by Peter Birch
“I think there were nineteen of us in the end,” Peter broke in, now beginning to enjoy himself as his initial shock died away.
“One would have been too many,” she answered, her voice now edged with ice. “Especially if that one had been you, you little pervert.”
“I apologize,” Peter went on. “I apologize unreservedly. It was very unfair of me. But in my defense you undoubtedly had one of the prettiest bottoms in your year at St. Monica’s, small but perfectly formed, as the saying goes. Not only that, but you were a brat, and brats need spanking, as I’m sure you realize?”
“You little bastard!” she spat.
“Oh come on,” he chuckled. “With such a pretty bottom and such a vicious personality, how could you possibly expect not to get spanked? Just like gin needs tonic or peaches need cream, as the Americans say. It’s just the way things are. There’s no point in complaining about it. Besides, as I recall you were—to use a somewhat vulgar turn of phrase—absolutely creaming yourself while you were getting you rump roasted.”
Christine had been listening to him wordlessly, her mouth opening and closing, tempting Peter to draw a comparison between her and the carp in the pond beside them. But he changed his mind when he saw the raw fury in her eyes. Surely she was about to hit him, and he stepped back a little to make sure he was out of reach. But Christine had quickly regained control, her voice once more calm as she continued.
“You’ll regret that little speech, Peter Finch, every rotten word. I know you’re up to something. I’m not entirely sure what it is yet, but I know it involves some pretty high profile people and I’d bet absolutely anything that it’s extremely shady.”
“How do you mean?” Peter asked with a sudden sense of dread. “I’m not ‘up to’ anything, as you put it. What makes you think I am?”
“You run an agency, don’t you?” she said, her voice dripping venom. “An agency that supplies maids, very exclusive maids. Most similar agencies employ the cheapest labor they can, all sorts of people, from all sorts of backgrounds and of all ages. Your maids are all very young, very pretty and very British.”
“As you say, we offer an exclusive service,” Peter countered.
“Suspiciously exclusive,” she went on. “But don’t worry, if you’re really above board you having nothing to worry about. Otherwise …”
“Grove House Maids is a legitimate company,” he insisted. “You can go over our accounts, if you want to. But anyway, why all the fuss? Wouldn’t it be better to let bygones be bygones?”
“No,” she answered emphatically. “Besides, even if this was nothing to do with you, I’d still be interested. I didn’t tell you what I’ve been doing all these years, did I? I, Peter Finch, am a journalist.”
♦♦♦♦
“We’re going to have to draw our horns in a bit,” Peter insisted, leaning forward in his chair at Lorrimer’s. He’d called an emergency meeting of the key players who’d been instrumental in developing the business.
“No,” Stephen answered. “That would be playing into her hands. You don’t think she tipped you off to make life easier for you, surely?”
“She lost her temper,” Peter pointed out. “But then again …”
“Always assume your opponent is at least as clever as you are,” Stephen went on. “Maybe she lost her temper and blurted it out, but maybe she did it on purpose in order to force you to react. She’s watching you, and if you change the way Grove House Maids works, let alone shut down completely, that will only confirm her suspicions.”
“I agree,” Gabriel put in, “and besides, I need girls.”
“Surely you can manage without for a while?” Peter queried.
“Not for sex,” Gabriel retorted. “Well, obviously for sex, but not personally. I’m not too popular with my local committee just now, with my majority down in the hundreds, so I’ve been keeping old man Broughton sweet by sending Elspeth round to service him now and again.”
“You’re not really supposed to do that,” Peter told him. “Sir Edmund Broughton is not a club member.”
“He thinks she’s a friend of my niece’s,” Gabriel explained. “But never mind that. I need to be able to hire Elspeth, and Stephen’s right anyway.”
“Well?” Peter asked, looking to Ben Thompson and Clive Sumner.
“Stephen is definitely right,” Ben answered, with Clive nodding agreement. “Keep things as they are and perhaps we can get rid of her.”
“How?” Peter demanded, alarmed.
“Nothing too drastic,” Ben answered him. “But she’s a journalist, with a long history of digging up inconvenient facts and catching people in awkward situations. She’ll have her share of guilty secrets.”
“Or,” Gabriel suggested, “we could offer her boss a little light entertainment. He’s a randy old goat by all accounts, old Lord Bearslake, with some highly peculiar habits if the rumors are to be believed. Okay, so he supported the other team at the election, but he’s one of us at heart and I doubt he wants a party scandal at present.”
“I wouldn’t count on that,” Clive advised. “Loyalty is not exactly his strong point and we’re pretty unpopular just now. Think of all the papers he could sell with a nice juicy sex scandal.”
“Ah,” Gabriel went on, “but if he was a member of our club I’m sure he could be persuaded to keep Christine on a tight leash—literally, with any luck.”
“I can’t see that working,” Peter put in. “Maybe he is a randy old goat, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Christine is fucking him. But I can’t imagine him putting sex before profit.”
“Hang on,” Clive queried. “Gabriel, how do you mean ‘literally’?”
“Apparently,” Gabriel went on, grinning, “he likes to dress girls up as animals, preferably so that he can hunt them down on his estate in Gloucestershire.”
“Good grief!” Ben exclaimed. “And what does he do when he catches them?”
“He fucks them, I’m guessing,” Gabriel laughed. “I don’t think he’s a complete maniac.”
“More to the point,” Clive put in, “how has he managed to get away with something like that for all these years, maniac or not?”
“Much the same way we do, I imagine,” Peter replied. “Posh girls, well paid.”
“That and a reputation as a litigious bastard,” Gabriel told them. “After all, who would believe that the great philanthropist and guardian of the nation’s morals, Lord Bearslake, would get up to that sort of thing? I was a bit dubious myself, when I first found out.”
“How did you find out?” Peter asked.
“A little bird told me,” Gabriel answered. “A very pretty little bird I happened to meet in Oxford after the Caring Planet event.”
Gabriel had taken Chloe back to her college to have sex with her, and Peter felt a sharp pang of guilt as he glanced towards Ben. But his friend’s face showed only interest as Gabriel continued.
“It was a wonderful moment, and one you’d particularly appreciate, Peter. After I’d um … finished, I dropped in at the Eagle and Child for a refreshing pint. I was about halfway down the glass when I realized that this girl was looking at me. She was an absolute poppet, little and pretty with a splash of freckles across her nose and a bouncy little pair of tits, and as pink as a raspberry. I thought I was hanging out of my fly at first because, handsome though I am, I don’t usually get college girls chasing after me these days, and she was clearly fascinated. Well, the snake was still in his lair, and she was still looking at me, so I introduced myself. Do you know what, she’d spotted that I’d got spanker’s hand!”
“Wonderful!” Peter said.
“Who had you been spanking?” Ben asked.
“Clemmie,” Gabriel responded without so much as faltering. “Anyway, so there I was, caught red handed, literally. But you know what these girls are like—when there’s spanking to
be done, they prefer an older man. So I took her over to Port Meadow and gave her the pinkest little bottom you ever did see, then taught her how to say thank you properly. Ophelia, she’s called. Naturally I’d thought about signing her up to be a maid, so I took her out to dinner to sound her out, which is when she told me about old Bearslake. He used to run her on his estate, dressed as a vixen fox, with a big fluffy tail on a butt plug wedged in her ass. So there we are, Peter, your problem is solved.”
“Very neatly,” Peter replied. “Very neatly indeed.”
He sat back, thinking deeply as the others continued to talk. An hour later the meeting broke up and they went their separate ways. But Stephen stayed with Peter, talking as they walked up Piccadilly towards Green Park station.
“Am I right in thinking you could do with some assistance for this business with Lord Bearslake?” Stephen asked.
“Very possibly,” Peter replied. “I haven’t thought through all the permutations yet, but we’re going to have to be very careful.”
“You can count on me for support,” Stephen assured him. “Financial or otherwise. I need to make a booking too, Clemmie probably. I need somebody tough.”
“Why’s that?”
“Kralj has taken a liking to English corporal punishment. He wants to beat Vivienne.”
“Are you’re not going to let him?”
“No. I spank her occasionally, and she quite likes it as long as I’m not too rough. But she couldn’t handle six-of-the-best, let alone what Kralj wants to dish out. After the party I made the mistake of telling him about the birch, and you know what a cold, sadistic bastard he is. He didn’t even get his cock out with Felicity, did he. But I’m sure he came in his pants while he was beating her. That wasn’t enough for him, though, because she got off on it too.”
“Isn’t that the whole point?”
“Not for him. He wants a girl who’s going to hate it, not a masochist. I can’t let him have Vivienne, but I need to stay on his good side. That’s why I need a substitute, and fast.”
“Bastard. Still, that can probably be arranged, but I don’t think Clemmie’s the right choice. He’s seen her in action.”
“Perhaps you’re right. Who then?”
“Not Flick, obviously, and Chloe couldn’t handle it. Maybe Elspeth, unless the girl has to be blonde?”
“That was Drach’s personal kink. This is a one to one.”
“Okay. Elspeth is due a spanking anyway, for breaking the rules.”
“That was mainly Gabriel’s fault.”
“True, but that’s just the way it goes. He gets a light ticking off and she gets spanked, or in this case, birched.”
“Are you sure she can handle it? He means to hurt her, and he’s not the sort of man who’ll stop if she can’t handle the pain. In fact, that’s exactly what he wants.”
“I’ll make sure she knows what she’s in for,” Peter assured him. “But she’s tough, and a good little actress. Besides, if it’s her or Vivienne …”
♦♦♦♦
Elspeth swung from the tree by her bound wrists, her feet barely in contact with the ground. Her beautiful, pale body was naked and slick with sweat, her mouth hung slack and open, her eyes were unfocused and her long red hair hung in disheveled wet rat’s tails. Welts from the birch criss-crossed the front of her body, turning the flesh of her breasts, belly and thighs an angry red. But it was her bottom that had received most attention. Her lovely, rounded cheeks glowed red with abuse, squeezing slowly in her pain.
She’d been put through the full birching ritual, first taken deep into the Berkshire woods and ordered to strip as Peter and Kralj watched. Then made to pick birch twigs in the nude. Long before she was finished she’d been in tears, with her fingers shaking as she used the fine red ribbon from her hair to tie off the handle, making the implement she was to be beaten with. Peter had felt more pity than lust, despite knowing that she was putting on an act. But Kralj had been delighted, his thin mouth twitching with pleasure for every step of her degradation and finally breaking into a skull like grin as she was strung up by her wrists from an overhead branch, so high that her toes scarcely brushed the forest floor beneath her.
He’d taken his time with her, using the big, bushy birch to tease her breasts and cunt, touching her as intimately as he pleased, keeping his black leather gloves on even as he penetrated her cunt and anus before making her suck his fingers. When the beating had finally begun he’d shown no mercy at all, laying in with the birch so hard that she’d bounced and swung from the rope, jerking wildly and trying in vain to turn away from the blows, alternately screaming and begging for mercy—no longer in pretense—as the supple twigs bit into her flesh over and over again.
Her pain had only served to enhance her tormentor’s pleasure and amusement, until he’d finally stood back, leaving her to hang limp and broken on the end of the rope, as he freed his cock. Peter had been told what to do and quickly released the rope from her knees and ankles. From there, he went to where the rope was tied off to another tree, tugging the knot lose. Elspeth collapsed into the leaf mold, unable to stand, too far gone even to try and close her legs, and as her body hit the ground her bladder gave way, an arc of fluid spraying out from her.
Kralj watched, grinning, as Elspeth wet herself, his hand tugging at a long, almost unnaturally pale erection above a pair of rounded little balls that jutted from the opening of his black leather coat. She could do nothing, spread helpless in the dirt with her wrists bound tight above her head and her thighs wide as her gushing stream gradually died away in a series of little spurts that finished with a thin trickle running down between her cheeks. Only when she was fully done did Kralj step closer, to mount her, driving his cock deep into her sopping cunt with a single, hard thrust.
A low, despairing moan escaped her lips as she was entered. Her moan gave way to bitter sobs as her fucking began, Kralj’s long cock pumping into her as his balls squeezed against her anus with every thrust. As with the whipping, he took his time, withdrawing after a while to roll her over and fuck her from behind with her bottom held up high to greet the thrusts of his cock; then making her suck him; rubbing his prick over her welted breasts and in the slit of her bottom; then mounting her once more before pulling out to finish himself off over her face and in her open mouth. Even then he wasn’t finished. Elspeth lay spread out in the dirt, naked, soiled with sweat and cum, her body a mess of whip marks. Still, even after he’d come he showed no mercy, no sympathy, waiting until his cock had gone limp before casually urinating over her prone body. He then put his cock away and turned to Peter, extending a distinctly sticky hand. Peter shook it anyway, determined not to offend, and Kralj grinned as he spoke, his voice now cheerful and friendly.
“Thank you, that was a pleasure. You English, you have an art with girls. If there is ever any little favor you wish to ask of me in return, you must do so.”
With that he left, joining the two burly bodyguards who’d been watching from among the trees to make sure they weren’t disturbed while Elspeth was used for his pleasure. Only when he was sure that the three men had gone did Peter step forward to untie Elspeth’s wrists as he spoke to her.
“Are you okay?”
“No …” Elspeth sighed, “I need to come … and I need to come now …”
Peter smiled and shrugged as he put a hand to her cunt and began to masturbate her.
♦♦♦♦
Ophelia proved to be every bit as appealing as Gabriel had said—small and winsome, strikingly pretty, with a coquettish manner and a round little backside that was ripe and ready for corporal administration. Despite his friend’s commendation, Peter had insisted on vetting her properly, with a long session across his knee while Gabriel looked on, before she was put on her knees to fellate them both with her hot red bottom pushed out behind. She’d passed with flying colors and happily agreed to introduce them to Lo
rd Bearslake at his country estate. Bearslake had been doubtful at first, but had finally agreed on the condition that Peter bring down two girls of his own.
In response, he’d taken Rhiannon and Elspeth to Master Jacobaeus, who’d whipped and sodomized both girls before agreeing to loan two of his own, both highly experienced and safe from any risk of scandal. One Peter already knew, Slave Green, or Gemma, who’d surrendered her virginity on the night of the party at St. Botolph’s church. The other, Slave White, or Laurel, was new to him, but easy going and friendly. The three of them had been swapping dirty stories as they drove west on the M4, and they were on the best of terms by the time Peter drew the Jaguar to a halt on the carriage sweep of Bearslake Hall.
“That’s quite a place,” Gemma breathed, looking up at the facade of the great mansion. “He must be loaded.”
“Loaded indeed,” Laurel agreed.
“Never mind the scenery,” Peter instructed. “Strike a pose. Tits out, please.”
Both girls were giggling as they quickly pulled up their tops to show off braless breasts, allowing Peter to take a series of pictures with the hall in the background. As he slipped his camera back into the pocket of the scarlet hunting coat he’d bought for the occasion, a man appeared between the high gates to one side of the building and beckoned to them.
“Not out in the front,” the man said as Peter and the girls drew close. “Bring the car in here. Discretion is essential.”
“Of course,” Peter agreed. “I’m Peter Finch. This is Gemma and this is Laurel, and you are?”
“John,” the man answered. “I work for Lord Bearslake, as a gamekeeper, so to speak.”
“Ah, I see, good. Is Ophelia here too? …”
Even as he spoke, Ophelia was stepping out from one of the old stable buildings behind John. The sight of her left Peter opened mouthed for an instant, while Gemma gave a squeak of delight and excitement. Ophelia was stark naked save for heavy boots, a cleverly designed fox’s mask and a huge, bushy, red-brown tail rising behind her and quite clearly plugged into her anus. Her entire body had been painted too, with a fox’s red back and flanks, but a paler abdomen and darker limbs, cunningly executed to show off her breasts and belly, making her at once exotic and intensely sexual.
