‘Boris has let us down, I’m afraid,’ Fierce said, mustering her pretty-please voice. ‘Could you help, do you think?’
Douglas, the young village postman, squinted shyly into the afternoon sunshine. He dragged his fingers through his dark, wiry hair and shrugged. ‘I’ll take a look, ma’am.’
‘So kind.’
‘Fan belt, ma’am,’ he pronounced, seconds after ducking down beneath the raised bonnet.
Harriet shrugged in a pretence of helplessness, mentally brushing aside the image of her own hand cutting the fan belt with a bread knife not half an hour since.
‘Can anything be done, just to get us back?’ Fierce asked anxiously.
‘Don’t rightly know, ma’am.’ He was ill at ease, clearly uncomfortable in their company.
‘Of course,’ Harriet prattled naively, ‘if we were wearing stockings I suppose we could have used one, couldn’t we? But we aren’t,’ she sighed, raising her hem three inches, revealing her shapely leg above her knee to the lower thigh.
Douglas blushed and averted his gaze.
‘Or couldn’t we?’ Harriet continued, dropping the hem of her tweed skirt. ‘Fellows do it in books.’
‘They do say that a stocking does the trick, ma’am. Temporary, like.’
Fierce and Harriet remained silent.
‘I might be able to –’ Douglas muttered, anxious to rid himself of the unwanted visitors. He withdrew into the shadows of the cottage, emerging several minutes later with a shrivelled nylon stocking in his hand. ‘Found an odd one, ma’am.’
‘Pull over here,’ Fierce nodded.
The Humber brushed back the nodding cow parsley as Harriet nosed it gently to a halt in the secluded lane. It was the work of a moment to replace the nylon stocking with a spare fan belt.
‘Hold it up,’ Fierce commanded. ‘Let’s see.’
Harriet obliged, allowing the nylon stocking to dangle down from her fingertips. ‘And what was our girl-shy young postman doing with a nylon stocking, do you suppose?’ she whispered. ‘Never seen walking out with any of the belles of this parish.’
‘Or any other. Hold that stocking up higher, my dear,’ Fierce ordered. Taking a pace forwards, she snatched at the seamed stocking and inspected it closely. Drawing it up to her nostrils, she sniffed. ‘Stale semen. You can see the stain.’
Harriet squealed and let go of the stocking. Fierce snatched at it deftly and gathered it tightly around her gloved fist.
‘I don’t think my brother would –’
‘It’ll all be over before he surfaces from his morning prayers,’ Fierce snapped impatiently. ‘Now come along, do. Check through with me. Letters addressed to selves at vicarage posted yesterday?’
‘Pretend post stamped and sent.’
‘Wet paint – please use rear door – sign on front gate?’
‘Yes,’ Harriet nodded, rubbing dried flakes of green paint from her fingers. ‘He’ll have to come round.’
‘Trap suitably baited with cheese?’
‘Red satin basque dangling temptingly from clothes line.’ Harriet giggled.
They crouched in the cool shadows of the pantry. Harriet twiddled with the waxed paper cover on a lid of a jar of honey. Fierce spanked her sharply, motioning for silence. Harriet squeaked and, reaching back to rub her sore bottom, dropped the honey. The glass splintered and the dark honey oozed.
‘Leave it,’ Fierce warned as Harriet dithered. ‘Listen.’
The familiar clicking of the postman’s pedals filled the silence of the vicarage, followed by the rattle of the front gate. They strained to hear Douglas following the garden path around by the greenhouse – and the clothes line. Soon his footsteps crunched on the gravel at the back door. They heard him forcing the post under it, heard him cursing softly as he grazed his knuckles on the boot scraper.
‘Shall I go and see if –’
‘Wait,’ Fierce whispered.
‘But we’ll miss him. He’ll get away,’ her companion protested anxiously.
‘That was the front gate,’ Fierce announced. ‘There’s his bike.’
They strained, breath bated, to catch the retreating click-clicking of the departing postman’s bicycle.
‘He’s gone,’ Harriet whispered excitedly, scampering to the kitchen window. ‘And so has the red basque. He’s actually pinched it.’
‘Knew he would. Excellent,’ Fierce exclaimed, rubbing her hands briskly. ‘Kippers for breakfast? Need to build your strength up for the task ahead, my dear.’
‘But you let him get away,’ Harriet pouted.
‘Not entirely. Absolutely no need for any unseemliness here, at the vicarage. No, we know where to find him, after our kippers,’ she continued, vigorously buttering the bottom of a shallow frying pan.
‘Ever punished a chap, my dear?’
‘N-no,’ Harriet murmured.
They had waited until the heavy shower of rain had finished before setting off to walk through the village towards the cottage in lower Station Road. Along the wet lanes, blackberries and bright hips glinted in the drenched brambles. The musk of wet earth hung heavily in the air. Up in the clearing sky, fluffy nimbus clouds scudded away to the east.
‘Of course you haven’t whipped a man. Silly of me,’ Fierce confessed. ‘If you had, I would have known about it.’
‘Have you?’ Harriet whispered.
‘Certainly have.’
‘No. Who? When?’ the vicar’s sister cried.
‘Two, no, three years ago. St Swithin’s Day.’
‘And where was I?’ Harriet demanded.
‘Parish bun-fight. W.I. show. Helping your good and godly brother.’
‘I remember. You were late. And you were all flushed when you eventually came to help judge the jams and pickles.’
‘Caught a young chap skulking in the vicarage garden. Down from Oxford to visit an aunt. Reading Modern History, I believe. Why do they insist on calling it Modern History when it ends long before Cromwell was born?’ Fierce wondered aloud.
‘Go on, Fierce,’ Harriet urged. ‘You found him skulking.’
‘Had the nerve to claim to be a budding lepidopterist. Munching our gooseberries, cool as you like. Pockets crammed full of them. Made him spell it.’
‘Gooseberry?’ Harriet blinked, losing the thread somewhat.
‘Lepidopterist. Couldn’t, of course, and didn’t. Wouldn’t know a cabbage white from a red admiral. Lugged him down to the potting shed –’
‘Fierce, really.’
‘Bundled him inside, hauled him over my knee – gooseberries everywhere – and pulled his pants down –’
‘You didn’t!’
‘Spanked him hard.’
‘Spanked? But aren’t there usually some canes in the potting shed?’ Harriet asked eagerly.
‘Capital canes of the most supple, whippy bamboo. As your bottom jolly well knows.’
Harriet shivered deliciously.
‘Capital canes in the potting shed but no room to swish ’em. No, didn’t bother with any of your Mistress Stern fancy Mayfair prominent Member-in-brothel nonsense, my dear, just gave it to him hot and hard.’
‘Oooh,’ Harriet sighed.
‘Little beggar howled. Spanked him until my hand was too hot to go on. Spoiled my skirt.’
‘Spoiled? You mean –’
‘Spoiled as in soiled. Jerked like a gaffed salmon then wriggled like a weasel. Emptied himself all over my blue serge. Nasty, sticky stain. Had to go in and change before I went to judge the jams. Greengage, wasn’t it?’
‘Wasn’t what?’
‘Greengage. From Halls Farm. The winning jam.’
They were approaching Back Church Lane, avoiding the large brown puddles after the heavy shower. A jay flashed in front of them.
‘Ever seen him again? I suppose not.’
‘He writes, still. Christmas cards. I had a word with his teacher,’ Fierce continued. ‘Miss Robinson. Retired now.’
‘Who?’
‘What did he do?’
‘Found him in the girls’ changing rooms while they were having their gym class. Pair of navy knickers in his hands. Caned him. Six strokes for being out of bounds, another six for the knickers. So it would seem,’ Fierce concluded, lengthening her urgent stride, ‘that our young postman has form.’
‘Well,’ Harriet said breathlessly, trying to keep pace, ‘isn’t that interesting? But the basque, Fierce. What if he has hidden it? What if he denies it?’
‘He won’t.’
The sweet peas had suffered in the sudden shower. The doorstep to the postman’s cottage was peppered with their pale petals. Fierce trod her brogues into them as she hammered the wrought-iron knocker.
Douglas appeared at the door. They shouldered past him without a word, leaving him stammering nervously in the doorway. Beneath their sensible brogues, sweet pea petals littered the carpet.
Fierce came directly to the point. ‘Douglas, show me your hands.’
‘Ma’am?’
‘Hands, Douglas. Show.’
Douglas, blushing furiously, presented his hands for her perusal, knuckles upturned.
‘Palms, please.’
He hesitated and scowled.
‘I’m waiting.’
On examination, his palms were red.
‘Caught you red-handed,’ Fierce declared. ‘That red satin basque you stole this morning –’
‘Didn’t,’ he blurted.
‘Dyed. Deliberately dyed with red stain. Upstairs with you, my lad.’
‘No – please – you can’t –’
‘At once.’
Upstairs, the accused buckled under the stern questioning of Fierce Bierce. Brokenly, and tearfully, he confessed fully to all his crimes. The stockings, the black panties, the girdle. His red hands were proof positive of his guilt in stealing the basque.
‘Naughty boy,’ Fierce murmured, strumming her pubic mound beneath her tweed skirt. ‘Such wickedness.’
The accused stood by the end of his bed, head bowed, his face burning with shame.
‘What – what are you going to do?’ he muttered. ‘Who you going to tell?’
Fierce sat down on his bed, smoothing the skirt at her thighs. Her broad bottom sank into the mattress beneath her. She plucked off her leather gloves very slowly. Harriet, fidgeting nervously by the window, looked at her companion expectantly.
‘No need to tell anyone, I think. You will go round to each of your victims. You will apologise and return each stolen item. They may punish you as they please. Miss Allensby has a super little riding crop. Her aunt rode out with the hounds,’ Fierce added conversationally to Harriet. ‘Nice little treat for both of you, I’m sure.’ Her voice was bright but brittle. ‘And there’s certainly no need for anyone to mention this to that oaf Perkins. He drinks, I gather. Don’t want him blabbing it all out in the Fox and Goose. Mustn’t get into The Gazette or go before the bench at Lessingham magistrates. No, no,’ Fierce continued briskly, ‘I won’t have that. No fuss. We settle this quietly. Just like Suez.’
‘Ma’am?’ Douglas blinked.
‘Suez?’ Harriet echoed faintly.
‘Least said, soonest mended,’ Fierce explained. ‘No need to drag in the UN. All we have to do there is teach Mr Nasser a painful lesson. One he’ll never forget. That’s what we’ll do, won’t we, Douglas? Trousers down, please, young man.’
‘No, ma’am, please, ma’am,’ he whimpered, gripping the bedpost.
‘Perhaps not.’ Fierce seemed to reconsider. ‘Did I say trousers? I’m so sorry. What can I have been thinking of, hm?’
Douglas looked up, the possibility of a reprieve giving him some slender hope of evading his impending punishment and pain.
‘No, not trousers. Everything. I want you naked, young man. Naked for your punishment.’
The faint gleam of fragile hope died in his sorrowful eyes. He stammered his protest, whining and bargaining as he promised solemnly never to offend again. His voice trembled and rose to a shrill pleading – but Fierce was firm.
‘At once,’ she barked.
Harriet’s mouth opened as he stripped, reluctantly and resentfully, under the cruel gaze of his tormentors. He twisted away as he dragged down his underpants, presenting his bared buttocks as he hopped on one foot and kicked them free. Harriet squeaked her disappointment at missing a glimpse of his cock.
‘We don’t want to see your bottom, Douglas, you rude little boy. Not just now, at least. Plenty of time for that. We have all afternoon for your naughty bottom. Turn around,’ Fierce barked.
Harriet clapped her hands in delight as their naked captive shuffled round bashfully to face them, his hands cupped over his groin.
‘Hands up on your head, young man,’ Fierce instructed.
He blushed and whimpered, hesitating to obey.
‘Douglas. It would be better for you to obey me instantly. Don’t forget, in a little while you will be bare-bottomed across my knee. Completely at my mercy. Silly of you to vex me, don’t you think?’
The threat was as powerful as it was polite. He obeyed.
‘Your first cock, isn’t it, my dear?’ Fierce murmured as Harriet rose from the bed and approached the naked man.
‘Mm,’ her companion replied, bending down to examine him more intimately.
‘Apart from those engravings of ancient Greeks and rude Romans who really should have known better.’ Fierce chuckled, alluding to illustrated volumes which the Reverend Bentley consulted from time to time – blissfully unaware that his sister knew of their existence.
Fierce snatched up a small looking-glass, gripping the long handle firmly. Approaching the naked postman, she wedged the oval mirrow between his thighs. He rose up on his toes and grunted, his fingers digging into his wiry, dark hair. Adjusting the levelled mirror, Fierce skilfully captured his cock and balls, cradling them on the surface of the cold glass. He squirmed and closed his eyes tightly, flinching as his sac bounced gently on its own reflection.
‘How very curious,’ Harriet murmured, shyly stretching out a bold finger and caressing the flaccid member.
‘Careful.’ Fierce laughed. ‘Those things can be quite beastly. Unpredictable, and liable to go off, you know.’
The postman shuddered in exquisite torment – but his cock unfurled on the cold surface of the mirror and slowly thickened, lengthening under Harriet’s stroking fingertip. She gasped as his foreskin peeled back, and gasped again as the purple glans was revealed.
‘Ooh, look, Fierce, it’s changing.’
‘Never mind that now, you can play with it later. Our purpose here is punishment, my dear. His pain, not our pleasure – although,’ Fierce conceded, glancing down at where the veined cock’s heat had clouded the silver glass, ‘the two are not mutually exclusive.’
‘You’re a rotter,’ Harriet pronounced with sudden venom, kneeling back and sinking her buttocks on to the heels of her brogues. ‘Sneaking around and stealing things, private things, from those poor women. Don’t you know how upset they were, how ashamed they felt?’
‘That’s it, my girl, you tell him.’
‘How would you like it if your private things were fingered and pawed by some stranger, eh?’
‘Let’s see, shall we?’ Fierce nodded judiciously, angling the mirror’s flat surface in against his balls, trapping them so that only his erection showed. ‘Finger his privates. See how he burns with shame.’
Harriet knelt up and enclosed a gripping fist of curled fingers around the postman’s shaft. She squeezed. He whimpered, gasping aloud. Placing her thumbtip at his glans, she rubbed it gently. His left thigh tensed rigidly before he staggered back a pace.
‘Keep perfectly still, young man,’ Fierce whispered ominously, pressing the cold glass firmly into his scrotum. ‘Perfectly still.’
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Harriet amused herself for several minutes, intimately inspecting and fingering the captive cock. Then, gently brushing the mirror aside, she palmed his dangling balls then cupped them – and squeezed.
Tears sparkled in the postman’s eyes. Hot tears of shame. Arms aching as he obediently kept them aloft, he moaned softly and begged for mercy.
‘Nonsense,’ Fierce laughed. ‘We haven’t even begun, young man.’ She tapped the glistening snout of his cock with the mirror, then wiped the smeared glass against her thigh. ‘Before I bend you over and beat your bare bottom, I want to see your collection.’
His eyes darted evasively. ‘Ma’am?’
‘Now don’t be silly, Douglas. You know perfectly well what I mean. Let’s see everything. Your pictures, cuttings from newspapers and magazines. And all the stolen garments. The lot. Wardrobe, chest of drawers, under your bed. Wherever you keep them, get them out at once.’
Harriet and Fierce sat, hand in hand, on his bed as the naked man scurried around his bedroom. Just as Fierce had predicted, a collection was quickly assembled and arrayed on the bed before them. Neatly folded and heavily creased advertisements cut from periodicals were exhumed, displaying a range of bras, girdles, bustiers and waspie suspender-belts. Coloured pictures of mature matrons bound and constrained by the strict bondage of their corsetry followed – as did voluptuously photographed models in nightwear and daringly styled swim suits.
‘Look,’ Harriet whispered, stretching her hand down to touch a cover torn from Vogue.
It was the infamous Lepape photomontage from July 1934, showing a bronzed model spread out on a beach towel, sporting a flimsy pair of oyster silk panties tied tightly at her waist with a drawstring.
‘Daring for its day,’ Fierce assented, scratching the dried semen splashed over the model’s nipples and belly. ‘French, of course. Dear Hardy Amies has us buttoned up to the chin.’
‘He’s got masses. Simply masses,’ Harriet whispered as the display threatened to engulf them.
‘Quite the little connoisseur, eh, Douglas? What else have you got for your private entertainment? Show.’
Sepia-tinted snapshots, modern but with a curiously Edwardian feel, were produced. Lithe legs, nyloned or bewitchingly sheathed in the sheen of seamless silk stockings. At the bands of darker material hugging the shapely upper thighs, suspenders bit deeply, drawing the stocking-tops up severely towards the swollen buttocks above.
Brought to Heel Page 12
