The imparted secret served to seal their compact more firmly, and to reinforce what had always been a very close relationship. An hour later they had completed their discussion, creating a plan at once so mischievous and so satisfying that neither girl could look at the other without bursting into giggles. It was also extremely daring, but Stephanie was so full of burgundy and Sauternes that she felt equal to any number of irate landowners, giant pigs, rivals in love and even aunts.
‘Watch me, H.,’ she declared, pushing her chair back. ‘This is Aunt Lettice.’
Hermione laughed and Stephanie cleared her throat, then went on, making her cheeks hollow in mockery of her aunt’s lean face and speaking in a high, affected voice.
‘Medical specialists have shown that the consumption of meat causes congestion in the large bowel, leading to dyspepsia, flatulence and irritation of the mucous membranes. Furthermore …’
She began to pace up and down, taking exaggeratedly large steps and with one finger raised in the air as if to illustrate the points she was making, until Hermione was laughing so hard that she was having trouble staying on her chair. Encouraged, Stephanie allowed the tone of her voice to rise to something close to hysteria and began to stab the air with her forefinger.
‘… it has also been repeatedly proven that those of a carnivorous habit are prone to every form of vice known to mankind, including cannibalism, Catholicism, carpentry, being German, socialism, self-abuse and penis sucking …’
Her voice trailed off on the final word. Hermione had stopped laughing and was staring, past Stephanie in wide-eyed horror.
‘Oh no,’ Stephanie said weakly.
‘Oh yes,’ came Aunt Lettice’s voice from directly behind her.
A bony hand closed on Stephanie’s wrist even before she could turn around. One sharp jerk, and her arm was twisted into the small of her back; another, and she was pulled down across her aunt’s knee on the chair she had vacated before, bottom up, then bottom bare as the blue summer dress and the light, silk drawers she had changed into before lunch were flipped up and down respectively.
Stephanie was facing Hermione and caught her sister’s expression of shock and pity a moment before the spanking began, so hard and fast that she immediately lost control, thrashing in her aunt’s grip and kicking her legs wildly about in her half-dropped drawers as the slaps rained down on her defenceless cheeks. It never even occurred to her to protest or try and beg off the punishment, because she knew it was hopeless. At first Aunt Lettice seemed to be too angry even to speak, and she did not find her voice until Stephanie’s bottom was hot and pink all over.
‘Disgusting!’ she snapped. ‘To use gutter language, and in front of your little sister! Disgusting! Disgusting! Disgusting!’
With each word she planted a fresh smack on Stephanie’s glowing bottom, delivered full across both cheeks, a hard, methodical punishment that quickly turned to faster smacks as her temper overcame her once more. Stephanie burst into tears, blubbering uncontrollably across her aunt’s knee with her hair in wild disarray and snot running from her nose. The stinging pain in her bottom was so severe that she could not keep her thighs together and avoid showing off her quim from behind.
‘Disgusting little brat,’ Aunt Lettice raved, still belabouring Stephanie’s bottom with every ounce of her strength. ‘To think that you could say such words … that you could even know such words! And as for …’
Her words were lost in another barrage of furious smacks that sent Stephanie into a full-blown, helpless tantrum. Her thighs pumped furiously in her pain and her bottom bucked up and down, showing off not just her quim but her bottom hole too. The display only served to encourage her aunt, who began to smack the backs of Stephanie’s thighs, which hurt even more. Then she stopped, as suddenly as she had begun.
Stephanie collapsed across her aunt’s lap, panting, her head down, snot hanging from the tip of her nose, her legs spread as far as her drawers would permit, her exposed quim and bottom slit strangely cool between her blazing cheeks and heated thighs. Relief that it was over began to well up, until her aunt spoke.
‘I do beg your pardon, Gertrude, Mr Attwater, but I have had to spank Stephanie and she is being rather noisy about it.’
Twisting violently round, Stephanie gaped in horror. In the doorway was her Aunt Gertrude, and she was not alone. A man stood beside her, a tall, solidly built man, who managed to project an air of pompous superiority even as he stared in open astonishment at her exposed rear. Aunt Lettice released Stephanie’s wrist. Taken by surprise, she tumbled on to the floor, to lie for a moment with her legs splayed and any detail of her quim that the spectators might have missed while she was bottom up now available for inspection between her open thighs.
Immediately she jumped up, clutching her drawers, but tripped over them and sprawled forwards, straight into the arms of the man. He caught her, ducking down as he did so, and for an instant his hand cupped one hot bottom cheek before he hauled her up and set her on her feet.
‘Go straight to your bedroom, Stephanie,’ Aunt Lettice ordered.
Stephanie didn’t need to be told. She ran, clutching her hot bottom, tears streaming down her face, her drawers flapping around one ankle, only to come off completely halfway up the stairs. She didn’t bother to retrieve them, too full of embarrassment and self-pity to care. Once she was safely inside the Blue Room she slammed the door behind her and was about to throw herself on to the bed and cry out her feelings into the pillow, when she realised she was not alone.
Vera Clapshott was still unpacking. Stephanie’s travel trunk lay open on the floor by the bed, and the chest of drawers was arranged so that everything could be put away neatly and in its proper place. For a moment the two women stood looking at each other, Vera mildly surprised, Stephanie with her lower lip trembling violently as she struggled to blink the tears from her eyes.
‘I’ve just been spanked,’ Stephanie snivelled, desperate for sympathy, even though Vera seemed about the least likely person to provide any.
To her surprise the maid responded with a rueful smile, yet even in her distraught state Stephanie thought she noticed a cunning edge to the maid’s voice.
‘Well, I dare say it was needed,’ Vera said, but softly, her voice so kind and gentle that Stephanie felt new tears well up in her eyes. ‘Let me see.’
Too full of emotion to think of doing otherwise, Stephanie turned and lifted her dress, showing off her reddened cheeks and thighs.
‘It hurt dreadfully,’ she whined.
‘I’m sure it did,’ Vera agreed. ‘Perhaps I can make it better for you?’
Stephanie’s mouth worked in indecision. She wondered if her suspicions about the maid’s personal preferences were about to be confirmed. Meanwhile, in the back of her mind were nagging memories of Myrtle Finch-Farmiloe’s behaviour as a Protector. Yet the need to be held and comforted was too strong to resist, and her bottom had that hot glow which only ever came after a really hard spanking and always left her feeling pliable and sensitive. She nodded.
Vera put down the pile of carefully folded stockings she had been holding and stepped close, to place one cool hand on Stephanie’s burning cheeks. Stephanie shut her eyes as the maid began to rub gently, full of shame for the little shocks of pleasure provoked by Vera’s touch, but also feeling gratitude and a sense of absolute helplessness.
‘You’re ever so hot,’ the maid remarked, now with both hands cupped round Stephanie’s bottom cheeks. ‘I think I know just what you need.’
Stephanie nodded, unsure what Vera meant, but too far gone in surrender to complain. As long as the maid held her and comforted her she didn’t mind, even if Vera turned out to play the same rather beastly tricks as Myrtle. She let herself be taken by the hand and eased down on to the bed, side by side with Vera, who put an arm round her shoulder.
‘There, there,’ the maid said softly, and kissed Stephanie’s hair.
Her body limp, Stephanie allowed herself to be held. Fo
r a minute or more Vera stayed as she was, gently stroking Stephanie’s hair and whispering to her in a soothing tone, before tightening her grip. Stephanie squeaked as she was pulled down, but did not find her voice until she had been placed gently but firmly across Vera’s knees.
‘No, Vera, please,’ she snivelled. ‘That’s not fair! I’ve just had it once, and I didn’t mean to be bossy … don’t spank me … please, I beg you!’
‘Shh,’ Vera said gently. ‘Don’t be such a baby. I’m not going to spank you.’
‘No?’ Stephanie queried, highly surprised.
The maid had just lifted one knee, bringing Stephanie’s bottom into prime spanking position, raised and with the cheeks a little parted.
‘I may have to spank you sometimes,’ Vera said quietly, ‘but at the moment that’s not what you need.’
Stephanie swallowed, fairly sure that, considering the position she was in, there was only one thing Vera was likely to do with her, or rather a variety of things, all of them highly improper and extremely shameful. Not that she could stop it, too far gone to resist, and anyway the maid had a tight, no-nonsense grip round her waist. So she contented herself with trying to pretend she had no choice about what was happening as Vera leant back to rummage in the travelling trunk and extracted a large china pot labelled with the word Sootho.
‘It’s a patent preparation for the relief of nappy rash,’ she explained, ‘but there’s nothing better for a smacked bottom.’
Cold, slippery cream was applied to Stephanie’s cheeks, a large blob on top of each, which Vera then began to rub in. Stephanie closed her eyes, unable to resist the sensations of having her bottom gently caressed, although every excited contraction of her quim brought her new shame. Worse still, there was an awful and yet familiar intimacy about the maid’s touch, the gentle fingers not merely rubbing the nappy cream into Stephanie’s hurt skin but stroking and pausing occasionally to squeeze a handful of soft bottom flesh or simply cup a cheek. Only when Vera’s fingers burrowed between her cheeks to cream her bottom hole did she find the will to protest.
‘I wasn’t smacked there,’ she croaked.
Vera merely tightened her grip and began to tickle Stephanie’s anus, using one finger tip to tease the little bumps and creases around the hole. At first Stephanie tried to resist, squeezing her cheeks on Vera’s hand, but she got a little smack for her trouble and with that she gave in, pushing her bottom up for more. It felt too nice, too naughty, and she knew that her maid would stand no nonsense and would discipline her if she didn’t give in.
As Stephanie’s cheeks spread to her caresses, Vera gave a knowing chuckle. Her fondling grew more intimate still. Two fingers spread Stephanie’s bottom hole open for inspection, then moved lower, to her quim. Another, louder sob escaped Stephanie’s mouth as the lips of her quim were gently eased apart to show off her virgin hole. Vera gave a little tut, which might have been approval or amusement but proved to be disappointment.
‘What a shame,’ she said. ‘I had hoped to put something inside you, but it would be wrong of me to ruin you for the sake of a moment’s fun.’
Stephanie gave an earnest nod, then a gasp as Vera’s attention turned back to her anus, this time not to tickle but to probe, and a soft moan escaped her lips as the tight little hole opened to the maid’s finger.
‘Not there, not up my bottom,’ she managed, but she didn’t mean it.
Vera took no notice anyway, but slid her finger deep into Stephanie’s bottom hole and began to wiggle it about inside.
‘I’m going to enjoy you, Miss Stephanie,’ the maid announced as Stephanie began to wriggle helplessly on her intruding finger.
The words were a near echo of what Myrtle Finch-Farmiloe had said the first time she had coaxed Stephanie into an almost identical position, the only real difference being that Vera hadn’t been the one to do the spanking. Stephanie felt her bottom hole tighten on Vera’s finger at the memory and tried to get up, only to be eased back into position.
‘Oh, no, you don’t,’ the maid said. ‘I have something to show you before we’re finished.’
As she spoke she extracted her finger from Stephanie’s rectum and her hand moved back down, cupping the plump, sensitive quim, with one long finger between the lips. She began to rub and, as she did so, to spank, masturbating Stephanie with one hand and smacking her cheeks with the other. Stephanie hung her head, powerful sobs racking her body as she realised she was going to be brought off across the maid’s lap.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve done this before?’ Vera remarked. ‘Not a well-brought-up girl like you.’
Stephanie didn’t bother to contradict the maid. Her quim had already begun to squeeze and she was squirming her bottom in helpless abandoned ecstasy under the slaps, which now brought only pleasure. She stuck her bottom up higher, spreading herself to both the smacks and the fondling of her sex, now too far gone to be anything but eager. Vera laughed and began to rub harder, her finger bumping over the little hot point between Stephanie’s sex lips with practised skill as she spanked cheek and cheek about, ever harder. Stephanie cried out, wriggling her bottom for more and gasping as she started to come, her head dizzy with the same blend of ecstasy and shame that Myrtle had first taught her – feelings she had resented ever since, she reflected, even as her body shook in the ecstasy of orgasm.
Three
FOR THE NEXT two days Stephanie divided most of her time between plotting with her sister and trying to be well behaved in order to avoid the disciplinary attentions of her aunts, while surrendering her bottom each evening to the erotic attentions of her maid. To be tipped over Vera’s knee, exposed and fondled brought Stephanie immense chagrin, but the pleasure made it impossible to resist, as did the maid’s firm, no-nonsense manner. It had been much the same with Myrtle Finch-Farmiloe, which made the experience more humiliating still, as did the likelihood that the maid would soon expect rather more.
Only on the third day did Stephanie and Hermione manage to get to Postbridge, claiming that they wished to go into Tavistock for some new handkerchiefs and declining the offer of a lift in favour of the public omnibus. Arriving at the garage, Stephanie stood pondering the dented and scratched front portion of the two-seater somewhat ruefully, although considerably less ruefully than she had been pondering Phase One of the battle campaign: the extraction of the giant pig from its sty on Sir Murgatroyd Drake’s estate at Combebow and its transport to Stukely Hall.
The principal difficulty in pinching the pig was its sheer bulk, one hundred stone of mobile bacon and chops being so far beyond their capacity for heavy lifting that the thing might as well have been Haytor Rocks. The answer was bribery, in the form of ripe apples, which she felt sure could be guaranteed to lure the boar from his sty and on to the stout dray which was also an essential element of the plan, and also required bribery. Unfortunately she only knew one bribable drayman, and he was unlikely to be impressed by ripe apples, unless the term could be applied to her small, neatly formed breasts.
Another difficulty was Jan Wonnacott, pigman to Sir Murgatroyd Drake and brother of Cyril. He lived in a cottage adjacent to the sty. The operation seemed sure to be noisy, and although Jan was said to be in the habit of consuming as many as a dozen pints of cider in one or another of the local inns each evening, his absences came at times when the road was too busy for the safe removal of the pig. They would have to act in the dead hours of the night.
With the pig pinched, they would be able to move on to Phase Two, touching her grandfather for a sum large enough to carry out the remainder of the operation while avoiding the attention of assorted aunts. If the pig theft failed to soften the old man, things would be difficult. It was essential to get the car back as soon as possible, but the repair bill was going to eat up all but the last few shillings of what remained of her allowance.
‘I’ll come to collect it next week then,’ she said with a sigh as the mechanic completed his assessment of what needed to be done and how long
it would take. ‘One other thing. Do you happen to know the full name and address of the drayman who helped me? I’d like to thank him, and I was too shaken to think to ask where he lived. I only know him as Lias.’
‘Elias Snell. He lives to Princetown, last house on the Yelverton Road,’ the mechanic answered promptly.
‘Thank you,’ Stephanie replied, and hastened across the road. What might be the only omnibus of the day was approaching. She and Hermione signalled to the driver, climbed in and paid their fares, responding to the curious looks of the other passengers with polite smiles as they took their seats. Stephanie was earnestly wishing she had her car back. All her life she had taken little or no notice of the general population, regarding them simply as part of the Devon background. Like tin mines, horses or clotted cream, they were always there and had always served their purpose, but they had never engaged more than her casual attention.
Since her experience with the drayman things had changed. Never had she imagined that a working man could be so lacking in respect, or so blatantly lecherous. The behaviour of Elias Snell had proved otherwise, likewise that of Vera Clapshott, and Stephanie now found herself suspecting every other passenger of harbouring similarly lewd intentions. The driver himself bore a suspicious resemblance to the drayman, and she was sure he would have preferred to have his penis sucked rather than accept her fare, perhaps sharing her with the conductor, a lean, ugly man who kept glancing at her with what she felt was a knowing leer; or, worse, making her kneel side by side with her sister while they received the same rude treatment.
Portrait of a Disciplinarian Page 5
