‘I know about the pig, Richard,’ she cut him off, ‘but a duel? And with Stephanie acting as your second?’
‘She was convenient to hand,’ Sir Richard explained.
‘But a duel?’
‘Why not? It will liven things up a little.’
‘I forbid it, absolutely!’
‘I’ll do as I damn well please.’
‘I expect you will, but you are to have no part in it, Stephanie. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Auntie,’ Stephanie replied promptly.
‘If you insist on such foolishness,’ Victoria continued to her brother, ‘Gurney must act as your second, although frankly I have never heard anything quite so preposterous in my entire life. Do sit down, Mr Drake. Will you have some tea?’
‘Rather,’ Freddie answered, seating himself. ‘So er … you’d rather I spoke to your man Gurney?’
‘I would rather the whole ridiculous idea was abandoned,’ she told him. ‘It will be the talk of the district.’
‘The district could do with something to talk about, once the show is over,’ Sir Richard responded, ‘and surely you see that I can’t refuse?’
‘I see no such thing,’ Victoria snapped back, ‘and as for asking Stephanie to act as second, it’s improper.’
‘We’re fighting a duel, not visiting a brothel,’ Sir Richard countered.
‘Richard!’ his sister responded, but he merely shrugged.
An embarrassed silence descended on the table, finally broken by Freddie Drake.
‘I just missed you on the way over, as it happens, Stiffy. You were turning in at the gate as I was coming up the lane. I do like your new car. Same model, but a spiffing colour.’
‘Do you have a new car, Stephanie?’ Sir Richard asked.
‘Her father always did spoil her,’ Aunt Lettice remarked.
Just as Freddie spoke Stephanie had inserted a large piece of ginger cake into her mouth, eager to buy precious seconds in which to decide on the safest answer. Unfortunately in her haste she had somewhat overestimated the capacity of her mouth, leaving her with bulging cheeks and able to breathe only through her nose.
‘Really, Stephanie,’ Aunt Gertrude commented. ‘Your manners are dreadful.’
‘She always was a little piggy-wig,’ Mrs Catchpole remarked, ruffling Stephanie’s hair.
Everybody was looking at her. She struggled to swallow at least part of her mouthful, made herself cough and projected a mixture of mucus and gingerbread crumbs on to her plate.
‘Stephanie!’ Great-aunt Victoria snapped.
She managed a muffled apology, still trying to decide if it was better to tell the truth and take her medicine, pretend the car was new and postpone the inevitable, or attempt to bluff it out. Taking the first choice would mean a spanking or the cane, very possibly in front of Freddie, which was unthinkable. The second choice would mean extra punishment for trying to evade her fate, but probably in private, which was better. The third was a gamble, and a chance too sweet to ignore.
‘Excuse me,’ she gasped as she swallowed the last of her ginger cake. ‘I think a crumb went down the wrong way. I don’t have a new car, Freddie, don’t be silly.’
‘Oh, you had her repainted, did you?’ he responded. ‘It’s a jolly colour, all the rage too, bright yellow.’
‘It’s buttercup yellow,’ Stephanie said, with sudden inspiration. ‘Those silly men at the garage in Princetown thought I wanted it completely repainted, when I’d only run out of petrol.’
She finished with a light laugh, praying her story would be accepted.
‘Completely repainted?’ Aunt Gertrude demanded.
‘Wasn’t that frightfully expensive?’ Aunt Lettice queried.
‘I had just enough left from my allowance,’ Stephanie said hastily.
‘They made you pay?’ said Great-aunt Victoria. ‘That is outrageous! I shall drive up with you first thing tomorrow, and demand a full refund.’
‘No, no, really,’ Stephanie said quickly, ‘it’s quite all right. I rather like yellow …’
‘That is quite beside the point,’ her great-aunt snapped. ‘It is plain that these people have sought to exploit your innocence and good nature by pretending to have misunderstood you. I, you may be assured, will not be so easily misled. It really is outrageous, the way tradesmen behave today …’
‘It’s the show tomorrow,’ Sir Richard pointed out, interrupting what was threatening to become a lengthy speech.
‘The day after, then,’ Freddie put in ingratiatingly, ‘and I’ll jolly well come with you to lend a bit of support.’
Stephanie threw a panic-stricken glance to where the French windows stood open to the air and freedom, at least temporary freedom. The choice before her was now even worse: confessing the truth, or at least an approximation thereof, or an appalling scene at the garage. To choose the second was to court disaster, maybe a public spanking, delivered in the middle of the road in front of not only Freddie but the mechanics and, with her luck, a large crowd of interested onlookers, who always seemed to appear at such times. It had to be the first choice.
‘Um … actually that won’t be necessary,’ she said weakly. ‘I didn’t want to tell you, because it was a bit expensive, but, you see, I rather fell in love with that yellow colour, so I ordered the repainting.’
Silence descended over the table as she finished. She hung her head, studying the mess on her plate as she waited for her sentence. Aunt Lettice spoke first.
‘How extravagant.’
‘How very untruthful,’ added Aunt Gertrude.
‘Fetch me my cane, would you, Hermione dear?’ Great-aunt Victoria asked.
‘Oh, no, not the cane, please,’ Stephanie babbled, half rising in panic and fear. ‘I don’t deserve the cane!’
‘On the contrary,’ her great-aunt informed her. ‘You have lied repeatedly, and I strongly suspect that you are still lying. Well?’
‘I’m not lying, not any more!’ Stephanie blustered, only for her will to break at the realisation that her great-aunt might know something more. ‘Oh, all right. I pranged the car. Some stupid man in a dray got in my way on the Cherrybrook bridge and I ended up in the drink. I had some scratches and a dented fender, a crack somewhere too. That’s all, I promise.’
Stephanie slumped in her seat. Hermione threw her a pitying look as she left the room, but did as she was told, returning almost immediately with the long, whalebone cane that was reserved only for the most serious infractions.
‘Do you admit you deserve the cane?’ Great-aunt Victoria asked as she took hold of the wicked-looking implement.
‘I suppose so,’ Stephanie admitted sulkily, knowing full well that to remonstrate would only make it worse.
‘I er … I suppose I’d better make myself scarce?’ Freddie suggested.
‘Not at all, Mr Drake,’ Victoria Truscott responded. ‘I always feel that in matters of domestic discipline the object lesson is best delivered in front of an audience. Stephanie, go and stand by the clock. I shall give you six strokes.’
Stephanie stood up, trembling so violently that she had to clench her fists in a vain effort to hide her emotions from Freddie. He looked uncomfortable, but made no further move to leave nor to look away when she took her position as ordered, with her back to the tea table. Great-aunt Victoria took a sip of tea and a dainty forkful of ginger cake before herself rising and crossing the room to stand behind Stephanie.
‘Raise your dress, Stephanie,’ she ordered.
Stephanie had known from the start that there would be no possibility of being caned on the seat of her dress, but still she hesitated, the humiliation boiling in her head at the thought of revealing herself to Freddie for so ignominious a reason, and painfully aware that going bare under her dress was likely to make things worse for her. Yet it took only a faint cough from her great-aunt to make her hurriedly reach for the hem of her dress and lift it to the level of her waist to show off her bare bottom.
‘N
o underwear, Stephanie?’ her great-aunt demanded. ‘Really, I despair of you ever growing up to be a lady. It is most indecent. Perhaps two extra strokes will help? Touch your toes.’
Stephanie had already begun to colour, and blushed darker still at the remark, but she was unable to find the courage to point out to her great-aunt that she would be more indecent still once she was touching her toes, since that would inevitably make her cheeks open and show off her quim. To make matters worse, she had nothing on her top either, so as she bent down she would have to be very careful to catch her dress between her tummy and her thighs, so that she would not add the exposure of her breasts to the display she was making of herself.
‘Eight strokes,’ Great-aunt Victoria confirmed.
Stephanie bent to touch her toes, her bare bottom on full show, painfully aware that her position exposed her anus, along with a rear view of her virgin quim. She could see Freddie, blushing with embarrassment and pretending not to watch, but clearly fascinated. Hermione had no such qualms, mouth and eyes both wide in spellbound horror, while both aunts showed a quiet satisfaction. Only her grandfather wasn’t looking, apparently because he was more interested in a magazine article on the care of the pig.
‘Four for lying,’ Victoria Truscott declared, and brought the cane down across Stephanie’s bottom.
The instant the long strip of whalebone landed, even her burning embarrassment was driven out of Stephanie’s head, to be replaced by a searing pain and then a great wave of self-pity. She began to cry even as the cane was again lifted over her naked bottom cheeks, but her tears found no sympathy.
‘There is no need to snivel, Stephanie,’ her great-aunt told her. ‘You brought this upon yourself, as well you know. One stroke.’
‘Yes, Auntie,’ Stephanie sobbed.
She bit her lip in an effort to hold her emotions in, but as the second stroke slashed down across her flesh she screamed out, unable to hold back, despite her desperate need not to be a baby about it in front of Freddie.
‘Do try and take it like a lady, Stephanie,’ Aunt Gertrude remarked casually.
‘Two strokes,’ Great-aunt Victoria said. ‘I do apologise for her behaviour, Mr Drake. She has never had any real fortitude. Fingers to your toes, Stephanie.’
Stephanie obeyed but moved a little too much, so that her dress fell down round her head, revealing her upside-down breasts to the audience but mercifully covering her miserable, tear-stained face. She was now stark naked from her ankles to her neck, every private detail of her body on blatant exhibition, but nobody came to adjust her dress or even commented. A naked, beaten girl was commonplace in that household, and Freddie was much too well-mannered to intervene in a domestic punishment.
No longer able to see, Stephanie could only wait in an agony of anticipation for the third stroke, which seemed to be an inordinately long time coming. The faint sound of a teacup being returned to its saucer told her that her great-aunt had paused to take refreshment, but just seconds later the cane landed across her bottom with full force, taking her by surprise. She stumbled forward, a scream of pain bursting from her lips, lost her balance and went down on all fours, her bottom flaunted to the room in what was, if anything, an even ruder position than before.
‘Do get up, Stephanie,’ Victoria Truscott sighed. ‘Must you always make such a drama of a simple punishment?’
‘I’m sorry, Auntie,’ Stephanie managed, scrambling hastily back into the correct position. ‘I wasn’t ready.’
‘Well, are you ready now?’
‘Yes, Auntie.’
‘I’m very glad to hear it. Three strokes, and four.’
On the last word the cane bit into Stephanie’s flesh, setting her dancing on her toes and babbling stupidly. Even when she managed to get her fingers to her toes again she was shaking uncontrollably, while the four welts on her bottom burned like fire. She could feel herself breaking down, and managed to hold her rude pose only by telling herself over and over that she was at the halfway mark.
‘And two for extravagance,’ Great-aunt Victoria said.
As the cane was laid gently across Stephanie’s bottom cheeks something inside her snapped.
‘But … but I wasn’t extravagant!’ she babbled. ‘I had to get her repainted because I’d crashed! I had to! No more, please, Auntie, no more –’
Her words turned to a scream as the cane lashed down across her bottom, once more setting her jumping and wriggling, but clutching her bottom too, indifferent to the display she was making, her cheeks held as wide as they would go.
‘You are making an exhibition of yourself, Stephanie,’ Aunt Gertrude remarked.
‘A most vulgar exhibition,’ Aunt Lettice agreed.
‘Five strokes,’ Great-aunt Victoria stated. ‘Take your hands away from your bottom, Stephanie.’
Tears running from her eyes and snot from her nose, Stephanie forced herself back into the correct position. With three strokes to go she was praying it would be done quickly, because she knew that if she was made to wait between each she would break completely. So, it seemed, did her great-aunt, who first laid the cane across the tuck of Stephanie’s bottom cheeks, lower than before. Realising that she was to be caned across the line of her cunt, Stephanie’s will snapped.
‘No, please, not there!’ she wailed, jumping up and once more grabbing her bottom. ‘Please, Auntie, that’s enough. I’m sorry … I’m really sorry! I’ve never tell a lie again, I promise, I promise!’
‘Touch your toes, Stephanie,’ Victoria commanded, only to be interrupted by a cough from Sir Richard.
‘I think she’s had enough, Vicky,’ he remarked, lifting his eyes from the pig magazine.
‘I awarded her eight strokes,’ Victoria answered, ‘and eight strokes it shall be.’
‘Make the last three taps then,’ he instructed. ‘Unless you’d care for a dose across your own backside.’
Stephanie’s dress had fallen back around her upper body, and she was able to see the speechless outrage on her great-aunt’s face, but it was lost on Sir Richard, who was studying a picture of an impressively large saddle-back boar.
‘I …’ Victoria began, only to think better of whatever protest she had been about to make. ‘Very well. Take your hands away, Stephanie, and stick out your bottom.’
Stephanie obeyed, still shaking badly as she made a target of herself, but when the cane came down it was a mere tap, not even hard enough to raise a line. Two more followed, a trifle harder, but easy to take.
‘Eight strokes,’ Victoria stated. ‘You may go.’
Stephanie ran, tripped over her drawers and went down on her knees, her well-beaten bottom flaunted to the room one last time, before scrambling to her feet and fleeing. Her dress was still up, so she was effectively stark naked as she dashed up the stairs and into her room, where she threw herself on the bed and gave way to a full-blown tantrum.
Six
THE DAY OF the Okehampton show dawned with a cool breeze and a hint of rain in the air, but Stephanie had no interest in the weather, preferring to use her mirror to make a rueful inspection of the five neat red lines that decorated her bottom. It had been done well, she had to admit, the lines parallel and exactly straight, all five on the flesh of her buttocks, leaving her thighs and hips unmarked. Not that the expertise with which the punishment had been applied was much consolation, any more than the knowledge that her great-aunt had gained the expertise from years of practice upon her nieces’ bottoms. The welts stung and would show for weeks, although she was hoping not to have anybody inspect her; and the embarrassment of having it done with Freddie watching exceeded even that of him rubbing his cock in her bottom slit. Moreover, as a final but strictly private humiliation, at some point in the dark, lonely hours of the night she had given in to the heat in her bottom and the sensation of lying face down with the covers off to spare her bruises and masturbated.
‘Only five?’ Vera’s voice sounded from the door, and Stephanie spun around, dropping her
nightie to cover her bottom. ‘From the fuss you made I thought she’d given you two dozen at least. Even Mr Catchpole thought twelve, and he’s known you –’
‘It was in front of Freddie Drake,’ Stephanie broke in, ‘and jolly hard, with a whalebone cane. I do wish you’d knock before you come in.’
‘That’s nothing I’ve not seen before,’ Vera answered. ‘I hope you put some Sootho on?’
‘Plenty, thank you,’ Stephanie answered, but chose not to admit exactly where she’d applied it.
‘I’ll rub in a little more later,’ Vera offered, ‘and perhaps we can give each other a little treat?’
She winked, and Stephanie found herself smiling in return despite herself. It had been the maid’s evening off the night before, and as Stephanie had rubbed the Sootho into her bottom she’d been wishing Vera was there to kiss her better, the first time, and to do rather more the second.
‘What will you be wearing for the show?’ Vera asked. ‘Your blue dress is the prettiest, and if you put your woollens on underneath you won’t be cold at all.’
‘She needs her Brown Shorts uniform,’ Hermione said, entering as casually as had the maid. ‘We’ve got to do the rally, Stiffy.’
‘I don’t see why …’ Stephanie began, and went quiet, aware that they needed to keep up the pretence at least until the stolen pig was safely in London. ‘Oh, very well.’
Hermione had the uniform, and threw it down on Stephanie’s bed.
‘Let’s see your bottie, then,’ she demanded.
Stephanie drew a sigh, but it seemed to be the time for her to have her bottom inspected, so she turned round once more and lifted her nightie to display the neat set of welts on her cheeks. Both her sister and Vera spent a moment contemplating Stephanie’s cane marks, before Hermione gave her verdict.
‘Ouch!’
‘Ouch is about right,’ Stephanie answered with feeling. ‘Why didn’t you come up and give me a cuddle?’
‘They wouldn’t let me. Great-aunt Victoria was furious because of Grandpapa making her let you off three strokes, and she said you had to stay on your own all evening to make up for it, and go without supper.’
Portrait of a Disciplinarian Page 14
