‘Forgive me, my lady,’ Porteous oiled, ‘I hope you are not upset by the amount I had to pay, but with Sir Peter so close to the Cabinet…’ He let the dreadful accusation weigh heavily in the ensuing silence.
Perfect. Bloody well perfect, Miranda thought, bridling. He’s done me now.
‘Do you realise… ?’ thundered Aunt Emma, returning to her onslaught on Miranda. ‘I said, do you realise just how much mayhem and havoc your selfish and beastly misbehaviour is causing? Well, girl, do you?’
Despite her discomfort under the torrent of scolding words, Miranda managed to detect a gleam of triumph mixed with almost sensual pleasure glinting in the solicitor’s beady little eyes. She squirmed.
‘You really are impossible, Miranda,’ her aunt boomed.
Miranda thought it wiser to keep silent. She lowered her head in a gesture of atonement and fiddled awkwardly with her napkin.
‘Last month there was that wretched Brompton Road party. I believe the police were involved.’
‘Quite so, my lady,’ Mr Porteous said obsequiously.
‘And only last year you were thrown out of quite the most exlusive school in France. I think it is time to take serious stock. Mr Porteous?’
‘The position is a little tricky, to be sure, my lady. The charges will remain, I believe, on file. Perhaps if Lady Miranda were to move out of circulation for a little while…’ His unctuous tones seemed to fill the vast dining room.
Boring. Boring. Boring. Would it be Gstaad or Antibes? Or even Bermuda. Not Bermuda. All that boring sun, sea and sand.
His voice continued, and she returned her attention to it. ‘I have in mind a possible solution to the difficulty, with your permission, my lady. An establishment that promises the most, how shall I put it? The most, er, satisfactory results. By the way, Lady Miranda,’ he turned in almost sadistic triumph, ‘I have telephoned your friends and acquaintances informing them that you have contracted a chest infection, possibly pleurisy, and so you will be out of circulation, hors de combat, for some little time.’
Bugger. Miranda frowned. They were closing in on her. Weasel Porteous seemed almost to be in control. Now that they had whisked her away from London, and put the word out — pleurisy — she would in all likelihood be gated down in Wiltshire, here at Sandstones, for some while to come.
‘This establishment you spoke of, Mr Porteous,’ Aunt Emma said.
The family solicitor inclined his oily head conspiratorially and beamed a smile of smug satisfaction that made Miranda squirm.
‘Most certainly, my lady. If I might have a quiet word?’
‘Of course.’ She nodded. ‘Leave us at once, girl,’ she snapped testily at Miranda.
Miranda wandered out to the stables. Toast, her favourite pony, was now too old to be ridden. She patted his broad face gently and fed him the soft, brown sugar she knew he adored. Over the next green, half-open door, her other pony Marmalade waited impatiently to greet her. She tugged the small, expectantly pricked ears affectionately. Picking up a curry comb, she entered the loose box and was soon lost in the soothing, rhythmical actions of grooming the warm flanks. Suddenly a tall shadow loomed large in the doorway, and Miranda looked up.
Her aunt spoke curtly. ‘Saddle up, girl. You need a good canter to settle your nerves after last night’s little episode. Ride on, Melchior.’
Aunt Emma looked magnificent on her big, chest-nut stallion. Her close-fitting green velvet jacket flared out over the swell of her supple hips, and the tight cream jodhpurs flattered her full, rounded bottom. Not bad for 42. Great, in fact, thought Miranda, catching up with her aunt moments later on Marmalade. They took the open track down towards Home Farm, turned into the spinney and emerged onto a secluded bridle path which curved through the coppiced woodland beyond.
‘This will do, I think. Dismount.’ Her aunt had a curiously brisk note in her voice.
Miranda looked up, startled. Her eyes phrased the unspoken question.
‘We’re getting down here,’ her aunt said briskly. ‘Want a little chat, my girl.’
A vague sense of unease uncurled itself deep down inside Miranda’s fluttering tummy. Her mind flashed back instantly to the business of the stolen money which had been settled so painfully upstairs with the hairbrush. I want to have a little chat. Those were the very words her aunt had used to open up the interview which had concluded with the hair-brush speaking loudly down across her naked buttocks. Still, Miranda reflected ruefully, nobody was going to spank her today. She was a big girl now. Her bottom was surely safe from any painful attentions.
‘This one will do.’ Her aunt seemed to be examining a beech tree. Miranda dismounted and approached the vast beech.
‘Squirrels? Are they doing much damage?’ she asked, puzzled.
‘Never mind the damn squirrels. You’re the one doing all the damage to this estate and the family. Now come here this instant young lady.’
So absolute was the command that Miranda found herself stumbling forward obediently.
‘Against that tree. Come along. No, face inwards. That’s right. Now, arms around it. Good.’
Unthinkingly, Miranda had embraced the aged beech. Her arms encircled the gnarled girth with a good few inches to spare. The rough, scratchy bark chaffed her tender nipples which enjoyed scant protection under the soft pink cashmere jumper.
‘That should hold you steady,’ her aunt grunted, having swiftly tied a short length of leather harness around Miranda’s wrists on the far side of the beech. Miranda instinctively tugged, but the knotted leather thong had been expertly tied, leaving her completely bound and immobile. Like a flicker of forked lightning in a distant, dark bank of gathering clouds, a stab of fear lit up inside Miranda’s mind. Something ominous threatened her. The threat was imminent.
‘You’ve been a bit of a girl over the past few months, haven’t you? Hmm? Should have done this twelve months ago. Never mind, better late than never. A good, sound hiding is what you need, young lady, and a jolly good hiding is exactly what I’m going to give you. Never let it be said that I shirk my duty. And in this case, my girl, my duty is both a pleasure and a privilege.’
Miranda’s throat went dry. She started to protest, swearing out loud. Her aunt, plucking at the yellow leather gloves as she removed them finger by long, white finger, merely smiled as one would smile at a fractious child. Pocketing the gloves, she strode over to where her stallion, Melchior, nibbled at a tuft of sweet sedge. She took the supple riding crop from where she had slipped it under the warm, leather saddle and turned back towards the beech tree where Miranda, despite the dappled sunlight of the autumn afternoon, shivered in her bondage. The cruel crop sparkled and gleamed, slicing the air with eerie, ominous notes. A thin, harsh sound.
Within the tight leather binding that pinioned her wrists so firmly, Miranda’s helpless fingers splayed out in a reflex of fear. Miranda writhed as she heard the approaching crunch of Aunt Emma’s polished boots on the dry bracken underneath. The writhing caused her nipples to tingle as they scraped against the rough bark. Miranda’s breath started to come more rapidly and unevenly. The icy talons of an unknown, nameless fear caressed her belly and spine lingeringly. Suddenly, more human hands were at her waist, then the cool air of the autumn afternoon kissed her buttocks and thighs as her aunt briskly peeled down the silk slacks as far as her trembling knees. The panties followed with a swift jerk. She was utterly exposed to whatever was to befall her, and Miranda knew all too well that it was going to be very, very painful.
Her feeling of exposure and vulnerability was disturbingly complete. Had the silk slacks fallen to her ankles, she would have felt merely naked, but having them dragged down to just above her knees served to remind Miranda that she had been thus bared and prepared to meet the needs of her chastiser. Indeed, the taut silk fabric served to hamper and hobble her all the more. The sensation of being both naked and mercilessly exposed was absolute, and in her fevered mind she realised that she was in total thrall to anoth
er. Another who now wielded a supple riding crop and who was to leisurely stripe her.
‘Warm work, punishment. Deuced if it isn’t,’ Aunt Emma remarked, shrugging off her taut green velvet jacket. Her full breasts strained against her starched, crisp white blouse. ‘Pretty hot for you, I’ll wager,’ she continued with a mirthless laugh.
‘Now look, Aunt Emma,’ Miranda whispered urgently, bargaining for all her worth. ‘I’ll do whatever you say. Scotland. Or Bermuda. I’ll go wherever you send me. But don’t beat me.’
Aunt Emma was resolute. And said so. Miranda knew she was doomed.
‘You have no right to —’ she said, impenitently.
‘Silence, my girl. You are to be whipped. Soundly. Six strokes for troubling your dear, dear parents. A further five for my missing Rome. Three more for the distress caused to poor Mr Porteous. And a further three strokes for our having to pay out to destroy those pictures of your disgrace. Seventeen. If my mathematics serves me well, a prime number. We’ll round it up. Three for almost ditching Uncle Peter’s Cabinet chances. He’s altogether too soft, that man. Forbade me to beat you. Probably get the Home Office. Too soft on discipline. Law and order needs a sure touch. The firm hand. As for you, my girl, strict discipline is what you both need and deserve to check your profligate misbehaviour.’
Unusually for one so cool and poised, Miranda succumbed to a fleeting sense of panic.
‘No, please, Aunt Emma. Don’t. I’m sorry…’
Once again, in her anxiety, she strained at the leather strap that bound her by the wrists so completely. The rough beech bark scraped her belly, breasts and inner thighs. She squirmed and wriggled, the dread mounting up inside her with an unstoppable surge.
‘Silence,’ her aunt thundered. ‘Of course, you may whimper and squeal. Loud as you like. A remote spot, this. No one around to hear you. In fact, it will please me considerably if you do. It’ll simply mean I’ve not wasted my time and energy with this whip.’
Again, she sliced the air. The menacing swish curdled in Miranda’s dark imaginings. She clenched her buttocks in a protective reflex. Drawn by a morbid curiosity, almost impelled yet simultaneously repelled by the desire to look, Miranda strained her head and rested her chin on her soft shoulder. She saw her aunt flex the eighteen-inch cane riding crop. It was so supple and springy it almost seemed alive between her long, pale, tapering fingers. A little wicked loop of ox-blood leather, four inches long, curled from the tip of the clouded yellow bamboo. Miranda was both fascinated and horrified. She felt the surface of the beech tree scrape her cheek as she sank her soft face against it in weary, yet expectant, resignation.
‘Don’t clench your cheeks, girl. Come along. Up on your toes. Thank you. That’s much better.’
As Aunt Emma dispensed these final, pre-punishment instructions, she smartly tapped Miranda’s outer curved thigh with the tip of the riding crop.
‘What did we say? Hmm? Twenty? Jolly good. Twenty it is.’ Swish. Crack. ‘There’s the first. Spot on.’
Miranda yelped, and instinctively hugged the harsh beech bark with her silken inner thighs. The length of cane had come down onto the upper curve of her left buttock, striping it faintly, while the little leather loop stingingly flicked the taut satin swell of her right cheek. She blinked. Swish. Whomp.
The next stroke came down exactly an eighth of an inch below the first. Swish. Whumm.
The third stroke kissed her softness a fraction below the pink stripe which betrayed the severity of the second. On tiptoe, as instructed, her beautifully rounded buttocks thrust up and out with almost pert coquettishness to meet their appointment with the stinging crop, Miranda suffered the swish and slice of each successive deliberate and deadly stroke ten times. She yelped softly after the fourth and squealed twice, but was determined to deny her dreadful aunt the satisfaction of any deeper signs of distress.
Aunt Emma, now breathing somewhat heavily after the administration of the first half of the measured chastisement, paused. The supple switch drooped lifelessly along the curve of her jodhpured thigh. Miranda felt the broad, flat palm of her punisher’s cool hand alight gently on her scalding rump and slowly massage the ravaged buttocks. A mildly inquisitive thumb seemed to hover lingeringly over the deep valley that divided her choice cheeks, then, as if slipping into a powerful temptation, probed and caressed the deep cleft.
‘You’ve been bad. Very bad, my girl. Disgraceful behaviour. I’m doing this for your own good. Plenty of strict discipline, that’s what you need.’
Plenty? The word echoed ominously in Miranda’s brain. Plenty? What did this mean? Was she to be kept under lock and key down here at Sandstones to be caned like a naughty, pony-tailed schoolgirl at the whim and will of her dominant aunt? She felt a sudden, uncontrollable surge of panic tighten at her throat.
‘Of course, you’ll have to go away. Tonight, in fact. Mr Porteous seems to know of some school that may be prepared to take you on. If we pay them enough. The family name’s good. Just.’
Uttering the final word with a wry grimace, Aunt Emma slapped the reddened cheeks of her charge as if for emphasis. Twitching the inert riding crop back into life, she strode behind Miranda and took up her stance on the opposite side. Changing the supple length of potent bamboo into her left hand, she tapped her victim’s right buttock sharply. It joggled responsively.
‘Up on your toes, my girl. Come along. I want that naughty bottom of yours nice and big and round. No. More. Better. Legs together. Better.’ Swish. ‘Jolly good. Nine to come. Take your medicine, girl. You are a…’ Swish. Miranda yelped. ‘Gordon-George remember. We were at…’ Swish. ‘Agincourt and…’ Swish. ‘Balaclava. Put up a damn fine show at Rork’s…’ Swish. ‘Drift, and were in at the death in the…’ Swish. ‘Somme.’
Restrained by her silk slacks that bound her legs together at the shivering knees and by the taut leather thong that welded her pale wrists together, Miranda absorbed each punishing swipe utterly and completely, without even the hope of evasion or protection. She winced at each searching lash of the clouded yellow cane.
Bugger the history lesson, she thought, biting her lower lip. She knew her illustrious family’s history all too well. After the fifth slice of crop upon rump, her breath came in short hisses between clenched teeth. The short length of cane rose and fell with an almost hypnotic rhythm, cutting through the air with a low whistle each time to stroke the entire, blushing, rubescent mound of her right buttock. Her left cheek, faintly striped after receiving the force of the first ten strokes, was repeatedly stung by the little curled loop of ox-blood leather at the tip of the crop. It was an accurate, efficient and deadly effective administration of corporal punishment. Miranda’s bottom, thoroughly and almost expertly dealt with, throbbed and glowed.
‘Two more. Almost there. Buck up, old girl.’
Aunt Emma spoke with almost clinical precision, as though she were overseeing the removal of stitches. Miranda wriggled and squirmed, but the harsh bark of the beech tree against which her soft body was tightly pressed ignited her nipples into delicious agony. With her pelvic delta thrust up into the solid beech by successive swipes of the cane on her naked buttocks, the labia were parted slightly. With a mixture of both curiosity and burning shame, Miranda felt the ooze and gentle trickle of the beginnings of a liquid response. Losing her concentration, she slumped down.
‘Up, girl. On your toes, please.’
The confused girl, smarting and shivering, regained the tiptoe posture, jerking her scalding bottom up in an unintentionally, yet undoubtedly provocative, thrust.
Swish. Crack.
‘And one more,’ Aunt Emma remarked in her tone of ruthless calm. The eager wood swished. Whomp. A cutting slice that bit.
The final two strokes were merciless, leaving Miranda’s already scalding buttocks ablaze in a seething fire of exquisite torment. And to her utter bewilderment and surprise, she felt a half-formed, half-understood desire welling up from her inner consciousness. That desire, merel
y a fragile notion, was for… more.
Aunt Emma seemed to share the same desire. Tossing her whippy cane crop aside onto the dry bracken beneath her polished boots, she paused for what seemed to Miranda a timeless moment to consider and examine her handiwork. Gazing down, the stern aunt dwelt lingeringly on the beautiful, full buttocks, gorgeously rounded and firm, which had been subjected to her cruel attentions.
Not bad, Aunt Emma reflected. Not bad at all. Haven’t lost my touch. She smiled darkly as she tidied her silk blouse back into the elastic waist of her taut jodhpurs.
‘Put the blindfold on now, please, my lady,’ the oily voice said. Miranda hesitated, reluctant to obey the irksome solicitor’s request.
‘It is a necessary condition of your acceptance into the Academy. All new entrants must arrive in absolute ignorance of its location.’ Miranda submitted to the swathe of black velvet. The last things she saw were the strong beams of the Daimler illuminating a country lane ahead. Bath? Cirencester? The Daimler had left Sandstones in the dark and had prowled the leafy roads for almost an hour. Miranda was at a complete loss as to her precise location and had no idea where she was. She adjusted her tight blindfold.
‘That’s the way,’ Mr Porteous positively simpered, his voice almost betraying a flicker of excitement. Miranda felt a twinge of unease. She hated the trace of smugness in his tone. She was, however, grateful that he had managed to negotiate a place for her at the Academy. It had been difficult but his skills and persuasive arts had, her aunt informed her, won the day. It certainly sounded a rather exclusive place. That fact appealed enormously to Miranda’s snobbish pride. So exclusive, it seemed, that she had been advised not to pack or bring anything with her. Absolutely everything would be provided for her on arrival, Mr Porteous explained, causing her to shiver pleasantly with anticipation.
‘They have their own methods at the Academy,’ Porteous said. ‘Just for a term, or two. Possibly a little longer, Lady Miranda. The facilities are excellent and are tailored to meet your exact needs.’
The Academy Page 2
