By a combination of deceit, bribery and carefully calculated risk, Myrtle had arranged for Stephanie to be caned in front of the entire school. That would have been bad enough, although the Headmistress had awarded only three strokes across the seat of Stephanie’s drawers, but Myrtle and her friends had had other plans. They had caught Stephanie in the toilets while she was preparing to face her ordeal, held her down, stripped off her drawers and smeared her anus with a mixture of one third Nut Brown boot polish and two thirds extra-hot mustard. Her frantic begging as she was led to the assembly hall had only made her tormentors laugh, and she had been obliged to climb on to the stage as she was. Four hundred and sixty-three girls, the entire staff and most of the servants had then watched as she was made to bend over a trestle and her dress lifted, to reveal not a pair of the modest and voluminous splitters that were standard wear at Teigngrace but her bare bottom, which she appeared to have neglected to wipe.
As she was caned, with her beaten bottom less painful than her burning anus, and her burning anus in turn less painful than the blazing humiliation in her head, something inside her had broken, destroying the last vestige of her will to resist the girl who was supposed to be her Protector. Afterwards, as she grovelled naked at Myrtle’s feet in the showers, licking her quim and rubbing herself, she had achieved the first orgasm of her life, and had come over the memory perhaps a hundred times since; but that was not the point. Besides, no revenge would be fully satisfying unless it also brought Myrtle to orgasm, and in some thoroughly humiliating fashion; but nothing she could think of came close to what she felt would be justice.
The various possibilities and their attendant difficulties occupied her mind most of the way to Paddington, broken only by a period of concentration on her breakfast. All the solutions that occurred to her were either unsatisfying or impractical for some technical reason, such as landing herself with a long stretch in jail. At her journey’s end she became distracted by the need to transport the one-hundred-stone pig from Paddington Station to Dover Street, Mayfair.
Her idea had been to hire a dray, a simple enough procedure in rural Devon, even if her method of paying had been somewhat unorthodox. In London it proved a rather different matter, as all the drays, wagons and lorries in Eastbourne Terrace and Praed Street appeared to be busy on specific errands. Finally, after being told somewhat sharply that Singularis Porcus was no longer welcome in the freight wagon where he’d spent the journey, she bought a bag of Cox’s Orange Pippins at a convenient stall and a ball of rather pretty blue string from a stationers. Attaching the string to his nose ring and using the apples as bait, she led him from the train and out of the station.
Progress was slow, and also embarrassing, because while he was perfectly willing to follow her, he seemed to enjoy snuffling at her legs and bottom almost as much as he did the apples. She kept to the smaller streets, keenly aware that the local constabulary might be inclined to regard her behaviour as peculiar, and that, while she was fairly sure that no law specifically forbade leading a pig through the streets of London, the animal in question was stolen. He was also hungry, and by the time she had managed to cross the Bayswater Road a single apple remained from what had been a three-pound bag.
With no further apples on offer, the Porker redoubled his interest in Stephanie herself, turning her embarrassment into fear. While she was unsure of his exact intentions, they seemed to be more than merely friendly. At last, in desperation, she entered Hyde Park and selected a long twig, to the end of which she tied the apple. Mounting his back, which was so broad that she was forced to spread her legs as wide as they would go, she took a firm grip of the thick bristles growing along the top of his head and extended the twig so that the apple hung within a few inches of his snout.
The effect was as she had intended, in fact rather more than that. He set off so rapidly that she was nearly unseated and was forced to cling on with her calves and feet. His motion was not everything it might have been, his lively trotting making her bounce on his back in a highly disconcerting fashion and causing his bristles to rub against her quim. The sensation made her eyes pop and her face flush scarlet, but she dared not get off. The park seemed unreasonably crowded for a mild but cloudy spring day.
By the time she reached the junction of the North Ride and the Serpentine Road she realised that she was going to come; and just opposite the bandstand, where the musicians were playing a lively piece that encouraged the pig to both greater efforts and an improved rhythm, she did. It was a sharp, sudden orgasm, intensely shameful, and too strong to allow her to hold back the cry of ecstasy that broke from her lips. Just then, two of her mother’s closest and most inquisitive friends reined in their horses at the end of Rotten Row.
Dizzy with erotic sensations, flushed hot with embarrassment and in a state of advanced panic, Stephanie dug her knees into the Porker’s flanks and urged him to greater efforts. He responded magnificently, breaking from a trot into a canter and exiting the park at a pace she would never have thought possible for such a grotesquely obese animal. He also seemed to have an innate grasp of traffic etiquette, and proceeded down first Knightsbridge, then Piccadilly on the correct side of the road without overtaking in a dangerous manner or hitting anything. It was nevertheless with vast relief that she turned into Berkeley Street, steered him the last few yards into the mews that served the rear of Gaspers, and dismounted.
After a moment to compose herself, check her make-up and adjust her now distinctly sticky drawers, Stephanie knocked on what she had worked out must be the kitchen door of Gaspers. It was opened by a bulky woman with a florid face who was holding a large wooden spoon in one hand. Stephanie’s bottom cheeks twitched instinctively despite the fact that the woman’s expression, though puzzled, was respectful.
‘Miss Truscott? Wouldn’t you be better round the front, my dear?’ she began, then stopped as the crash of a large bin drew her attention to Singularis Porcus, who clearly felt that three pounds of apples had been an inadequate breakfast. ‘Whatever is that?’
‘My pig,’ Stephanie explained. ‘May I bring him in?’
‘Bring him in?’
‘Yes, he’s my trophy for the election this afternoon.’
‘Your trophy?’
‘Yes, I stole him in Devon and brought him up on the market train. Now –’
‘You stole him?’
‘Of course I stole him, Mrs Tubbs. You know the rules, I’m sure. Trophies have to stolen, or they don’t count. And please could you stop repeating everything I say? It’s most irritating.’
‘Very good, Miss,’ Mrs Tubbs answered doubtfully, ‘but he’s to stay in the yard until it’s time for the election. I’m not having that thing in my kitchen.’
‘As you please,’ Stephanie agreed, ‘and he seems happy enough. I’ll collect him after lunch. Is Miss Finch-Farmiloe in?’
‘No, Miss, but she’s reserved a table for luncheon. Shall I add you to the party?’
‘Yes, do,’ Stephanie replied, making the best of her new-found confidence. ‘And you’re right. I should go in by the front door.’
Stephanie made her way to the smoking room and indulged in a leisurely cigar, something that was forbidden to her both at home and in Devon. There were plenty of people about and she did a little gentle canvassing, although she knew that the members could be divided into three roughly equal groups. The first included those girls who had been senior to her at Teigngrace – which a large minority of the club membership had attended – and their immediate friends. With a few exceptions who had themselves suffered from Myrtle’s attentions, their votes would be lost to Stephanie. The second, rather smaller group were her own friends from Teigngrace, every one of whom was firmly on her side, if only because they shared her distaste for Myrtle. That left those girls who had not attended Teigngrace or formed any particular affiliations later; they would cast their votes according to the quality of the trophies presented by the rival candidates.
Her only concern wa
s that Myrtle might be about to spring a horrid surprise on her – not the usual sort, but by providing a trophy even further out of the ordinary than the giant pig. Unfortunately Myrtle’s allies would be sure not to tell Stephanie anything, while the other girls simply would not know, with the possible exception of Bobbie Drake. It was hard to gauge how Bobbie would react to the theft of her father’s pig, so Stephanie determined not to mention the matter. She went looking for her and found her in the billiards room, potting cannons with casual ease in front of a group of admiring onlookers.
‘So they let you in?’ Stephanie asked. ‘Extraordinary!’
Bobbie replied with a good-natured grin, turned her attention back to the table just long enough to bring off another perfect cannon, then returned her cue to the rack as she spoke.
‘Freddie says you fluffed it trying to get a copper’s helmet.’
‘Yes,’ Stephanie admitted. ‘It was a good one too, a Sergeant.’
‘Tough luck, and getting pinched too. So what have you got for us, or is it still under wraps?’
‘Under wraps,’ Stephanie confirmed. ‘How about Myrtle?’
‘I haven’t seen her since she went down to Devon, and she didn’t have anything then. She’ll probably turn up with a barrel of cider.’
‘That would go down well,’ Stephanie joked, ‘but I’d still win.’
‘Good old Stiffy!’ one of the other girls called out.
‘The little brat hasn’t a chance,’ another remarked. ‘Myrtle’s sure to win.’
Stephanie gave what she hoped was a mysterious smile and took up the cue Bobbie had been using, only to miss completely with her first attempt at a cannon, sending a ball over the edge of the table and on to the foot of one of her own supporters. When Myrtle’s friends had finished laughing and Stephanie’s face had regained its normal peaches-and-cream complexion, she quizzed Bobbie again.
‘So you have no idea what I’m up against?’
‘Not at all, old thing,’ Bobbie replied. ‘Freddie doesn’t know either. I suppose you know the silly ass has gone and got himself engaged to Myrtle?’
‘Yes,’ Stephanie replied bitterly, ‘although not for long, if I can help it.’
‘Stand aloof,’ Bobbie advised. ‘She’s only doing it to spite you, and she’ll soon get bored if you don’t pay her any attention, but if you make a fuss she might actually go ahead and marry him.’
Stephanie made a face and attempted another shot, this time successfully, although with only Bobbie and a handful of her own friends watching it was something of a wasted effort.
Lunch was moderately successful. She took her place early, beside Bobbie, and Myrtle and her friends were satisfyingly discomfited, while other girls admired her cheek. She even managed to hold her own in conversation, at least most of the time, and to balance careful hints and mysterious silences about the nature of her trophy so skilfully that by the end of the meal Myrtle was clearly worried.
Feeling confident, Stephanie retired to the smoking room for a brandy and another cigar before making her way to the reading room. It was already full, the chairs lining three walls all taken and other girls standing at the back or seated in the windows. Three chairs stood behind a table along the fourth wall, where the outgoing Secretary, Clementina ‘Britches’ Ashburton, had already taken her place in the middle. Stephanie took her place on Clementina’s right. They exchanged greetings, and Stephanie tried to forget the occasion when the older girl had birched her. Myrtle arrived moments later, no longer flustered but smug.
‘Settle down, Ladies,’ Clementina demanded, and banged on the table the base of the half-bottle of champagne she’d been enjoying. ‘Settle down!’
The conversation died and a last titter was hastily stifled. Stephanie glanced round the room as Clementina went through the formalities. A count of heads to see who was there only confirmed what she’d known already, that the vote was in the hands of the unaligned girls.
‘… and that’s that,’ Clementina concluded, ‘so may the best girl win. Myrtle, you’re up.’
As the senior girl, it was Myrtle’s right to go first, and Stephanie struggled to look calm and composed as her rival got to her feet.
‘I shan’t bother with a speech,’ Myrtle began, to an immediate ripple of clapping. ‘You all know who I am, and that I’ll make a jolly sight better Secretary than little Stiffy there, who can’t even wipe her bottom properly.’
There was a ripple of laughter mixed with gasps of shock and outraged whispers, but Myrtle carried on blithely.
‘I don’t imagine she’s up to much when it comes to trophies either. I suppose you’ve all heard how she got pinched trying to steal a policeman’s helmet on Boat Race Day? Yes, I thought you would, but I don’t suppose all of you know that afterwards her mother gave her a spanking and sent her down to Devon in disgrace?’
This time there was general laughter, even from some of the girls whom Stephanie counted as allies. Her face had flared red.
‘She shouldn’t even be here,’ Myrtle continued, ‘and when she gets back she’ll be getting her bottom warmed again, by her ghastly aunts, bare, and in front of anybody who happens to be about. So you can see that she’s just the sort of modern, independent girl we need for Secretary, I don’t think.’
Stephanie’s face was now crimson, while there wasn’t a single girl in the room who wasn’t either giggling or exchanging whispered remarks with her neighbours. She forced a smile and thought of the effect Singularis Porcus would have.
‘But enough of her pathetic behaviour,’ Myrtle went on. ‘We’ve had some jolly good trophies, but I’m sure you’ll all agree mine is the bee’s knees, or maybe that should be the pig’s wig.’
As she spoke she gestured to the door, which swung wide to reveal three of Myrtle’s closest friends – and Singularis Porcus.
Stephanie’s gasp of protest died in her throat as the assembled girls burst out laughing, cheering and clapping while the huge pig was manoeuvred into the room. Objecting would be useless and only make her failure all the more humiliating. Myrtle hadn’t even broken the rules: the trophy had to be stolen, but there was nothing to say it couldn’t be stolen from a rival. There was even a precedent, because Clementina herself had secured re-election by presenting a pair of sponge-bag trousers originally removed from an MP by her challenger.
All she could do was sit tight-lipped in anger as Myrtle soaked up applause and congratulations. She even found herself clapping. The crust of self-confidence she’d gained when she learnt that Myrtle got spanked had now cracked, and all her feelings of inferiority were welling up again. Only one girl wasn’t joining in to praise Myrtle, Bobbie Drake, who pushed through the crowd to inspect the pig.
‘That’s my father’s pig!’ she exclaimed.
‘Rather a coup, don’t you think?’ Myrtle responded.
‘Maybe,’ Bobbie answered, ‘but I think you might have waited until after the Okehampton Show to pinch him, don’t you?’
There was real anger in Bobbie’s voice, and a sudden hope flared in Stephanie’s brain.
‘Excuse me,’ she said to Clementina. ‘I have to prepare my trophy.’
‘As a matter of fact –’ Myrtle was saying, but broke off as Stephanie came over to her.
‘I need to explain,’ Stephanie said.
‘Yes, you do, don’t you?’ Myrtle responded, smugger than ever.
‘Outside, please,’ Stephanie said. ‘It would spare embarrassment.’
Myrtle gave a derisive chuckle but followed Stephanie from the room, as did Bobbie. Stephanie’s heart was hammering as she closed the reading room door behind her.
‘In here,’ she suggested, pushing into the now empty dining room.
‘What’s up?’ Bobbie demanded.
‘I need you to do something for me,’ Stephanie meekly said as she reached up beneath her dress to lever her drawers down and off.
‘What?’ Bobbie asked, puzzled.
‘She wants you to span
k her, silly,’ Myrtle laughed, ‘because –’
‘No,’ Stephanie interrupted. ‘Grab her, Bobbie, quick, please! I beg you, if we’ve ever been friends!’
Bobbie hesitated only an instant before gripping Myrtle from behind in a bear hug.
‘Get off!’ Myrtle squealed. ‘Get off me, you great beast, you stupid gorilla, you –’
Her words were abruptly cut off as Stephanie’s drawers were jammed firmly into her mouth and pushed deep, leaving her struggling furiously in Bobbie’s grip, with no more chance of breaking free than if it had been a real gorilla that was holding her. Stephanie jumped back, avoiding Myrtle’s efforts to kick her. Bobbie hauled Myrtle off the ground, leaving her legs waving in the air, but otherwise helpless.
Stephanie had been the victim of the same move all too often, and knew exactly what to do. Darting in, she grabbed one flailing leg, jerked Myrtle’s stocking free of its suspender clip and hauled it down. Myrtle also knew exactly what was happening, and fought harder than ever to stop herself being tied, but there was nothing she could do. After just two failed attempts Stephanie managed to get the stocking around Myrtle’s legs and pull it tight, trapping both at the ankles.
Still Myrtle fought, jerking her tied legs back and forth and mumbling furiously through her mouthful of sweaty silk, but Bobbie was too strong for her. She was forced, slowly but surely, down into a kneeling position and her arms pulled back behind her thighs. Using her own stockings, Stephanie bound Myrtle’s wrists together and fastened them to the first stocking. Trussed up like a piglet ready for market, Myrtle was completely helpless, but she was still wriggling and doing her best to spit Stephanie’s drawers out of her mouth. Stephanie wedged them deeper in before turning to Bobbie.
Portrait of a Disciplinarian Page 20
