‘What is the meaning of —’ spluttered the solicitor.
‘We owe so much to you we simply had to pop in and thank you, properly,’ Miranda cooed. ‘You must let us reward you. Name it and it is yours…’ She waggled her hips and unzipped her black micro skirt. It dropped down the length of her glossy fishnets revealing the black suspender belt and silk panties beneath. ‘Name it,’ she said, pouting through her heavily glossed, Max Factor High Defi-nition cherry red lips. The solicitor’s hands gripped the desk. His eyes stared hungrily. Jaya kicked off her skirt and shed her jacket completely.
‘But you must punish us for leaving the Academy without permission. We need disciplining,’ Miranda whispered excitedly.
Porteous mopped his perspiring brow. He spluttered in an attempt to speak but was too flabbergasted to do so. Jaya approached him, turned her bottom into his face and wiggled it. The suspendered thighs sparkled inches from his eyes.
‘Spank me, Mr Porteous. Be firm with me, ooh please spank me, spank me,’ she squealed. She skipped around to the back of his chair in which he sat transfixed. She cradled his head in her Opium clouded bosom, crushing him in between their fleshy softness.
‘Spank my bottom very, very hard,’ she hissed, tonguing his left ear.
‘Really, I must protest,’ Porteous exploded. ‘I really must…’ he choked, confused and delighted, amazed and astounded by the events unfolding around him like a dream.
‘Before you punish our naughty bottoms, have some cake,’ purred Miranda, who, smoothing her fishnets along her shimmering thighs with the palms of her scarlet-nailed hands, teasingly unpicked the ribbon and opened the silver carton. Jaya stretched over, her breasts smothering the upturned face of the spellbound solicitor. She picked out a frais du bois Pompadour, swollen with fruit and fresh cream and a chocolat de Veronique, oozing with sinfulness.
Holding the two delicious cakes between erotically prinked fingers, Jaya stood behind the solicitor and bent down over him. Her breasts brushed his slobbering lips, then the cakes were tantalisingly drawn before his piggy eyes. Frozen between greed and lust, he mouthed silent obscenities. Miranda stood before him, bunching up and squeezing her breasts between her slim, sensual fingers. Porteous attempted to scramble up to his feet, but Jaya held him down, gently but firmly, with her elbows on his shoulders.
‘Enjoy,’ she whispered, dragging the two cakes alternately across his wet, trembling lips.
Porteous lunged at the frais du bois Pompadour, his sharklike teeth snapping greedily. Jaya whisked it just out of reach. Porteous strained after it, whimpering tormentedly.
‘Now,’ commanded Miranda harshly.
The solicitor blinked, startled. For a fraction of a second, he stared up, frightened and afraid. Jaya slammed the two cakes down into his eyes. Blinded and panicking, the solicitor threshed in his chair. Jaya rammed two more thick, oozing cakes into his eyes, blinding him completely, then squashed more cakes up his nose and into his gasping mouth. Struggling frantically for breath, the solicitor flapped his arms above his head. Miranda and Jaya, working to their pre-arranged plan, took an arm each and brought them savagely down behind his back, handcuffing them crisply into passive helplessness. Porteous was a strong man. A bull. In his rage, he spilled over the chair and crashed into a filing cabinet.
‘Get his balls,’ Miranda cried.
Jaya obeyed immediately. She reached down and caught the solicitor fiercely by the crotch. The effect was electric. He stood stock still, trembling and quivering with rage and fear.
‘OK, you bastard,’ Miranda hissed. ‘I’ve waited for this moment and I’m not going to hurry it. This is where you get yours.’
Jaya forced a huge wedge of coffee and almond Beaumarchais into the solicitor’s mouth, effectively gagging him and rendering him helpless, before ripping his trousers down. With Miranda’s assistance, she forced him face down over his desk and cut away all his clothing with a Stanley knife bought especially for the purpose. A second pair of the handcuffs secured his ankles tightly together before they felt it safe enough to stagger back and catch their breath.
‘Gag and blindfold,’ Miranda instructed. Jaya obeyed in a trice.
Miranda uncurled the two leather belts purchased in the menswear boutique and handed one of the cruel lengths of supple leather to her partner. They took up their positions on either side of the larger, flabby buttocks spread out across the desk before them.
Crack. Miranda struck first. Porteous screamed through the tight gag. Crack. Jaya’s vicious cut seared the pale flesh, striping it red immediately. Crack. Crack. With relentless, unerring fury the two girls rained the lashes down. Porteous squirmed and threshed but his bondage was firm and his escape impossible. A dozen swipes later, Miranda tossed her belt to the floor.
‘Carry on, as hard as you like,’ she commanded. ‘I’ve got other fish to fry.’
Jaya, who had never whipped a man before, warmed and then thrilled to her task. She raised her leather belt up, snapped it twice in the air and applied it ruthlessly to the solicitor’s buttocks. Again. Again. And again. He screamed through his gag. She lashed him yet again. Administering corporal punishment felt strange. It felt good.
Crack. Crack. Jaya’s belt whipped the angry red buttocks. The victim squealed and groaned.
‘Got it,’ Miranda exclaimed in triumph. She had been rifling through the open safe and had discovered the lease to the Academy. She had already thrust Hazim’s two gold bricks and a half dozen videos marked The Academy: Disciplining and Punishments, into a black plastic bag. The lease joined her earlier finds.
Anything else? she wondered. Of course. The accounts. Remembering the computer in Mrs Boydd-Black’soffice, she searched for discs. And found them. Six of them. Scanning their contents briefly, she realised that she had tumbled across the complete financial and administrative operations of the Academy. She threw them into the bag along with her other booty. One-fifteen. On the desk, Porteous was still being soundly whipped.
Miranda rootled around in the bowels of the wall safe and unearthed a stout iron box. It was locked. Intuitively, she pounced on Porteous, turned him over and spotted the small key on a chain around his neck. Wrenching the key away, she returned to the box, leaving Jaya to ponder the possibilities of a naked, manacled full-frontal victim at her complete mercy. And mercy was a quality in extremely short supply with the angry girl. Memories of her humiliations, pain and suffering at the Academy flooded into her crimson mind. Memories. She leaned forward. Three seconds later, Porteous screamed. And screamed again.
Miranda scattered the contents of the secretive cache on the carpet. Inspecting them briefly, she knew she had come across a blackmailing sideline. The slim dossiers, printed on the solicitor’s own headed paper, contained detailed records of the financial and sexual peccadilloes of several important Establishment figures. A plan evolved in her mind quickly.
She faxed the documents to sources she knew would be able to deal with Porteous effectively. Not ITN, or New Scotland Yard. Too obvious, too easy. No. She faxed them to the five most exclusive and prestigious of the City’s Masonic lodges. When the Establishment closed ranks, it crushed anyone caught up in its outrage. Her actions, she knew, would not only destroy the bastard, but tuck him away for a six year stretch.
‘We’ve got six minutes left. Give me a belt,’ Miranda hissed.
Porteous was stretched across the desk, writhing in agony. Jaya had devilishly attached bulldog clips to both of his pale nipples and to the fold of yellowish foreskin at the tip of his flaccid penis. Miranda nodded with grim approval, then turned him over onto his belly. Crack. Crack. Each girl lashed the already punished rump with their lengths of quivering leather, their faces glowing with excitement as they drew closer together.
Crack. Crack. Their eyes met and locked in a tender gaze of mutual delight. Crack. Crack. Their lips brushed, and then they kissed, the limp belts dangling down over the twitching buttocks.
One twenty-seven. Miranda ph
oned Reuters, giving a restricted password she had overheard from her Special Branch protection squad to the duty officer.
‘Be outside the entrance to the Law Society at 13.50. Two photographers, you won’t be wasting your time,’ she snapped briskly.
One twenty-nine. Miranda and Jaya donned Donald Duck masks, scooped up the naked solicitor and bundled him out to where Hazim sat behind the wheel of his Mercedes. Fulham Road stopped and stared as the two scantily, raunchily clad girls bundled the naked, manacled solicitor into the Mercedes.
‘Christmas has come early for that lucky bastard,’ remarked a greengrocer, absently bursting a green-gage between his excited fingers.
‘What the hell…?’ marvelled Hazim. ‘Hey, mind the seats. That bastard is covered in cream!’ he protested, laughing.
‘And he’s got a strawberry arse to match,’ snarled Miranda, her voice muffled beneath the outrageous Donald Duck mask.
Hazim eyed the flimsy lingerie of the two shiver ing girls appreciatively. The two sets of bosoms bounced delightfully as they clambered into the car.
‘Where to?’ Hazim grinned.
‘Law Society. Quick.’
The Mercedes roared off. They made it to the august portals with 45 seconds to spare. Three photographers lounged idly on the steps, the two from Reuters trying to ignore the freelancer who had followed them in the hope of a coup. The grapevine was humming. Even as the thick wheel kissed the curb, three more photographers arrived for the scoop. Jaya and Miranda worked rapidly. They dragged Porteous out and draped his handcuffed hands over the black iron railings, whipped off his blindfold and draped a crudely printed sign around his neck. The lettering on the sign proclaimed that a senior member of the Royal Family was romantically linked to a notorious serial killer, recently in the headlines.
‘Cold, isn’t it boys?’ Miranda said to the gaping pressmen. ‘This should warm things up a bit.’
Flashbulbs exploded in an orgy of blinding light. Bare-bosomed, the two girls posed provocatively, applying their belts to the solicitor’s naked buttocks. Exactly six minutes later, the Mercedes roared off once more, just as the approaching police sirens split the cold air of the London afternoon.
Witherspoon, footman to the butler Brompton, brought a tray of tea, golden buttered toast, anchovy spread, cucumber sandwiches, a raspberry sponge cake, some chocolate-covered shortbread, brandy snaps, a plum cake, a rich walnut and date cake, potted shrimps and some tiny egg and cress sandwiches the size of postage stamps. Witherspoon was renowned throughout the shires for his teatime trays. He, and those taking tea at Sandstones, frequently staggered under them. Miranda wolfed the golden buttered toast spread thickly with anchovy paste. Sir Peter nibbled a slice of the heavy, moist plum cake.
‘So you intend to return to the Academy?’ Aunt Emma said after demolishing the egg and cress in a way that brought a gleam of pride to Witherspoon’s rheumy eye.
‘If they’ll have me, of course,’ Miranda replied demurely. ‘I’d like to. They do very useful work with the girls. Very useful.’
Miranda’s tone was simple and sincere. Aunt Emma gazed at her shrewdly, secretly delighted with the new sense of purpose the girl displayed.
‘You never cease to amaze me, minx,’ she commented. She had been listening attentively to Miranda for the preceding 40 minutes, and certainly was amazed.
Witherspoon cleared away the remains of the sumptuous tea and withdrew. Aunt Emma turned to business matters. A settlement on Miranda, some ten thousand a year, was quickly achieved. A cheque was written to redeem the lease.
‘I will turn the financial side of things around in eighteen months, Auntie. You will get this money back. Every penny. The Academy, now free of Porteous, will thrive.’
‘Rum business, that,’ Sir Peter remarked to nobody in particular. Miranda and Aunt Emma smiled and exchanged knowing glances.
‘Had a very peculiar phone call. Seems the fellow went native in the middle of London earlier on. Facing some very odd charges in Bow Street tomorrow morning. And there’s more to follow. Most distressing.’
Later, before her departure, Miranda made a present of the six videos to her Aunt.
‘They show some of the methods the Academy uses to get the desired results,’ Miranda grinned.
‘For your winter evenings. Should keep you warm.’
Later still, Aunt Emma played the first of the six videos. Witherspoon was just entering the library with a nightcap of sherry when Clarissa’s striped bottom loomed large on the screen. Aunt Emma’s hand paused over the box of orange creams she was guzzling. Behind, Witherspoon’s tray crashed to the floor.
Freddie the chauffeur nosed the Audi carefully through the narrow country lanes. There was little traffic. The countryside in wintry Wiltshire was a pretty tame affair. The car phone warbled. Freddie picked it up and passed it straight back to Miranda.
‘Hazim, how lovely,’ she cooed.
They chatted happily for half a mile. There was a pause.
‘What did you do with all those videos?’ he asked, hesitantly.
‘Don’t worry. They are out of circulation. Jaya’s reputation is safe.’
‘I am glad. It infuriates me to think that anyone dared lay a hand on her gentle body…’
Miranda grinned and remained silent.
‘Of course, I could never spank Jaya… I couldn’t possibly…’ He left the sentence hanging, like his hopes, in the air.
Miranda came to his rescue.
‘The disciplines of love, Hazim, the disciplines of love. You will soon learn their dark secrets, Jaya will make a perfect teacher, and,’ she added enigmatically, ‘a willing pupil. Good luck.’
The Audi pulled up outside the gate lodge. Miranda said goodbye to Freddie.
‘How long you reckon on staying this time, m’lady?’ he grinned.
‘Five minutes, perhaps. Five years, I hope.’
Mrs Boydd-Black welcomed Miranda with a warm embrace at the front door. The reunion was poignant and intense.
‘I knew you would come back,’ she beamed. ‘Jolly good.’
In the hallway, a little redband was being soundly spanked over the knees of a blueband. The small, white bottom squirmed under the fluttering hand and stinging slaps that rained down upon it.
Smack. Smack. Smack. The thin wail of miserable protest. The stern voice warning the punished girl not to wriggle and squirm. Smack. Smack. Smack. The stifled sobs of the chastised. It was good to be home.
Up in her study, the headmistress poured Miranda a gin and tonic.
‘You have no idea how relieved I am to be rid of that swine, Miranda. He was ruinous.’
‘The lease is perfectly safe now. And you have the discs. The Academy is absolutely in your hands now, under your control.’
‘With you as my assistant, I trust,’ the head-mistress smiled. Miranda raised her glass as a sign of her willing acceptance.
‘Headmistress,’ she said, tentatively.
‘Yes, my dear?’
‘About the girls’ uniforms. Instead of shorts, I wondered, perhaps, and of course only if you approve… opaque tights. They fit so superbly, and we could insist on…’
Deep into the night, and for many long winter nights later, the two sat almost head to head, drowning in the delicious proposals for new rules and regulations, new penalties and punishments…
The following morning, Mr Porteous was denied bail and, because of the distinct possibilities of more serious charges, he was remanded into the custody of Pentonville to appear before the Crown Court in the New Year. From the dock, Porteous saw the legal men gather around like crows as they huddled together. He also saw his defence exchange a Masonic handshake with the prosecuting barrister. His heart sank. Porteous sensed the shadowy hands of the Establishment pulling invisible strings. Terror dried his throat and choked down any protests.
Back in Pentonville, he was whisked away to a remote landing reserved for difficult cases. Here, men were fed and watered twice a day
— and left locked up to their own wretched devices. The door creaked and slammed shut with an echoing thud. Porteous sat down on his bed in the rank urine-scented gloom. Moments elapsed before the slurred vowels of Bethnal Green broke the terrible silence. Porteous froze, his pulse quickening.
‘Wotcha, sweetie. I’m big Cecil. Sweet-tooth Cecil. Got any choclit? I likes choclit. You gonna be my best mate for the next few months, eh? ’Ere, get ’em orf. Let’s have a butchers at yer lily white arse …I likes a nice soft arse, I does…’
Breakfast was in progress when Miranda, dressed in a soft yellow polo neck jumper and stretchyblack ski pants, arrived down in the refectory. She carried Aunt Emma’s riding crop nonchalantly under her left arm. Susie squealed with delight and, breaking all the rules, waved excitedly. Miranda grinned, then frowned and raised the tip of the whip to her lips in a sober gesture for silence. Susie cast her eyes down sorrowfully, but on looking up was thrilled to see Miranda gazing at her fondly.
‘See me in my study immediately after breakfast, Susie,’ Miranda said gently.
Susie’s face looked anxious for a few seconds.
‘We must think about the Christmas festivities, and I’d value your advice.’
Susie preened, basking in the jealous stares of the girls at her table.
‘Jaya phoned earlier this morning. From St Moritz,’ Mrs Boydd-Black remarked as Miranda sat down to her plate of bacon and kidneys.
‘She’s going to marry him, you know,’ Miranda grinned.
‘Already done so. Special licence. The gal has spirit.’
‘Thanks to you, and the Academy.’
‘You really think so?’ the headmistress queried.
‘Absolutely,’ Miranda replied.
‘Jolly good.’ The headmistress nodded and tackled her kippers.
The life of Cromwell drew to a desultory close as Miss Eaddes read out the concluding sentences from the final paragraph. The girls, in neat rows with their heads bowed and their breasts bulging through their tight, white vests, ate their breakfasts in dutiful silence.
The Academy Page 23
