollen tongue was now buried too deeply to reply. She merely nodded enthusiastically, rasping her nose down against the erect little
clitoris. Fierce buckled at the knees, her loud cry of sweet agony echoing loudly against the white tiled bathroom. So loudly, that their spinster neighbour, Miss Violet Pye, dead-heading late tea roses in nearby Little Paddocks, shuddered – and nipped a prize specimen off with her glinting secateurs.
‘I was thinking of taking Boris out for a little spin. A pre-season trial run. Best not leave it until some winter morning when we’ll really need him to perform.’
The Reverend Bentley looked up from his well-thumbed Horace and vaguely murmured his assent.
‘Jolly good,’ Harriet nodded. ‘So glad you agree.’
The long habit of coupons and then post-war rationing still held the village in its austere grip. The vicarage only used Boris, a venerable Humber, in the months of winter. Springtime, the long summer days and autumn frosty mornings saw the vicar, his sister and her companion bicycling around the parish.
Boris needed a little nursing in the garage. Harriet teased out his choke. Boris responded with a deep growl.
‘So we break down close to the postman’s cottage?’
‘We pretend to break down, my dear,’ Fierce corrected, stretching the fingers of her splayed hand into the tight warmth of a leather glove. ‘We’ll get the bonnet up, whip out the fan belt and then knock on his door.’
‘Damsels in distress routine, eh?’ countered Harriet, treading her brogue down firmly on to the clutch.
‘Damsels, as you say, in distress,’ Fierce echoed, steadying herself against the walnut dash as Boris lurched violently.
They bowled down the leafy lanes, putting the sedate Humber through its gentle paces. Just as the church bell tolled two, the Humber whispered to a halt in front of a white-painted thatched cottage at the lower end of Station Road. After an elaborate pantomime featuring the raised car bonnet, a struggle with the fan belt and some rueful scratching of perplexed heads, Fierce and her companion approached the front door. Late sweet peas perfumed the air as they spilled over from their hanging basket. The knocker echoed loudly. The door was opened at once.
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