Portrait of a Disciplinarian (7 page)

As Stephanie’s cheeks spread to her caresses, Vera gave a knowing chuckle. Her fondling grew more intimate still. Two fingers spread Stephanie’s bottom hole open for inspection, then moved lower, to her quim. Another, louder sob escaped Stephanie’s mouth as the lips of her quim were gently eased apart to show off her virgin hole. Vera gave a little tut, which might
have
been approval or amusement but proved to be disappointment.

‘What a shame,’ she said. ‘I had hoped to put something inside you, but it would be wrong of me to ruin you for the sake of a moment’s fun.’

Stephanie gave an earnest nod, then a gasp as Vera’s attention turned back to her anus, this time not to tickle but to probe, and a soft moan escaped her lips as the tight little hole opened to the maid’s finger.

‘Not there, not up my bottom,’ she managed, but she didn’t mean it.

Vera took no notice anyway, but slid her finger deep into Stephanie’s bottom hole and began to wiggle it about inside.

‘I’m going to enjoy you, Miss Stephanie,’ the maid announced as Stephanie began to wriggle helplessly on her intruding finger.

The words were a near echo of what Myrtle Finch-Farmiloe had said the first time she had coaxed Stephanie into an almost identical position, the only real difference being that Vera hadn’t been the one to do the spanking. Stephanie felt her bottom hole tighten on Vera’s finger at the memory and tried to get up, only to be eased back into position.

‘Oh, no, you don’t,’ the maid said. ‘I have something to show you before we’re finished.’

As she spoke she extracted her finger from Stephanie’s rectum and her hand moved back down, cupping the plump, sensitive quim, with one long finger between the lips. She began to rub and, as she did so, to spank, masturbating Stephanie with one hand and smacking her cheeks with the other. Stephanie hung her head, powerful sobs racking her body as she realised she was going to be brought off across the maid’s lap.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve done this before?’ Vera remarked. ‘Not a well-brought-up girl like you.’

Stephanie didn’t bother to contradict the maid. Her quim had already begun to squeeze and she was
squirming
her bottom in helpless abandoned ecstasy under the slaps, which now brought only pleasure. She stuck her bottom up higher, spreading herself to both the smacks and the fondling of her sex, now too far gone to be anything but eager. Vera laughed and began to rub harder, her finger bumping over the little hot point between Stephanie’s sex lips with practised skill as she spanked cheek and cheek about, ever harder. Stephanie cried out, wriggling her bottom for more and gasping as she started to come, her head dizzy with the same blend of ecstasy and shame that Myrtle had first taught her – feelings she had resented ever since, she reflected, even as her body shook in the ecstasy of orgasm.

Three

FOR THE NEXT
two days Stephanie divided most of her time between plotting with her sister and trying to be well behaved in order to avoid the disciplinary attentions of her aunts, while surrendering her bottom each evening to the erotic attentions of her maid. To be tipped over Vera’s knee, exposed and fondled brought Stephanie immense chagrin, but the pleasure made it impossible to resist, as did the maid’s firm, no-nonsense manner. It had been much the same with Myrtle Finch-Farmiloe, which made the experience more humiliating still, as did the likelihood that the maid would soon expect rather more.

Only on the third day did Stephanie and Hermione manage to get to Postbridge, claiming that they wished to go into Tavistock for some new handkerchiefs and declining the offer of a lift in favour of the public omnibus. Arriving at the garage, Stephanie stood pondering the dented and scratched front portion of the two-seater somewhat ruefully, although considerably less ruefully than she had been pondering Phase One of the battle campaign: the extraction of the giant pig from its sty on Sir Murgatroyd Drake’s estate at Combebow and its transport to Stukely Hall.

The principal difficulty in pinching the pig was its sheer bulk, one hundred stone of mobile bacon and chops being so far beyond their capacity for heavy lifting that the thing might as well have been Haytor
Rocks
. The answer was bribery, in the form of ripe apples, which she felt sure could be guaranteed to lure the boar from his sty and on to the stout dray which was also an essential element of the plan, and also required bribery. Unfortunately she only knew one bribable drayman, and he was unlikely to be impressed by ripe apples, unless the term could be applied to her small, neatly formed breasts.

Another difficulty was Jan Wonnacott, pigman to Sir Murgatroyd Drake and brother of Cyril. He lived in a cottage adjacent to the sty. The operation seemed sure to be noisy, and although Jan was said to be in the habit of consuming as many as a dozen pints of cider in one or another of the local inns each evening, his absences came at times when the road was too busy for the safe removal of the pig. They would have to act in the dead hours of the night.

With the pig pinched, they would be able to move on to Phase Two, touching her grandfather for a sum large enough to carry out the remainder of the operation while avoiding the attention of assorted aunts. If the pig theft failed to soften the old man, things would be difficult. It was essential to get the car back as soon as possible, but the repair bill was going to eat up all but the last few shillings of what remained of her allowance.

‘I’ll come to collect it next week then,’ she said with a sigh as the mechanic completed his assessment of what needed to be done and how long it would take. ‘One other thing. Do you happen to know the full name and address of the drayman who helped me? I’d like to thank him, and I was too shaken to think to ask where he lived. I only know him as Lias.’

‘Elias Snell. He lives to Princetown, last house on the Yelverton Road,’ the mechanic answered promptly.

‘Thank you,’ Stephanie replied, and hastened across the road. What might be the only omnibus of the day was approaching. She and Hermione signalled to the driver, climbed in and paid their fares, responding to the
curious
looks of the other passengers with polite smiles as they took their seats. Stephanie was earnestly wishing she had her car back. All her life she had taken little or no notice of the general population, regarding them simply as part of the Devon background. Like tin mines, horses or clotted cream, they were always there and had always served their purpose, but they had never engaged more than her casual attention.

Since her experience with the drayman things had changed. Never had she imagined that a working man could be so lacking in respect, or so blatantly lecherous. The behaviour of Elias Snell had proved otherwise, likewise that of Vera Clapshott, and Stephanie now found herself suspecting every other passenger of harbouring similarly lewd intentions. The driver himself bore a suspicious resemblance to the drayman, and she was sure he would have preferred to have his penis sucked rather than accept her fare, perhaps sharing her with the conductor, a lean, ugly man who kept glancing at her with what she felt was a knowing leer; or, worse, making her kneel side by side with her sister while they received the same rude treatment.

The two large red-faced women who sat together at the very back seemed to disapprove of her, though their expressions suggested that they disapproved of everybody and everything. That didn’t stop her imagining them singling her out for an impromptu spanking, delivered bare bottom in front of Hermione and the other passengers. An equally large but jolly woman, who had brought a small pig on to the omnibus, seemed less likely to feel the need to dish out discipline, but might very well do it for fun and enjoy a good feel at the same time.

The men were worse. A trio of farmers debating the price of wool appeared to be indifferent to her, but when they spoke quietly she wondered if they were discussing how amusing it would be to share her between them, using her mouth, quim and bottom hole simultaneously,
while
Hermione was made to watch. The lone man in a high-collared suit was presumably a clerk of some sort and definitely a pervert. It showed in his nervous manner and the small, piggy eyes that looked everywhere but at his fellow passengers, revealing his guilt at wanting to make Stephanie and her sister indulge him in unspeakable practices.

At length they reached Princetown and got down from the omnibus outside the Plume of Feathers. Stephanie’s head was swimming with frightening yet compelling fantasies. What had seemed so straightforward when discussed over a decanter of Warre ’08 kindly provided by Catchpole was now terrifying, yet to show her feelings in front of her little sister was unthinkable. As they came in sight of the final line of granite-built cottages, a solution occurred to her.

‘I think you should do it this time, H.,’ she stated.

Her sister’s eyes rounded in shock before she replied.

‘What, suck his … his thingy?’

‘Of course that is what I mean,’ Stephanie replied.

‘Why me?’ Hermione demanded.

‘As Papa says,’ Stephanie pointed out, ‘on a campaign everybody should share the discomforts equally.’

‘No,’ Hermione replied, ‘he says it’s a good thing for an officer to share the discomforts of his men. You’re in charge, so you should be the one doing the sharing.’

‘I’ve already done it twice,’ Stephanie pointed out, changing tack, ‘so it’s your turn.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ Hermione answered.

‘Yes, it is,’ Stephanie insisted. ‘I won’t teach you to drive if you aren’t a little bit more helpful, H.’

‘But I don’t want to suck his beastly thingy!’ Hermione whined.

‘I did, so you should have to do it too.’

‘Why?’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s disgusting!’

‘You thought it was jolly funny that he’d made me do it!’

Hermione’s face had begun to grow obstinate, and Stephanie again changed tack.

‘Come on, H., please? For me? And just think, when I marry Freddie I’ll be able to afford another car, maybe a Lagonda or something, and you can have the two-seater, but only if you’re helpful.’

‘I am being helpful,’ Hermione replied. ‘I came up with most of the ideas.’

‘Exactly,’ Stephanie said quickly, ‘such as paying for the dray by sucking Lias Snell’s penis. As Papa says, you should never make a plan you wouldn’t be prepared to carry out yourself.’

Hermione made to speak, then fell silent, her face sulky. Stephanie pressed her advantage.

‘I
will
give you my car, I promise, and sucking a penis isn’t that bad, not really. In fact, it’s rather nice, in a funny sort of way. It makes me feel like when … you know …’

She trailed off. Hermione was looking at her suspiciously.

‘It is, really,’ she insisted. ‘Please, H.? Think of having your own car, and it really is only fair, and … and I promise I won’t spank you any more, even if the aunts are passing you around and I’m supposed to. Not hard, anyway.’

Hermione made a face, then gave a shy, nervous nod.

‘Thank you,’ Stephanie said, and quickly turned away to hide the smug look she could feel stealing over her face.

They had reached the end of the line of cottages and, despite Hermione’s promise, it still took all Stephanie’s courage to walk in at the garden gate and down between two neatly laid-out patches of spring vegetables. She was fighting the urge to bite her lip as she knocked at the smartly painted door, filled with sudden guilt for bullying her sister into sucking cock for the awful man who was about to confront her.

Except that he didn’t. As the door swung wide, she remembered Lias mentioning a wife, although, looking
at
the woman who stood framed in the doorway, Stephanie felt that the drayman would have been justified in mentioning two wives, or even three. The drayman’s wife was simply the largest woman Stephanie had ever set eyes on, from the substantial feet crammed into carpet slippers to the mass of greying hair on her head. Between were all the usual features, but painted with a broad brush: a head somewhat reminiscent of the pumpkin her grandfather had contributed to the previous year’s harvest festival; a thick bull neck set on broad shoulders, from which depended arms that would have put many a railway navvy to shame; breasts each of which would have outdone Sir Richard’s pumpkin with ease; a thick waist barely constrained by a creaking corset; massive hips; and legs that, though concealed beneath voluminous old-fashioned skirts, were presumably of similar proportions. Stephanie’s face was on a level with the colossal breasts.

‘Mrs Snell, I presume?’ she managed, looking up.

‘Mrs Endicott,’ the woman corrected her. ‘Anne Snell’s my sister. How may I help you, Miss?’

‘Miss Myrtle Finch-Farmiloe,’ Stephanie lied, remembering their decision to use false names and choosing the first that came into her head. ‘We had hoped to hire your brother-in-law’s dray.’

‘No difficulty there,’ the woman answered. ‘Come along inside.’

Stephanie and Hermione entered the house, where they were shown into a small but comfortably furnished parlour. The big woman disappeared and the two girls began to inspect the room. It looked out over a back garden as carefully tended as the front and also given over entirely to vegetables, while beyond the granite walls stretched the moor, with woods and fields in the distance and the dark smudge of Plymouth and the dull green of the sea visible even further away. The room contained several chairs, two tables and a sideboard, on which stood a photograph of a man she recognised as
Elias
Snell, although it had been taken perhaps twenty years ago. He wore a somewhat ill-fitting suit and beside him was a woman in a wedding dress, presumably Mrs Snell, every bit as large and formidable as her sister, who now returned.

‘If you’d just write down the details here,’ Mrs Endicott said, offering Stephanie a ledger.

Taking the book, Stephanie hesitated a moment, then wrote a request for the drayman to come to the gates of Stukely Hall the following afternoon. That would allow her to make the real appointment without arousing suspicion, to show Lias Snell where he was supposed to take the pig, and to make – or rather let Hermione make – the appropriate payment.