The two-seater took the brow of Shapely Down at very nearly sixty miles per hour and, as the view of Dartmoor spread out before her, Stephanie’s mouth curved into a satisfied smile. It had been a good journey, and a fast one. She’d had the car up to seventy-five on the long straight outside Salisbury and, more importantly, she was on her own. It was, she felt, jolly clever of her to wait until her father was in but her mother was out, and then insist on taking so much luggage that the maid was obliged to follow by train. Her father had indulged her, as always, and the awful Vera had been left with no choice but to comply. The consequences were likely to be both painful and humiliating in the long run, but Vera obviously intended to make full use of her permission to smack Stephanie’s bottom anyway, so it made little difference what excuse was used.
The thought did nothing to remove her smile. This was her own land, and it was impossible not to enjoy the breeze in her hair as she tried to take the two-seater over the seventy mark again along the straight past the Warren House Inn. Every detail of the vast sweep of Dartmoor was familiar, each tor familiar by name and the site of many a childhood expedition, while many of the places within view related to a family history that went back before records were kept.
It was in Postbridge, where she was forced to slow down owing to some fool who had stopped his cart almost in the centre of the road so that he could unload thatch, that a direct ancestor known as Devil John had wooed and won Alice Eden, after disposing of a rival suitor by inserting a fox’s brush up the unfortunate man’s bottom and giving him a quarter-mile start on the hounds. Then, invisible beyond the shoulder of White Tor, there were the ruins of the Pargade House, where Arabela, a great-aunt, had shot a man for compromising her sister’s honour.
Stephanie wasn’t sure of the details of either event, having had the stories related to her by her grandfather when he’d had considerably too much to drink, but she heartily approved. She couldn’t see Devil John or Arabela putting up with the likes of Vera Clapshott, although she didn’t suppose Devil John or Arabela had had to put up with five widowed aunts either. It was jolly inconsiderate, she felt, for all five of their husbands to have managed to get themselves killed during the war. One or two, perhaps, would have been understandable, but five began to look like clumsiness.
As she accelerated up the long slope out of Postbridge she was earnestly wishing that she didn’t stand just four feet and eleven inches in her stockings and that she had rather fewer aunts. The five widows were bad enough, but Great-aunt Victoria was the worst of all, one minute as jolly as anything and the next flying into a temper over something as trivial as letting one of the dogs take a bite from a teacake. After all, the silly old woman should have seen a bite had been taken out of it before putting it in her own mouth, and there really hadn’t been all that much drool on it.
She put her foot down on the accelerator at the memory of the incident. Victoria Truscott had exceeded all bounds, dishing out a bare-bottom spanking in front of not only an assortment of aunts but Stephanie’s grandparents, her little sister Hermione, a maid, the butler and a local farmer who’d come to see about purchasing some seed turnips. Among the embarrassing moments of Stephanie’s life it ranked seventh: worse than what Freddie Drake had done to her, but hardly to be compared with being unexpectedly mounted by George Hamilton Gordon, when only the fortunate interposition of a pair of stout flannel pyjamas had prevented her virginity being taken in a manner that didn’t bear thinking about.
Now feeling distinctly cross, she kept her foot down as she passed along the slope of Bellever Tor, reaching sixty miles per hour as the bridge over the Cherrybrook came into view. A heavily laden dray had stopped there, so that the driver could relieve himself into the stream. Stephanie jammed her foot on the brake, felt the wheels lose their purchase and shut her eyes tight as the car hit the wall, burst through it, bucked violently on the rough chunks of granite and slithered sideways down the slope into the Cherrybrook, depositing her – really quite gently – in the deepest part of the stream.
Slowly, Stephanie stood up, and spat out a newt that seemed intent on making a new home of her mouth. She removed her driving goggles and opened her eyes. Above her, the drayman was looking down, his weather-beaten face set in astonishment, his fly unbuttoned, a large, brownish penis held in one hand with a single yellow drop hanging from the tip. Their eyes met.
‘You want to be careful, Miss,’ the drayman advised.
Temporarily bereft of speech, Stephanie could only shake some water from her hair and retrieve her hat before it floated away downstream. The drayman, apparently keen to make conversation, put his penis away and went on.
‘Terrible dangerous corner, this one. You’re lucky not to be scat all abroad to flibbits. Why, it can’t be no more than seven, maybe eight year ago that fellow from Princetown gaol, doctor he was, and should’ve known better –’
‘Please could you help me out, if you don’t mind?’ Stephanie interrupted.
‘Why, certainly, Miss,’ he offered, and began to make his way down the bank.
Stephanie took his hand and allowed herself to be pulled from the water. She had lost a shoe and was drenched to the skin, but her first concern was for the state of the car. It lay sideways, half under water, the front crumpled from her impact with the stone wall, which fortunately had been partially demolished by some earlier accident. It wasn’t as bad as it might have been, and there had already been several dents in the fender, so with the services of a good mechanic she might even get away with it altogether, as long as she could get the car out of the river and back to Postbridge. She noticed that two powerful Shire horses were harnessed to the dray.
‘Would you be a sweetie and pull my car out?’ she asked, aiming at the drayman a smile few men had ever been able to resist. ‘Your horses look terribly strong, and I’m sure they could pull my little car up the bank, and maybe you’d be kind enough to take me into Postbridge?
He nodded thoughtfully.
‘I dare say.’
‘Would you?’ Stephanie ventured after a pause. ‘I’d be awfully grateful.’
‘I dare say,’ he repeated, then paused as if reflecting on some deep matter. ‘But how grateful, that’s the question, ain’t it?’
‘Ever so,’ Stephanie promised, then she paused too.
She’d had a bite of lobster at the Crown in Sherborne and filled the tank in Moretonhamstead, which left her with very little money until she got to Driscoll’s. In any case, the thought of telling her aunts what had happened made her lip twitch and her bottom cheeks tighten. Retrieving her bag, which had somehow been thrown out of the car and come to rest beside a large cowpat, she dug inside. There was a half-crown, a threepenny bit and a handful of copper. Also a five-pound note, but she would need that for the repair.
‘Would um … three shillings and tuppence-farthing be all right?’ she asked.
‘Three shillings tuppence-farthing?’
‘It’s all I have on me, I’m afraid.’ Again he was quiet for a moment, but this time his eyes were fixed on where her dress was plastered to her chest, showing the low half-egg mounds of her breasts, each topped by a largish nipple made protuberant by the cold. She bit her lip, all too aware of the quality of his attention and hoping that his thoughts weren’t going in the direction they seemed to be.
‘I wouldn’t say it’s all you have,’ he remarked, his voice now sly.
‘I really can’t image what you mean,’ she replied sulkily.
‘Well, my dear,’ he went on, bolder now, ‘you’ve a fine little pair of devil’s dumplings up front, for one, and I’ll bet you’ve a nice round sit-upon behind and all.’
Her worst fears confirmed, Stephanie made a face, wondering just how beastly the drayman wanted to be, and whether she should make an offer or wait for him to propose something. Judging from the behaviour of both Freddie Drake and George Hamilton Gordon, men liked to rub their cocks between a girl’s bottom cheeks, but she couldn’t bring herself
to say the words, especially as the drayman might not keep to the agreement, but push it up her instead. He spoke again before she could find her tongue.
‘So how about you show me them,’ he suggested. ‘And while you’re at it, you could take John Thomas here and pop him in that pretty mouth of yours.’
There was no mistaking his meaning, as he had taken hold of his cock through his trousers, squeezing it to show off the long, thick bulge it made in the coarse wool. Stephanie felt her face colour. She could not believe that any man would expect a girl to take his penis inside her mouth. The act was so blatantly obscene that it beggared belief.
‘What a horrid suggestion!’ she exclaimed. ‘How could you!’
‘No trouble at all,’ he assured her. ‘I’ll just pop him inside, and you can pretend like you’re sucking on a lollipop.’
‘I don’t imagine it would taste like a lollipop,’ Stephanie retorted, thinking of the single yellow drop she’d seen hanging from the tip just minutes before, ‘and besides, I’m not at all sure it would fit.’
‘Oh, he’d fit, ‘he answered, ‘just the same as he’d fit up that little cunt of yours, if I were to push hard enough.’
‘Why, you filthy …’ Stephanie began, the blood rushing to her cheeks.
She stopped, thinking of the caning she would undoubtedly get if her aunts discovered that she had crashed the car. That it hadn’t been her fault would make no difference, it would be up with her dress and off with her union suit, for the application of maybe as many as two dozen strokes of Great-aunt Victoria’s whalebone cane on her naked bottom cheeks. The cane burned like fire and would leave her unable to sit comfortably for a week or more, while if she consented to the drayman’s horrid suggestion it would all be over quite soon, presumably in much the same time as it had taken Freddie Drake to do it all over her bottom, three or four minutes at most, only it would be in her mouth. She bit her lip in consternation and indecision. At school, Myrtle French-Farmiloe had once made her put a slug in her mouth. Could it be any nastier?
‘Wind’s getting up,’ the drayman remarked reflectively. ‘Could be rain.’
‘Nonsense,’ Stephanie retorted, glancing around at the unbroken blue of the Dartmoor sky.
‘You never can tell with the moor,’ the drayman went on. ‘Mist can come up out of the ground as easy as winking –’
‘Oh, do be quiet!’ Stephanie snapped. ‘I’m trying to think about your beastly proposition.’
He paused a moment before speaking again, carefully, as if each word had been chosen only after considerable reflection.
‘Seems to me, seeing as how you want to think about it, that maybe you’re not so very prim and proper as you might be. And seeing as how you can manage to think about it, you might as well do it. Seems so.’
Stephanie threw him an angry glance, unable to dispute what he was saying because he was right. He responded with a dirty grin, as if reading her mind, then spoke again.
‘Done it before, have you?’
‘No, I have not!’ she answered him.
‘How do you know it’s so bad then?’ he asked.
Again Stephanie made a face, not knowing what to say.
‘A lot of girls like it,’ he went on. ‘Very keen, my missus used to be, back when we were courting. Used to rub him between her dumplings and all, she did. Nice, that was. Shame you’re not so generous in your hamper, but I do like small ones …’
Stephanie put her hands to her breasts, conscious of how their shape showed through her wet dress.
‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘give them a little rub. Make you feel better about it.’
‘I am not …’ Stephanie began in outrage, and stopped.
Despite the bright spring sunshine she was starting to feel cold, and badly needed to take off her clothes to let them dry. The drayman obviously wasn’t going to go away. At the thought of taking her clothes off in front of him she began to blush again, and, as she turned away, she spotted her lost shoe, lying at the water’s edge beneath the bridge. She went to fetch it and slipped her foot inside, only to discover that it was full of mud, which squashed up between her toes and around her ankle, soiling her stocking. It seemed that fate was against her.
‘So what’s it to be?’ he demanded. ‘If you’re going to be missish about it, I’d best be getting along.’
‘I am not being missish!’ Stephanie snapped. ‘You’re being a beast!’
He merely shrugged and began to walk towards his dray. Stephanie watched, her mouth working in indecision as she thought of the ignominious arrival at Driscoll’s without her car, the shamefaced interview with Great-aunt Victoria and the others, the exposure of her bottom in the drawing room, the bite of the cane into her tender flesh …
‘Oh, very well!’ she spat. ‘But I’d like you to know that you’re a horrid pig, and no gentleman.’
‘I don’t recall saying I was a gentleman,’ he answered, leering as he turned to her once more. ‘Let’s get the business done, then, and my girls’ll have you out of there in a trifle.’
Across the road was a small quarry, perhaps used in the construction of the bridge, which looked as if it might provide suitable concealment. Feeling thoroughly put upon but nevertheless acutely conscious of the intimacy of what she was about to do, Stephanie took the drayman by the hand and led him across the road, her feet squelching in her muddy shoes. He followed, suddenly pliable now that he’d got his way, and she found herself within a ring of cut granite, open only at one side, and that grown over with gorse and brambles. It was obvious that nobody had worked the place for years. At least nobody would see her disgrace herself.
Several chunks of granite lay among the soft grass on the quarry floor. The drayman went over to the largest of them, unfastened his trousers, pushed them to his ankles and sat down. Beneath, he had coarse woollen longjohns of a greyish-yellow hue, with buttons at the front, two of which he unfastened to allow him to flop out the large dun-coloured penis she had seen before, along with a set of large dun-coloured balls.
‘Off with your clothes then, my love,’ he ordered as he began to stroke himself, ‘and I dare say if you spread them out on the rocks they’ll be dry in a moment.’
Her face set in an angry scowl, Stephanie obeyed, peeling her dress up and off, then starting on the buttons of her union suit. He watched, his eyes feasting on her body as it was revealed, one big dirty hand moving slowly back and forth on his already swollen cock shaft. She spread out her dress to dry, but when she put her fingers to the shoulder straps of her union suit she felt suddenly far more vulnerable, so that it took all her willpower to do as she’d agreed and shrug it down, then off. She stepped free, to stand naked but for her shoes, stockings, hat and gloves.
She’d begun to shiver, not from cold but from being naked in front of him, and, although it made no sense, she knew that if she stripped off completely she would feel more vulnerable still. Besides, his cock was now a rigid pole in his hand, with a fat, purple helmet popping in and out of his leathery foreskin as he played with himself. It obviously needed sucking, but the thought of taking it in her mouth was barely tolerable. She hesitated, unsure whether she should complete her strip, go down on her knees and take the awful thing in her mouth, as she had promised, or run.
‘Turn around,’ he said. ‘Let’s see that little sit-upon.’
Stephanie did as she was told, grateful for the delay, turning slowly round to show him her bare bottom and back. He began to pull faster, rolling his foreskin vigorously back and forth over a helmet now so swollen it looked fit to burst. Wondering if she could make him do it in his hand and so spare herself the supreme indignity, Stephanie repeated the manoeuvre, this time sticking her bottom out a little, the way Freddie was always trying to persuade her to.
‘Oh, you little angel,’ the drayman grunted, now hammering at his cock. ‘Do that again … only more … show that little cunt …’
Her face feeling as if it was about to catch fire, Stephan
ie obeyed, pulling her back in and pushing her bottom out to let him peek at the rear view of her quim. Her cheeks were open wide, showing off the tight little hole between. He grunted, apparently no longer able to speak. His face was the same rich purple as his straining helmet. Stephanie smiled, batted her eyelids and gave a little wiggle of her bottom, but saw that he was beckoning frantically at her.
She said a rude word under her breath, but it was all too easy to imagine him refusing to help if she didn’t go through with it. She stepped close and dropped to her knees in the warm, soft grass in front of him. She caught the scent of his cock, intensely masculine but more like a bull or a boar pig than any of the men she knew, rich and musky and horribly strong, but also compelling. Before she knew it she was leaning forward, her mouth agape, and as he pushed down his cock she took it in her mouth.
Something inside her seemed to give. The tears welled from her eyes and began to trickle down her face even as she sucked earnestly on his erection, doing her best to pleasure him though she didn’t understand why. For the first time in her life she had a man’s penis in her mouth, something she had never even imagined doing, something so rude, so utterly unsuitable that it made her whole body burn with shame. What made it infinitely worse was her desperate need to touch herself between her thighs.
Sobbing and gulping on the drayman’s penis, her body shivering until her tits shook and her bottom cheeks quivered, the tears streaming hot and angry down her face, Stephanie sucked. One hand went to his balls, a gesture she had never intended, the other to his shaft, and she was fondling the bulbous wrinkly sack and tugging on him at the same time, barely conscious of what she was doing, appalled by her own behaviour, but performing with ever-rising enthusiasm, until the drayman at last gave a deep groan and jammed himself deep.
Stephanie’s eyes popped and her cheeks bulged as his enormous, bloated helmet was rammed down her gullet. She felt his stuff explode into the back of her throat, which went into violent, uncontrollable contractions. A great gout of come and mucus erupted from her nose, and more from her mouth when she finally managed to pull back. It dribbled down her tits and belly as she knelt panting in the grass, unable to speak. The drayman gave a long, contented sigh.
Portrait of a Disciplinarian Page 2
