‘Oh no, young lady. I’ll need a little more than that, I’m afraid. Come along now, take hold and pull up and down, just a few times.’
Hermione bit her lip, extended a hand, then stopped.
‘If … if we should be proud of what God gave us,’ she said, ‘and I should think it a privilege and a pleasure to touch your thingy, then why is it my punishment?’
‘Ah ha, but it’s not a privilege or a pleasure for you, is it?’ he retorted, once more wagging his finger. ‘If it was, we should have to find some alternative punishment, shouldn’t we? The same goes for removing your clothes.’
Hermione frowned, then with sudden decision reached out to grasp his cock, which she gave a few inexpert tugs before hastily letting go. The curate gave a long sigh, checked his watch, then spoke again.
‘Once more, and do try, or we’ll just have to have those darling little titties out again, won’t we?’
After wiping her hand on the piano seat, Hermione put her fingers to the piano keys, hesitated a moment, then began to play, producing a set of notes so discordant that Stephanie couldn’t even identify the tune.
‘Dress down. Titties out,’ the curate demanded, sounding anything but disappointed.
Hermione obeyed, scowling furiously as she pulled her arms out of the shoulder straps of her dress and folded down the front. She was naked underneath, her puppyfat breasts lolling bare and round as she glanced up at the curate.
‘Let that be a lesson to you,’ he said, but as she turned back to the piano his fat pink tongue extended to moisten his lips. ‘Try again, three times, and if you don’t get it right, off comes that pretty dress.’
Again Hermione tried, her bare breasts quivering as she played, and if anything the attempt was worse than before. The curate drew a heavy sigh.
‘I really don’t think you are trying at all, Hermione. Perhaps having to sit bare bottom on your stool will help?’
‘You said I had three goes,’ Hermione pointed out.
The curate gave a sceptical grunt and stood back a little. He began to fiddle with his cock, keeping it erect with his eyes fixed on Hermione’s bare breasts as she tried to play her piece again. She was no better than before, and he shook his head sadly. Once more she tried, so ineffectually that Stephanie was left wondering if the two of them were playing a game, and Hermione might actually want to be made to take her clothes off.
The expression on Hermione’s face as she stood up suggested otherwise, and the way she lifted her dress and peeled it off looked genuinely reluctant. Yet she was naked underneath except for stockings and shoes, her chubby pink bottom quite bare as she settled it back on to the piano stool.
‘Spankies next,’ the curate announced eagerly. He had abandoned the effort to sound authoritative.
Hermione’s fingers were shaking so badly as she tried to play her piece once more that it would almost certainly have been wrong anyway. As it was she made a hash of it, and the curate immediately bent down to plant a firm smack on the two meaty pink bulges sticking out over the edge of the piano stool. Hermione was left with a pink hand mark on her bottom and shaking harder than before, so that her next attempt was worse still. Again her bottom was smacked, and Stephanie saw that tears of frustration and shame had begun to trickle down her sister’s face.
‘I don’t think you’re even trying!’ the curate declared. ‘If you can’t do better than that, I’ll have to make you do you know what.’
He was now so close to Hermione that when she turned her tear-stained face up to deny the accusation his cock was just inches from her mouth. Stephanie grimaced at the thought of having the hideous thing so close to her own face, and began to wonder if she should intervene. Yet it was impossible to be sure of Hermione’s true feelings, while there was also the morning’s spanking to be taken into consideration. She decided to carry on watching, telling herself that her decision had nothing to do with the sharp thrill she had felt at the thought of seeing her sister take the fat curate’s cock in her mouth, which seemed to be what he was expecting.
‘Once more,’ he demanded, masturbating himself shamelessly, his small, bright eyes flicking between her breasts and the reddened bottom meat bulging over the edge of the stool. ‘And stick it out a little more.’
Hermione obeyed, adjusting herself so that her thighs were on the stool but her bottom cheeks pushed out behind, the tight star of her anus clearly visible between them. The curate, now red-faced and masturbating vigorously, nodded for her to begin. Hermione played and failed as miserably as before. As the last note faded he lost his temper with her, or seemed to, reaching down to aim a salvo of hard smacks at her cheeks.
‘I’ve warned you before!’ he declared. ‘This time it goes in your mouth!’
‘No!’ Hermione answered him, with what Stephanie was sure was real revulsion. ‘Not in my mouth!’
His response was to plant several more hard smacks on her bottom, making the flesh jiggle and redden even more.
‘Take it in your hand then,’ he demanded, ‘and quickly.’
Hermione pulled a face, but did as she was told, taking hold of his erection. He stood back to his full height, lifting his cassock and the shirt beneath to reveal the full rotundity of his stomach, which had begun to quiver like an enormous pale jelly as Hermione masturbated him. Her breasts were also quivering, to the same motion, and her big pink nipples were stiff, despite the look of utter disgust on her face.
The look was mirrored by Stephanie. As Hermione pulled the curate’s cock up and down, the head rotated, reminding Stephanie so forcefully of a patent corkscrew that she found herself looking to see if it had a left- or right-hand thread. She had just worked out that it was right-handed when he began to speak again, his voice low and guttural.
‘One day I’ll make you suck it. One day, Hermione, my angel, I’ll make you suck it … and when you are my wife … I’ll stick it right up that pretty cunt, every night, and in your mouth … and up your cunt again … and in your mouth … and up your darling bottom …’
He broke off with a grunt, projecting a gout of come into the air just as Hermione adjusted her position, so that her lolling breasts caught the full force of his ejaculation. She gave a shriek as jets of sticky white fluid splashed over her plump globes and spattered her tummy. The third eruption caught her in one eye and across her nose. She dropped his cock but he snatched it up, to milk the last of his come over her already dripping breasts.
‘Filthy beast!’ she managed as her spunk-smeared features screwed up in utter disgust. ‘Why do you always have to do it in my face?’
‘Because you look so pretty like that,’ he told her, ‘and you get so delightfully petulant about it. I save up all week, you know, just to make sure I have plenty.’
‘Filthy beast,’ Hermione repeated as she accepted a handkerchief and began to wipe the mess from her face.
In the bushes, Stephanie’s knees were wide and her dress rucked up, one hand pushed into the slit of her union suit as she fiddled with her quim.
As she looked from her window in the Blue Room into the darkness of the Devon night, Stephanie was rapidly coming to appreciate the difference between plotting to steal a gigantic pig and actually doing so. She had not even started out, and already her heart was hammering. The hundred and one things that could go wrong were jostling for attention in her imagination, from the highly probable, such as being caught sneaking out by her Great-aunt Victoria, given a spanking and sent back to bed, to the highly improbable, such as being abducted by Elias Snell and sold into an Arabian harem. Nevertheless, she told herself, she was her father’s daughter and a Truscott. She would go on.
It had been a peculiar day. Hermione had been sulky the previous evening, and Stephanie had not dared admit to having peeped at her with Benjamin Porthwell, despite feeling both sympathy and curiosity. It had been the same the next day, although there had been little opportunity for talk. Claude Attwater had come to collect them in the morning, bringing with
him two Brown Shorts uniforms. Both were rather large, so Stephanie had spent the subsequent initiation ceremony and rally terrified that her shorts would fall down at some crucial moment. She had also discovered for the first time in her life how it felt to have rotten eggs thrown at her, although she had managed to dodge skilfully enough that none hit her.
By a lucky chance they had run into Freddie Drake on the way home and, after a little artful flirting and a great deal of playing on his guilt, Stephanie managed to extract twenty pounds from him. They had then called in at Bridestowe Rectory, and after a few minutes of somewhat embarrassed conversation with the Reverend Wallace Tredegar managed to get Porker Porthwell alone. The money had changed hands in return for a neatly written betting slip accepting twenty pounds for the Emperor to win the fat pigs class at odds of ten to one.
They had returned home in time for tea, well pleased with themselves, and spent the late afternoon going over their plan for the evening until every detail was honed to perfection. At her grandfather’s insistence she had dressed for dinner, but she made the mistake of feeding Lord Salisbury a chop bone from her plate and ended up with her bare bottom flaunted to the room as she was given a brief but effective spanking by Great-aunt Victoria. Even now she felt a little tender behind, which kept her firmly in mind of what would happen to her if they were caught.
The Brown Shorts uniforms were in the huge wicker basket in which Mrs Catchpole and the maids collected items for the wash; that was just where Stephanie had told Vera to put them. The first step of the plan was to retrieve them and the last to put them back, thus establishing an alibi in the event of later accusations. So as she prepared to leave the Blue Room she was in nothing more than her nightie and shoes, which would also allow her to pretend, if she were caught going downstairs, that she had intended to raid the pantry.
Not that she had any intention of getting caught. Holding her door just ajar she waited and listened, then slipped out into the corridor and down the servants’ stairs. The lower storey of the house was absolutely dark, but numerous real pantry raids had taught her every obstacle on the way, except the soft, squashy thing she ran into as she reached the doorway of the scullery.
‘Stiffy!’ Hermione hissed as Stephanie stepped back with her heart pounding. ‘Watch where you’re going!’
‘Sorry, I didn’t see you,’ Stephanie whispered.
Hermione didn’t bother to answer, and together they moved on into the scullery. A trace of light from a crescent moon turned the familiar room into a confusing pattern of shadows, but they quickly located the basket. Finding their uniforms was harder, especially the socks, and when Stephanie had tugged the baggy brown shorts up around her hips they immediately fell down again.
‘I think you’ve got my shorts, H.,’ she whispered, then froze.
Somewhere in the house a door had been opened and closed again. Footsteps sounded in the passage above, and without waiting to risk discovery the girls scampered to the far end of the room, where a door let them out into the night. It was cool, and Stephanie found herself shivering slightly, but neither dared turn back. A light in one of the bathrooms had come on, and a female figure stood silhouetted against the curtains.
‘Aunt Lettice,’ Hermione said quietly, ‘but I don’t think she heard us.’
While they waited for the light to go out Stephanie tucked the waistband of her shorts into itself, securing them loosely on her hips. When the gurgle of water announced the completion of Aunt Lettice’s business they set off, first making for the outhouse where the apples were stored, then running light-footed across the lawn. Their eyes gradually adapted to the gloom. The lake was a puddle of liquid gunmetal beneath the black bulk of Burley Down, and the high wall just visible as a shadow among shadows. On the bridge Stephanie took her sister’s hand for comfort, and they stayed close together as they left the grounds.
Utter blackness returned as they entered the tree-shrouded track along the bottom of Burley Down, and Stephanie felt Hermione’s hand tighten on hers. A breeze had got up, rustling the leaves and filling her with fears she knew to be irrational to go with the very rational ones she already had, but she continued to put one determined foot in front of the other until they reached the main road. She heard the gentle chink of harness and caught the scents of horse and tobacco long before she saw the dray or the faint red glow of the drayman’s pipe.
‘Mr Snell?’ she enquired.
‘Who else do you think it might be?’ he asked, chuckling.
‘Not so loud, please,’ she urged.
‘Nobody to hear,’ he assured her, ‘not at this time of night. Now, how about you two have a little cuddle, and we’ll be getting to work.’
Stephanie had been trying very hard not to think of what he had demanded for his help, and even now that she could put it off no longer she found herself prevaricating.
‘All that would be better once we have the pig,’ she said quietly as she lowered the bag of apples into the dray, ‘and besides, what is the use of us … us touching each other if you are unable to see anything?’
‘I’ve a lantern that’ll show plenty.’
‘What if somebody else sees?’
‘We’ll charge ’em sixpence.’
‘This is no time for levity,’ Stephanie hissed. ‘Now, please, the pig first …’
‘Cunt first, pig second and cunt for afters,’ he insisted. ‘That’s what we agreed.’
‘We’d better do as he says, Stiffy,’ Hermione broke in. ‘After all, he could do anything he wanted with us, out here.’
‘I’m sure Mr Snell would not think of taking unfair advantage,’ Stephanie lied as her quim went suddenly tight.
‘Could be,’ he remarked, ‘and there’s no better way to make sure I don’t than to make sure I can’t.’
‘And we did agree,’ Hermione added, ‘so it wouldn’t be entirely unreasonable if he was cross and made us … made us surrender. And if he drives up the track a little and we go in the back of the dray we couldn’t possibly be seen.’
‘H.!’ Stephanie gasped. ‘Really, you … oh, very well, Mr Snell, but must you always make such an utter beast of yourself?’
With a chuckle he went to the head of his lead horse, whispering to her as he pulled gently on her bridle. Stephanie and Hermione stepped quickly out of the way as the big dray was turned, and followed as Lias led his team back up the track. Stephanie’s stomach was fluttering and there was a huge lump in her throat. She was barely able to take in what she was about to be made to do.
‘Climb up on the wheel,’ Lias suggested.
Too numb to fight any longer, Stephanie obeyed, raising her foot to a spoke only to have a huge hand cup her bottom and boost her up on to the side of the dray.
‘Whatever are you wearing?’ he asked. ‘Sackcloth?’
‘Shorts,’ Stephanie answered as she clambered into the dray.
‘Girls in shorts, whatever next?’ he remarked. ‘Still, I dare say shorts come down as easy as dresses come up. In you go, my love.’
He had boosted Hermione up as he spoke, but rather too hard, so that she lost her balance and tumbled in, bringing Stephanie down in a tangle of spread-eagled limbs.
‘Hang on there, wait until I can see,’ Lias demanded.
Holding back an answer with some difficulty, Stephanie untangled herself from her sister. The dray smelt of stale beer, and the rough wooden boards on which she was sat were distinctly sticky, except where a scattering of straw covered them. Lias climbed in, and when he opened the lantern a beam of dull yellow light revealed more straw, in bales. ‘Straw,’ he explained, ‘for the pig.’
‘How appropriate,’ Stephanie remarked as he sat down on the nearest bale.
He ignored her, turned the lantern so that the part of the dray where she and Hermione were sat was illuminated, then began to unfasten his trousers. Stephanie watched with a resigned expression as his fat brown cock was pulled out one more time, along with his balls, which he began to stroke.
‘Come along then, girls. No time like the present.’
‘What … what do you want us to do?’ Stephanie asked weakly.
‘Get out of those silly shorts, for a start,’ he replied. ‘You can keep the shirts on, but pull them up to show your titties.’
Hermione began to comply, but Lias shook his head.
‘No, no, not like that,’ he told them. ‘Do each other. You turn your bottom to me, Hermione, and you, Stephanie, you pull your sister’s shorts down, nice and slow.’
Hermione didn’t look too happy but did as she was told, much as she had for the Reverend Porthwell, sticking out her bottom to make a plump ball of flesh, the waistband of the shorts slack around her waist. It was an extraordinarily rude pose and was going to become a great deal ruder if Stephanie pulled the shorts down, but it was also tempting, offering her an opportunity both to avoid disgracing herself and to take a badly needed revenge.
‘Perhaps you’d like to watch me spank her?’ she suggested to Lias as she took hold of the waistband of Hermione’s shorts.
‘Hey!’ Hermione protested, twisting round, her shorts already half down, with such force that Stephanie was taken by surprise. Sprawled on her back in the sticky straw, she could only manage a squeak of alarm as her foot was grabbed and twisted, forcing her face down. An instant later Hermione was on her back, and Stephanie realised that her sister really was quite heavy.
‘I warned you!’ Hermione spat, and Stephanie’s shorts were hauled down, baring her bottom to the night and to the interested eyes of Elias Snell. ‘Now I’m going to do you!’
He was laughing, and laughed louder still as Stephanie’s shock gave way to consternation and she began to thump her fists on the wooden platform of the dray and kick her feet.
‘No!’ she squealed. ‘Not this! Not again! Hermione, please … I beg you, not a spanking, not in front of him!’
‘You were going to do me,’ Hermione answered, and planted a hard smack on her sister’s bottom.
Portrait of a Disciplinarian Page 10
