Portrait of a Disciplinarian (8 page)

Mrs Endicott took the ledger and a small deposit, provided a glass of cider that felt like sandpaper as it went down, and showed the girls back on to the road. The station was no great distance away and they decided to catch a train. They talked in low voices as they went along.

‘Imagine being spanked by her,’ Hermione said.

Stephanie grimaced. The thought had already occurred to her, although with Mrs Snell rather than Mrs Endicott attending to her bottom, which was no doubt the least she could expect if the woman discovered what had happened with her husband.

The following morning Stephanie rose early. Somewhat to her surprise, Vera Clapshott had not taken advantage of the intimacy between them, and was proving an excellent lady’s maid. Stephanie’s clothes, which were already laid out, had been chosen both to create a stylish effect and to suit what promised to be a warm day. Once dressed, she made her way down to breakfast, already nervous at the prospect of what was to come.

Hermione was not yet down, but Aunt Lettice was, and somewhat spoiled breakfast with a long monologue on the effects of too much protein on the intestinal tract.
Recalling
her spanking, Stephanie responded with careful politeness and even forced herself to eat some of the American cereal. Aunt Gertrude joined them, and then her grandfather, allowing her to make the opening gambit of the day’s elaborate plans.

‘Hermione and I shall visit Great-grandmama Nell today,’ she announced.

‘That’s unusually thoughtful of you, Stephanie,’ her Aunt Gertrude responded, ‘although Mr Attwater is lunching here, and he was keen to speak with you.’

‘Mr Attwater?’ Stephanie replied. ‘Why ever would he want to speak to me?’

‘The fellow probably wants you to join his Brown Drawers or whatever they call themselves,’ Sir Richard put in.

‘There’s no need to be vulgar, father,’ Gertrude responded. ‘You know perfectly well that Mr Attwater’s organisation is called the Brown Shorts.’

‘Be that as it may,’ Sir Richard replied, ‘it’s a load of nonsense, prancing around in footer bags, although some of the girls look deuced attractive.’

‘They look positively indecent,’ Lettice supplied. ‘They might as well be running around in their underwear.’

‘As I say, deuced attractive,’ Sir Richard replied, and chuckled as both daughters gave him dark looks.

‘I thought Mr Attwater disapproved of women?’ Stephanie asked cautiously.

‘Certainly Mr Attwater approves of women,’ Gertrude responded. ‘He simply realises that progress must be tempered with common sense, and therefore opposes this absurd extension of the franchise …’

Stephanie returned her attention to her American cereal, hoping it might prove more palatable than her aunt’s political lecture. It didn’t, but with Aunt Lettice regarding her from the corner of one eye she was forced to finish. It sat like a lead ball in her stomach. Not at all keen to renew the acquaintance of a man who had
last
seen her with her bare bottom sticking up in the air as she was disciplined, she left the house and climbed Burley Down to the old folly at the summit, where she sat admiring the view.

The western flank of Dartmoor occupied most of the horizon, verdant green sprinkled with the grey of rocks, and below the darker greens of woods and hedgerows, among which a scattering of buildings stood out: farms, the churches at Lydford and Sourton, and the squat towers of Stukely Hall. If there was a giant pig to conceal, the woodland around the hall was undoubtedly the place to do it, and she found her confidence growing as she looked back towards the house.

It seemed like a toy from so high up, and yet clear in the morning sunlight. The tiny figures emerging from the French windows were her Aunt Gertrude and Claude Attwater, while Hermione had just come out from the stable block, her bright red dress unmistakable, although the tall, apparently dapper young man was unfamiliar – or perhaps not. Stephanie narrowed her eyes, excitement welling up inside her as she realised that the man was Freddie Drake. Immediately she began to run back down the hill, less because she wanted to see him than because she was worried about what her sister might say.

By the time she reached the bottom, he and Hermione were approaching the pigsty. Stephanie ran straight to them and threw herself into his arms. After a moment of surprise he responded well, catching her up and kissing her, then holding her briefly at arm’s length before setting her back down on the ground. Only then did she remember all the circumstances of their last meeting.

‘I’m surprised you’re so friendly,’ she said, doing her best to sound haughty. ‘I would have expected you to adopt a rather more apologetic attitude. Grovelling, even?’

‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ he said casually. ‘H. has explained everything.’

Stephanie went scarlet and threw an accusing glance at Hermione, who was shaking her head and making urgent hand gestures to indicate that it wasn’t true.

‘So I know you’re not really cross with me,’ Freddie went on, ‘and dammit, I did bail you out.’

‘Very well,’ Stephanie said, tilting her nose to indicate scorn, ‘but next time you wish to cover my face with burning kisses I shall expect you to say something first.’

‘I’d rather cover your bottom with burning kisses,’ Freddie replied.

Hermione burst into giggles. Stephanie, who had been angling for either an apology or a proposal, hit him. Freddie merely chuckled and linked arms with both girls as he continued towards the sty.

‘Beast,’ Stephanie remarked.

‘Absolutely,’ he agreed. ‘With girls like you about, a fellow’s bound to be a bit of a beast. And speaking of beasts, I hear your grandfather thinks his animal is capable of beating the Porker at Okehampton.’

‘Is that its name? Your father’s pig?’ Stephanie enquired. ‘I thought it was something Latin.’

‘It is,’ he told her. ‘In full, Singularis Porcus, meaning the singular or extraordinary pig, as any Teigngraceeducated girl should know, although from what Myrtle tells me you spent most of your time throwing ink darts and pulling each other’s hair. Anyhow, what of the Emperor’s form? Cyril Wonnacott’s playing his cards close to his chest, as usual. Five pints we stood him last night and he still wouldn’t spill the beans, and H. wouldn’t tell even when I threatened to tickle her.’

Stephanie had begun to go red at the mention of Myrtle and Teigngrace, but quickly rallied.

‘You’d hardly expect me to tell you,’ she said. ‘Why do you want to know, anyway?’

‘Benjy Porthwell is running a book,’ Freddie informed her. ‘Rather appropriate, that, don’t you think, one porker taking bets on some others? There are five runners in the fat pig class, but it’s hard to establish
form
. The Porker’s over the hundred stone, but the Emperor’s been creeping up year by year, which is why I was hoping for a tip from the stable.’

‘What are the odds?’ Stephanie asked.

‘The Porker’s favourite at two to one,’ Freddie told her, ‘with the Emperor at five, which may be where the clever money is. Squire Cunnigham’s animal is a no-hoper, a hundred to one and no takers, and the same for Farmer Beston. Farmer Urferd has threatened to shoot anyone who sets foot on his land, so he’s up at a cautious ten to one. His pig, that is, not old Urferd.’

‘I see,’ Stephanie said cautiously.

‘What’s Porker Porthwell doing running a book?’ Hermione asked with a trace of irritation in her voice. ‘He’s the curate at Bridestowe!’

‘Yes,’ Freddie explained, ‘but that doesn’t seem to dampen his sporting spirit, or his avaricious nature, although I dare say old Tredegar would play merry hell if he found out. We’ve quite a little party, as it goes, with you two down here, and Roly Bassinger and Eggy White at my place, and Myrtle of course –’

‘Myrtle’s down in Devon?’ Stephanie interrupted.

‘Rather,’ Freddie admitted, somewhat embarrassed. ‘You know how it is …’

‘Yes, I do,’ Stephanie answered, ‘and I’d prefer it if you didn’t speak to her.’

‘Tricky, that,’ he said. ‘She’s staying at the hall. Now about that pig …’

‘My lips are sealed,’ Stephanie replied haughtily before returning to the earlier subject. ‘Is Bobbie coming down?’

‘No, no,’ Freddie replied, ‘no baby sis. She would have come, but she’s determined to get into Gaspers and felt she ought to stay in London.’

‘Nobody would blackball Bobbie,’ Stephanie replied with conviction.

‘Never,’ he agreed, ‘but you know how she is, always has to be best at everything.’

Stephanie nodded. She had been Bobbie’s Protector at Teigngrace, and had watched in awe as the tall, athletic girl went through the school like a whirlwind, to end as headgirl and captain of every available sport. Even Myrtle was friendly to Bobbie, despite being two years older, and had never dared persecute her. Stephanie frowned, reflecting how useful it would have been to have Bobbie about.

When they reached the sty, Cyril Wonnacott took one look at Freddie Drake and closed the door in a pointed manner.

‘Bother,’ Freddie remarked. ‘Oh well, care for a stroll, old thing?’

‘I shall stay and tickle the pig,’ Hermione said tactfully, and detached herself from Freddie’s arm.

‘Shall we climb the down?’ Freddie suggested.

Stephanie acquiesced and once more started up the long zigzag path through the thick ancient woods that cloaked the slope of Burley Down. Freddie spoke of this and that, but she wasn’t really listening. It was a nasty shock to discover that Myrtle had managed to insinuate herself at Combebow, where she would be able to monopolise Freddie’s company even more effectively than in London. It was also a highly romantic setting, with a river walk and not one but two rustic rose gardens. Desperate measures were called for.

‘I’ve a little trick to show you,’ she announced as they reached the folly. ‘Come inside and sit down.’

Freddie obeyed in his usual insouciant manner, regarding her with polite enquiry as he lowered himself on to one of the marble benches inside the folly. Stephanie was feeling anything but insouciant. Her heart was hammering and the blood was hot in her face as she got down on her knees on the hard floor. Freddie’s eyes widened, then his mouth, as she put her hands on his fly.

‘I say, Stiffy!’ he gasped as the first button popped open.

‘Shh,’ she said gently. ‘This is jolly hard for me, so please don’t say anything.’

‘
I
’ll be jolly hard for you in a moment,’ Freddie told her.

‘Shut up,’ Stephanie replied, and hauled his cock out of his underwear.

It was big, perhaps even bigger than Lias Snell’s, but pale and smooth, with only a faint waft of male smell, accompanied by some expensive and equally masculine scent: very much a gentleman’s cock. She still needed to pluck up her courage before taking it in her mouth, but once she was sucking it was easy. He had relaxed, his eyes closed in bliss and his mouth agape, and he just sighed occasionally as she moved her lips up and down his rapidly thickening shaft and licked the underside of his foreskin, a technique recommended by Elias Snell the second time she had sucked him off.

As he grew hard in her mouth she thought about how the same fine cock had felt between the cheeks of her bottom, and wished she could take him inside her properly, surrendering her virginity then and there, in the warm spring air with the countryside spread out all round them. Yet she held back, determined to reserve the moment for her wedding night, but pleased that she had learnt to appreciate men’s cocks beforehand, and excited enough to want to touch herself even before he was fully erect.

She tried to hold back and to concentrate on his pleasure rather than her own. Grateful for Lias Snell’s brief but practical lesson in the art of sucking a penis, she began to try out recommended techniques, first sucking on his helmet in imitation of a lollipop while she masturbated him into her mouth, then nibbling at the fleshy mass of his foreskin where it had peeled back down his shaft, lastly pulling out his balls to lick them with the tip of her tongue. He had opened his eyes and was watching in ecstasy and astonishment as she worked on his cock, and she gave him a little smile before popping him into her mouth once more.

He closed his eyes again, and the urge to play with herself was now too strong to be ignored. With no more than a touch of embarrassment, she reached down between her thighs and eased a hand into the slit of her union suit. Her quim was already puffy and open, the centre wet and sensitive to her fingers. She took his cock in her other hand and pulled it from her mouth, tugging up and down on the shaft, licking and kissing the tip as she masturbated them both. Little shocks were already running through her body, and she began to rub harder, lost to all thoughts of decency as she pressed his cock against her face, bumping it over her nose and lips while still tugging furiously at the shaft.

She was going to come; her quim and bottom hole were already in contraction. The feelings in her head were almost worshipful: she could not get enough of his cock, alternately sucking and rubbing it on her face, then licking his balls as she pulled on his shaft, which made him come. It was sudden and unexpected, a great gout of thick white spunk erupting from the tip of his cock, full in her face. A thrill of ecstasy ran through her as the sticky mess splashed across her nose and one cheek, and again as the second spurt caught her full in the mouth. She deliberately swallowed it, adding a delicious, dirty thrill to her climax as she rode it, and continued to milk his cock into her mouth and over her face, leaving her smeared with mingled come and saliva. Her excitement finally began to fade.

‘Sorry about that, old thing,’ Freddie gasped. ‘Couldn’t help it. Have a handkerchief.’

Stephanie accepted the handkerchief and began to clean up. Her knees were sore from the hard marble and even as she got up one leg wouldn’t stop shaking, but she felt triumphant. Freddie was looking at her in awe, his mouth open like that of an expectant goldfish, an expression he usually reserved only for the tensest of cricket matches. As she put her make-up to rights she was sure he was only waiting for the moment to ask her
to
marry him. He failed to come up to scratch, though, contenting himself with taking her hand as they walked back down the slope, until she was forced to drop a hint.