by Monica Belle
There were 13 in the tour, and one of them drew my attention even as we watched them assemble from the churchyard. He was in a group of three – all young men – and they didn’t seem to know each other particularly well so might even have met on the bus. At least three inches shorter than me, he was even smaller than I’d imagined, and also distinctly fat. He had no beard, but he did carry an obviously expensive Canon camera with a telephoto lens. Julian didn’t seem to have noticed so I drew his attention.
‘What about the guy in the baggy combat trousers and the red T-shirt, the fat one?’
‘Could be, I suppose, but why’s he more likely than the two standing with him, or the old man sitting on the bench?’
‘He’s got a good camera, for a start.’
‘It’s a Canon. The Inquisitor mentioned a D90, which is a Nikon.’
‘Oh. Maybe he has two?’
Julian made a doubtful face, but I wasn’t to be put off so easily.
‘I don’t think it’s the others anyway. I can’t see the old guy creeping around the grounds in the middle of the night, and the other two are really quite good looking.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘Well, the Inquisitor’s sure to be a bit of a loner, isn’t he? Not that good with girls, still single in his 30s, probably still lives with his mum.’
‘You’re thinking of psychopaths.’
‘And the sort of guy who’s into conspiracy theories and stuff.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Anyway, let’s keep an eye on him, and I think you should follow him after the tour.’
‘Me?’
‘I can’t, can I? What if he turns nasty?’
‘Run away. I mean, he’s not going anywhere very fast, is he?’
‘Still ...’
I trailed off, actually rather keen on the idea of trying to follow somebody, and it was hard to be scared by the dumpy little man who was now poking about in his ear in an absent-minded fashion. Julian glanced at his watch.
‘Come on, let’s go. Your turn.’
We stepped forward, as always emerging from the lych gate as suddenly and mysteriously as possible. I was in my black dress as usual, but I’d refined my make-up to add to the effect, and I could now deliver my lines with the same fluid ease as Julian.
‘Ladies, gentlemen, welcome to Candle Street Hall.’
They’d all turned to me, and to Julian, who had stepped out behind me. I began to go into the legend of Black Dog Lane, all the while trying to work out if my suspect was behaving oddly in any way and quickly deciding that he was. He stayed at the back, for one thing, as if trying to hide behind his taller friends, and he kept taking pictures, not just of the sights but of me and Julian. As we walked up Black Dog Lane he was well behind the rest of the group and appeared to be studying the ground, presumably in the hope of finding some tracks. At the Hall he was worse, distinctly nervous and far more interested in his surroundings than in what we were saying. He also seemed unusually interested in me, which I pointed out to Julian the moment I had a chance.
‘That man’s been staring at me all day!’
‘So what? He’s a human male, isn’t he? Although in your case I’m sure a chimpanzee ...’
‘Stop being silly. I’m sure it’s him – the Inquisitor.’
‘In that case don’t draw attention to yourself.’
‘I won’t.’
I’d have gone on, but an elderly American couple were approaching us, wanting to know the juicy details of Lady Howard’s crime and whether or not they’d be able to see the coach of bones if they paid extra. Julian was always better at tackling that sort of question, so I left him to it, grouping the others together to tell them they were free to explore the grounds until we closed. I was careful not to pay any extra attention to my suspect, and made a point of joining a family to show them where Sir Richard Aylsham had fought a duel with Charles James Fox.
By the time I’d finished Julian was still with the two Americans and there was no sign of my suspect. The two men he’d been with were visible though, sitting on the edge of the bank sharing water from a bottle. There was a chance the man was indoors, so I made a hasty survey of the rooms, only to glance from the window of one of the show bedrooms and find him standing at the mouth of the folly path. He was looking at the ground, his camera in his hands. I had my proof.
I hurried downstairs, eager to find Julian, but he was nowhere to be seen. Moving through to the kitchen, I peered out. My suspect was gone, but I was pretty sure of the direction he’d taken. With my heart in my mouth I ran for the folly path, moving cautiously on into the woods. Close to the folly itself I took cover behind a big straggling holly, allowing me to see into the folly itself. He was there, actually inside the folly, beside the altar where Julian had laid me for sex so many times. In his hand was a sheep’s skull.
He was the Inquisitor, there was no doubt at all in my mind. His appearance, his behaviour, the camera – everything fitted, which just went to show that my intuition was worth more than Julian’s logic. Now all I had to do was find out who he was and where he lived to ensure that we were fully in control. If he’d booked online or by post Graham would already have his details, and he’d had his ticket in advance so, unless he’d paid cash at the gatehouse, we had him.
I should have left. We now had everything we needed to identify him, almost certainly, and the sensible thing would have been to back off and let him think he hadn’t been spotted. I couldn’t do it. My adrenaline was running high and it was impossible to be scared of a man who looked like a garden gnome. Anyway, he wasn’t paying the slightest attention to me, fascinated by the altar as he photographed the skulls and the candles, the pot of wax and the outline of the pentagram.
My best moment came when he realised the significance of the stain. He’d been very serious, his face set in a frown of concentration as he photographed each detail of our fake ritual, only to suddenly stop, his mouth dropping slowly open as the implications of the marks on the altar top sank in. For me it was a beautiful moment of exhibitionist fantasy, for all that he couldn’t actually see me at all.
That didn’t matter. He could see that a woman had been fucked on the altar, he could guess why and he could guess it was me. All afternoon he’d been staring at my tits, no doubt undressing me in his mind, and no doubt ogling the way my bum showed beneath my dress with the same lewd interest when my back was to him. Now he’d be imagining me, naked, my body laid out on the altar, so turned on by Julian that I was not just dripping juice, but running juice. I could feel his envy, his arousal, and as he made a hasty adjustment to his crotch, I knew that my thoughts were more than just idle speculation.
I was sure he’d have had enough, with so many incriminating shots in the bag, while he was clearly badly in need of an orgasm. That was funny, disgusting but funny, imagining him pulling at his weedy little cock – and I couldn’t imagine it as anything but little and weedy – while his head was full of thoughts of my naked or near-naked body, laid out on the altar for fucking, or bent down for my bottom to be whipped, or mounted by Julian on the moonlit lawn.
Had I been him I’d have done it then and there if I’d been sure I was safe, or hurried home, or, most likely, found somewhere quiet to relieve my tension. He went for the third option, throwing a last guilty glance around the interior of the folly and then starting down the bank. As he crossed the field he was walking fast, and there was nothing I could do but watch and wait, knowing that if I followed him before he reached the reed beds I was sure to be seen.
That gave him a long start, but when he finally disappeared I was running immediately. Again, I knew I should have turned back, but the whole situation was too good to miss. The thought of him masturbating was disgusting, but it was also funny, and most importantly I had my phone on me so I would be able to take a picture of him and post it on the web to give him a taste of his own medicine. I was also grateful for the phone because it meant I could call Julian
and tell him what was going on once I’d reached the river bank. He laughed when I said I thought the Inquisitor was going off to wank over me among the reeds, and promised to follow.
Now fully confident, I began to pick my way along the duckboard path, very slowly and stopping to listen despite being fairly sure where the Inquisitor would go: either the old boathouse or Henry’s hide. If Henry was around he might be in for a shock, but that made no real difference to me, while if I ran into the Inquisitor I could always act the officious staff member and point out that when we said he could wander around the grounds at will, that did not include masturbating in the reed beds.
He wasn’t in the boathouse, and I moved on more cautiously than ever, not quite sure how to get to the hide, but knowing the path to it had to join my own at some point. It had grown very quiet, and my nerves were beginning to get to me again, making me wonder if I should wait for Julian, but as I came around a corner the duckboards gave way to a path of pressed earth along the top of a low bank fringed with willows and oaks. At the far end was the Inquisitor, three-quarters turned away from me. He appeared to be taking pictures of the stems of the reeds at the bottom of the bank.
I nipped quickly back, puzzled by his behaviour, but only for a moment. Evidently he’d found a footprint, probably Henry’s, and was photographing it in order to compare the pattern of the shoe sole with those he’d taken pictures of on the estate. He was certainly thorough, and that meant his camera would be full of pictures – incriminating pictures – perhaps even including the ones he’s taken of me and Julian walking back from the gatehouse. At the thought of him taking sneaky pictures of me in the nude I forgot all about letting him get on with his snooping for the sake of our publicity. It was just too much, that this little runt of a man had the cheek to come creeping around taking pictures while I enjoyed myself with my boyfriend, and from what he’d said on his blog it was quite obvious he got off on them. At the very least he’d have pictures of me from earlier in the afternoon, no doubt taken to make the best of my figure. Letting men see me when I was in control of the situation was one thing, being peeped at quite another, especially when he’d broadcast a picture of me with a freshly whipped bottom to effectively the entire world. I stepped out from cover, striding towards him.
‘Give me that!’
He looked up, surprised. I repeated my order.
‘Give me that camera, now!’
‘Why?’
‘You know perfectly well why, you dirty little pervert!’
‘What do you mean? You’ve got this all wrong!’
‘Oh I have, have I? Let’s see the pictures you’ve been taking then.’
‘Sure.’
It was not the answer I’d been expecting, and it rather took the wind out of my sails. Julian appeared at that moment, coming up behind us and immediately taking charge of the situation.
‘What’s going on? Chloe?’
He didn’t sound best pleased, reminding me that I’d promised to hold back.
‘I’m sorry, Julian, but I just wanted to teach the dirty little peeping Tom a lesson.’
‘I’m not a peeping Tom! I was taking pictures of snails, that’s all!’
‘Snails?! Yeah, sure you were.’
‘Yes, snails. I’m a malacologist.’
‘A what?’
‘Somebody who studies molluscs. I’ve just completed my PhD on the gastropod fauna of the Norfolk Broads, which is unique. Look.’
He’d moved the camera towards us and switched to display mode. The screen showed a small, gelatinous-looking snail climbing the stem of a reed.
‘This is Succinea putris, and this one is Oxyloma pfeifferi.’
It was another snail, much like the first, but I wasn’t falling for such an obvious diversion.
‘Keep going.’
‘OK. These are Planorbarius corneus, the Great Ramshorn, up by the river, and ...’
He carried on, showing snail after snail after snail, some among the reeds, others in the woods by the Hall. There were also some of the Hall, and of Julian and I, but nothing even remotely suggestive, never mind the sort of thing a voyeur would want. Finally he returned to the original snail.
‘You see, just snails, and a few I took on your tour.’
There wasn’t really much I could say.
‘Oh. Sorry.’
Julian was trying not to laugh, which wasn’t really very helpful. The snail man put away his camera, his voice surprisingly mild considering I’d just accused him of being a pervert.
‘I’m sorry if you got the wrong idea. People do sometimes.’
‘No, really, it was my fault.’
We lapsed into an embarrassed silence, broken by Julian.
‘I’m Julian d’Alveda, by the way. This is my girlfriend, Chloe Anthony.’
‘Ian Dobson. Hi.’
He had extended one pudgy hand, which Julian shook, then carried on, his voice as calm and matter of fact as ever.
‘Tell me, Ian, do you feel that Chloe was rude to you?’
‘Er ... a little perhaps, but it’s not important.’
‘On the contrary. You are a paying customer and deserve to be treated with respect. Possibly you might even feel that she should be punished in some way?’
The snail man just looked puzzled and a little embarrassed, but I could see the way the conversation was going and I recognised the light, amused tone in Julian’s voice.
‘Julian, no ...’
‘Be quiet, Chloe. Ian, would you like to watch Chloe spanked?’
‘What?!’
‘Would you like to watch Chloe spanked? I think it’s only suitable, when she was so rude to you, and it’s only fair that you be allowed to watch. It would do her the world of good too – both the spanking and having you watch, that is.’
My mouth had come open in wordless protest and the blood had rushed to my cheeks, for all I knew that he was only joking, or at least I hoped he was. Yet if I was embarrassed the snail man was no better, his face red and his mouth working as he struggled for something to say. Finally I found my voice.
‘Julian! That’s not funny!’
‘It’s not supposed to be funny, Chloe. Now come on, you know it’s what you need.’
As he spoke he’d taken my wrist, pulling me towards where the branch of a willow made the perfect seat, just right for him to put me over his knee. I was still fairly sure he wouldn’t go through with it – not all the way – but I was already completely mortified and couldn’t help but protest.
‘Julian!’
‘Come on, Chloe, don’t make a fuss. You’ll only embarrass yourself. You’re due a spanking, and that’s that.’
He was still pulling, and I didn’t have the strength to resist him, either mentally or physically. The snail man was just standing there, gaping like a fish as I was pulled up the bank, still trying to protest but only managing nervous laughter, which broke to a wail of dismay as I was taken firmly down across his legs. At that I realised that I was really going to be spanked, and in front of the snail man, who looked horrified but showed no inclination to be a gentleman and spare my blushes. I couldn’t stop it, and deep inside I knew it was exactly what I needed, but that didn’t stop me from babbling objections as Julian made himself comfortable.
‘Not in front of him, Julian, please! Do it at home, if you have to, but not here! Please, Julian, I’ll be good, I promise! Julian!’
My final word came out as a squeal, because he’d applied a single firm pat to the seat of my dress, then another and it had begun, my first true punishment spanking, a thought that filled me with such agonising humiliation that what little fight I had left just vanished. I stopped struggling, to hang limp and pathetic across his legs, my bottom lifted to his hand as he continued to spank me, his voice now cool and even as he spoke.
‘Good girl, Chloe. That’s right, you know this is what you deserve.’
All I could manage in response was a weak shake of my head, my resistance crushed by
his masterful manner and my own need, but I didn’t realise that he’d only just begun. After maybe a couple of dozen swats he stopped and spoke once more.
‘Let’s do this properly, with your dress up.’
‘No!’
I snatched back, but Julian was ready for me, catching my wrist and twisting it up into the small of my back, trapping me. Still I struggled, wriggling crazily and pleading with him not to lift my dress, but to no avail as it was hauled high, right up onto my back to leave the seat of my panties bulging out behind me in full view of the goggling snail man. Again Julian began to spank me, harder now and aiming where my flesh stuck out at the sides of my knickers, to make my cheeks bounce and turn my pleas and sobs to gasps of pain. As he spanked he continued to talk, as calm as ever, as if smacking his girlfriend’s panty-clad bottom in front of a complete stranger was the most natural thing in the world.
‘I really am very sorry she was so rude to you, Ian, but I do hope this makes up for it? And she does have a lovely bottom, doesn’t she? So cheeky, but wonderfully firm. In fact, why don’t I pull her panties down and let you see her properly.’
‘Julian!’
My scream rang out loud and long, but it was too late. He hadn’t even given me a chance to protest, but simply whipped my knickers down at the back, leaving not just most of my bum cheeks on show, but every rude detail between, including my anus and my embarrassingly wet pussy. I felt the sudden cold from my juices as the air touched my sex, and even smelt my own excitement. Julian merely laughed and spoke again.
‘Stop making such a fuss, Chloe. A girl’s knickers should always come down when she’s spanked, you said so yourself.’
The best I could manage in response was a sob, because I had said exactly that, and I knew that if he hadn’t pulled my knickers down I wouldn’t have felt I’d been spanked properly. As it was I was bare, my bottom nude to the man I’d been rude to, my penance as much the exposure of my pussy and anus as my pain. That was fair, but what wasn’t fair was the state of my sex, and I was praying the snail man hadn’t noticed, but not even that intimate detail was to be left private. The spanking stopped. Julian’s hand delved between my cheeks and my vagina had been spread for inspection. Another sob escaped my lips, more heartfelt than before, but Julian’s voice was still cool and level as he addressed the snail man.
