Portrait of a Disciplinarian Read online

  ‘Now who’s a little liar?’ he said happily. ‘If you’ve not done that before, then I’m a monkey’s uncle.’

  Stephanie said nothing, partly through sheer outrage, partly because she still felt the awful need to rub her quim, but mainly because she was still coughing up a mixture of come and saliva on to the grass between her knees. He got up, tugged his trousers high and patted her on top of her hat as he walked past. Only then did he put his cock and balls away. Through eyes blurred with tears Stephanie watched him go, then climbed slowly to her feet.

  Her thoughts were a muddle, with several strong emotions vying for her attention, but the most compelling was a warm, urgent arousal, which she was determined to ignore. To have stripped off and taken a man’s cock in her mouth until he came was bad enough, but she could at least save some face if she could pretend she’d had no choice; to get excited over it was unthinkable.

  To avoid having to admit her true feelings she busied herself with her clothes, kicking her shoes away and peeling off her stockings and gloves to go stark naked but for her hat, which was already dry. She went to sit on a rock but soon began to feel silly, while the granite was uncomfortably rough against her bare bottom. Moving to the entrance of the quarry, she peered cautiously out, to find the road empty and the drayman busy with his horses.

  She was quite alone. It would have been so easy to slip a hand between her thighs and play with the sensitive little bump of flesh that formed the very heart of her quim until she achieved that exquisite sensation that exceeded every other pleasure she knew. Yet it would be the drayman’s cock she was thinking of when it happened, and somehow that was a worse disgrace than what she had already done. So she watched him work instead, her arms folded across her chest and her mouth set in a tight, determined line.

  Finally he managed to haul the two-seater out of the stream and back on to the road. The interior was sodden and muddy, the paint scratched and the front bumper badly dented. Still, she reflected as she pulled on her now merely damp clothes, she might still escape retribution. As long as the mechanics could get the car going again, and she arrived after dark, she could put it in the garage and take it out again first thing in the morning. There was a big garage in Okehampton that would make the necessary repairs, and she would have evaded the cane.

  As they drove back to Postbridge with the two-seater hitched to the back of the dray, Stephanie grew increasingly confident. All that really mattered was getting the car going; the rest could wait. She had driven so fast that she wouldn’t be expected for hours anyway. It was all going to work.

  The mechanic came out as they reached the garage, rubbing his hands on an oily rag and contemplating the wreck with what Stephanie felt was an insolent lack of surprise.

  ‘Hairy Hands get you?’ he enquired, grinning.

  ‘No,’ Stephanie answered, indicating the drayman. ‘This idiot was parked in the middle of the bridge. Do you think you could get me back on the road, please?’

  The mechanic paused to suck in air between his front teeth, then shook his head.

  ‘No chance of that, I’m afraid, Miss,’ he said, pointing to the trail of oily spots running from beneath the car and back along the road. ‘You’ve cracked your sump, you have. Be a week, maybe more, it will.’

  ‘But I have to get to Bidlake Village,’ Stephanie insisted, ‘near Lydford.’

  ‘I know Bidlake,’ the drayman told her, pausing from his efforts to load an ancient and badly stained pipe with fresh tobacco. ‘I’ll give you a lift if you don’t mind taking your time, and perhaps …’

  Stephanie Truscott wiped the last trace of the drayman’s come from her lower lip. He had taken her as far as the Okehampton Road before insisting on having his cock sucked for the second time, and punishing her for calling him names by deliberately wiping a blob of come on her nose while he held her firmly by the hair. All of which had left her feeling more chagrined than ever, and also more in need of the touch of her hand between her thighs.

  The episode had demoted what Freddie had done to her to ninth place among the most embarrassing incidents of her life, or possibly tenth if it counted as two, but she was unsure how it ranked in comparison to the teacake incident, because, while it had been utterly disgusting, or so she kept telling herself, it had been neither painful nor done in front of witnesses. George Hamilton Gordon still held sixth place.

  By the time she got to Driscoll’s it was dark, and had been for some time. The lights of both dining room and drawing room were on, suggesting that dinner had reached the stage when the ladies retired to leave the gentlemen to their port, while rhythmic, fleshy smacks punctuated by heartfelt squeals suggested that her little sister was being spanked. Stephanie bit her lip, wondering whether she would suffer the same fate as soon as Hermione had been finished with, assuming she entered the drawing room at all. A much better plan was to go in by the tradesmen’s entrance, where she would find Catchpole the butler, who was a kindly soul and could be relied on for a badly needed sandwich.

  She had already decided on her story, concocted during the long slow drive across the moor, with the driver prattling of this and that, either unaware of or indifferent to her sulky expression and terse answers. If she admitted she had crashed it would mean the cane for certain, but if she claimed she had run out of petrol they were unlikely to do more than smack her bottom for being a silly girl, maybe not even that. Or so she had thought, but now, with Hermione already spanked, they would be in the mood for chastisement. If they’d had rather too much wine, they might do something really awful, like pass her around from lap to lap, taking turns with her bottom, which seemed to be what was happening to her sister. Maybe they would accept her story and ask her to take her turn with Hermione, but probably not.

  It was much less risky to slip upstairs and pretend she’d arrived after everybody but the servants had gone to bed, then blame the garage for the time it took to get the car back. That presented another problem, because the bill was likely to eat up so much of what remained of her allowance that she would be unable to sneak back to London for the Gaspers election, as she was determined to do. For the time being, though, all that mattered was getting safely upstairs to bed with her bottom still in pristine condition.

  Catchpole was everything she had hoped and more, a dispenser of not only sympathy and sandwiches but bottled beer, two kinds of pie and a kitchen-maid to act as look-out while Stephanie nipped up the servants’ staircase to the Blue Room, which had already been prepared for her. Exhausted, she undressed, risked a quick visit to the bathroom while the aunts who lived at Beare House were being put into a car, slipped into the short cotton nightgown that had been laid out for her, and collapsed into bed.

  Her eyes closed, only to open again in irritation. Whoever had chosen the nightgown must have thought she was about six, or eight at the outside. As Vera didn’t seem to have arrived, presumably it had been Mrs Catchpole, who kept house. On her previous birthday she had presented Stephanie with a golliwog and set of bricks. The woman was plainly dotty but had been with the family for ever and was the soul of kindness, so it was pointless to complain.

  She rolled on to her front, telling herself she would just have to put up with it, but the new position was even worse. The nightie had been made at the height of the war, when economy was considered the prime virtue, and had been short then. Now it was hopelessly inadequate and didn’t even cover her bottom, leaving her acutely conscious of the way her bare cheeks stuck out below the hem, even though there was nobody to see. She felt vulnerable, as if she was due to be spanked, and rude, as if Freddie Drake or perhaps the drayman, whom she knew only as Lias, had made her lift her dress to show off her bottom.

  Again she turned over and tugged the nightie down, but the moment she reached up to cuddle her pillow in her favourite sleeping position the garment rode up again, showing her quim. The urge to touch was almost overwhelming, preferably with her legs spread in the position she knew she would be obliged to adopt
on her wedding night but was not supposed to think about until then. Yet again she rolled on to her front, but it only made matters worse, tempting her to stick her bottom up in an even ruder position, to caress her cheeks and slip a finger between them to find her hole, which badly needed a tickle.

  She turned on to her side, pushing the disturbing thoughts away, and began to count sheep, but they turned into rams, each with a pendulous purple-headed cock swinging from its woolly underside. She pulled the nightie right up, so that at least the lace trim wouldn’t tickle her bottom and thighs, but that made her feel more vulnerable still.

  Finally she gave in, kicking the sheets down and rolling on to her back. Her thighs came up and open and she spread her quim to the cool night air as she imagined how one day she would offer herself to a man whose hard cock was ready to puncture the taut knot of flesh that blocked her virgin opening. She knew he’d probably want to see her breasts too, just as Lias the drayman had done, and she quickly pulled the nightie all the way up to her neck, baring her chest.

  With her eyes lightly closed she began to explore her body, thinking of Freddie Drake and how rude he’d been with her bottom. She ran her finger over the low mounds of her breasts, pausing to tease her nipples to erection before moving lower, across the gentle bulge of her tummy and around her thighs to the swell of her bottom cheeks. One long fingernail found her bottom hole and she sighed in pleasure as she gave the tiny, wrinkled opening a much needed tickle. She began to giggle at how naughty she was being, imaging what Freddie would think if he saw her as she was, how rude he’d think her and what he’d want to do with her. At the least he’d make her suck his penis, as the drayman had done, and when she remembered how it had felt to kneel naked but for her stockings and shoes and hat and take an erect cock in her mouth she gave in completely. Spreading her thighs as wide as they would go, she began to stroke her quim, touching the plump fleshy lips and the moist folds between, at the same time teasing one nipple, while she struggled to think of Freddie Drake instead of the lecherous drayman.

  It was no good. She gave in with a resigned sigh and her mind was filled with memories of the taste and smell and feel of his big dark cock. She began to masturbate. He’d been such a beast to her, making her strip, making her suck, but he was really no worse than Freddie, rubbing himself on her bottom until he did it all over her. Men were like that, utter beasts, doing rude things to girls with their horrible ugly cocks, cocks which she wanted to suck and lick and hold, to rub on her breasts and between the cheeks of her bottom, to have thrust up her virgin quim and into the rude little hole behind.

  Her back arched in pleasure as she found herself wishing the drayman had taken her, and Freddie too, maybe the mechanic as well, and his mate, all four of them making utter pigs of themselves with her helpless body, using her in her mouth and her quim at the same time, maybe up her bottom as well, taking turns with her, but Freddie first, taking her virginity as the others clapped and cheered their approval, then making her suck her own maiden blood from his penis while the others filled her up between her thighs.

  Stephanie bit her lip as the exquisite sensation hit her, determined not to repeat the fifth most embarrassing moment of her life, when she had been doing exactly the same thing and cried out in her ecstasy. Great-aunt Victoria had come into the room just in time to catch her grand-niece at the supreme moment of climax, spread-eagled naked on the bed with a small candle up her bottom.

  Two

  STEPHANIE TRUSCOTT AWOKE to bright sunshine filtering through a crack in the curtains and an assortment of thoughts, good and bad. For a while she lay still, considering each and putting it in its proper place. On the bad side she had been exiled to Devon, but on the good she was in Devon. On the bad side she had crashed the car, but on the good none of her relatives knew. On the bad side she had been made to suck a man’s penis, but on the good side she had really rather enjoyed it. On the bad side she had Vera Clapshott as her personal maid and no less fewer than six aunts all of whom seemed to consider a day wasted unless it involved the application of a hand to her bare bottom. On the good side she hadn’t actually been spanked yet.

  Unfortunately there were also Freddie Drake and Myrtle Finch-Farmiloe, which left her ledger heavier on the debit side, and she was frowning as she got up. The air was a little cold and she hurried to wash, hoping nobody would be about as she scampered across the corridor, her bare bottom showing beneath the hem of her abbreviated nightie. Reaching the bathroom door, she quickly pushed it open, entered and locked it behind her, glad she had not been seen – only to turn around and discover a man standing at the washbasin, a rotund, elderly man with a moustache so abundant that he appeared to be staring out from above a quickset hedge, while his notably corpulent body was clad in pyjamas of a stupefying mauve.

  Stephanie stopped, staring at this unexpected apparition, which she recognised as Sir Murgatroyd Drake, Freddie’s father and a neighbouring landowner. He was no less surprised than she, his small protuberant eyes moving from her face down to the neat naked V between her thighs, whereupon she remembered just how much she was showing and fled, treating him to a display of her bottom cheeks as well.

  Telling herself that the incident wasn’t even worthy of her top ten most embarrassing moments did nothing to abate her blushes, and she cursed Sir Murgatroyd, Mrs Catchpole and Vera Clapshott indiscriminately as she hurriedly put on her clothes. Still pink-cheeked, she completed her ablutions in a different bathroom and made her way downstairs, listening for prowling aunts as she approached the morning-room.

  None were present, only Hermione, who glanced up from a plate of kedgeree, her freckled face immediately breaking into a broad smile.

  ‘Hi, Stiffy! Catchpole said you were down. Have you got the car?’

  ‘No,’ Stephanie admitted. She paused to kiss her sister and made her way to the row of tureens on the sideboard. ‘Actually, you might be able to help me with that, but anyway, what’s old Murgatroyd Drake doing here? I met him in the bathroom, looking positively foul in mauve pyjamas.’

  ‘He was here for dinner,’ Hermione explained. ‘He got so beastly drunk last night he couldn’t drive his car home.’

  ‘Yes, but why was he here at all?’ Stephanie demanded. ‘The last time I was down, Grandpapa was threatening to shoot him if he came near the place.’

  ‘They want to buy each other’s pigs,’ Hermione went on, ‘so they’ve called a sort of truce while they offer each other more and more money.’

  ‘Grandpapa would never sell the Emperor,’ Stephanie said with conviction, ‘but that’s good news, because now he won’t kick so much when I tell him I’m engaged to Freddie.’

  ‘You’re engaged!’ Hermione exclaimed.

  ‘As good as,’ Stephanie answered. ‘We haven’t actually named the day, but … well, he has to marry me.’

  ‘You didn’t!’ Hermione shrieked, and immediately put a hand over her mouth.

  There was a moment of silence while both sisters looked apprehensively towards the door, before Stephanie continued.

  ‘Not that, no, but nearly.’

  ‘Tell me!’ Hermione demanded in an urgent whisper.

  Stephanie merely smiled, preferring to remain mysterious than to explain the truth, which she knew would only make her sister laugh. Instead, she began to investigate the contents of the tureens, which contained, in order of progression along the sideboard, bacon, fried eggs, kedgeree, kippers and a peculiar American substance with the consistency and flavour of cardboard, favoured by her Aunt Lettice, who was vegetarian. She helped herself to bacon and eggs and went to sit opposite her sister. Bright sunlight was streaming through the window. The gardens, the wooded slope of Burley Down and the hills and moors beyond were a patchwork of yellow and vivid greens, a scene at once so familiar and beautiful that she found herself smiling happily as she tucked into her breakfast. Hermione did not seem to share her enthusiasm, her face now sulky, and yet there was an odd trace of pride in her voice as she
spoke.

  ‘I got spanked last night.’

  ‘I know,’ Stephanie replied. ‘I heard. That’s why I didn’t come in. I thought they’d do me too.’

  ‘Quite likely,’ Hermione agreed. ‘They were very cross, and all because I put a toad in Aunt Lettice’s salad.’

  Stephanie chuckled.

  ‘It was a really good one, big and fat, with lots of wattles. I couldn’t waste it.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Stephanie agreed.

  ‘I mean, it’s not every day you find a toad like that,’ Hermione went on, ‘and I was going to put it down Sir Murgatroyd’s bed, but there was the salad, sitting on the sideboard, and it was just too tempting. She really screamed.’

  ‘I bet she did,’ Stephanie replied, ‘but I’m not surprised they spanked you.’

  ‘It was hardly fair,’ Hermione protested. ‘Just Aunt Lettice, yes, but upstairs in my room, in private, not in the drawing room where Grandpapa and Sir Murgatroyd could hear through the door, and they took turns with me as well, and on the bare. Great-aunt Victoria used a hairbrush.’

  ‘Ouch,’ said Stephanie sympathetically.

  ‘Ouch is about right,’ Hermione agreed. ‘I’m still sore this morning. Look.’

  She got up and, after a brief silence to listen for anybody approaching, lifted her dress and quickly unbuttoned the union suit she was wearing underneath, displaying two round bottom cheeks, still meaty with puppy fat, each topped by a smudge of purple bruising. Stephanie took a moment to appraise her sister’s bottom before delivering her considered opinion.

  ‘That’s not too bad.’

  ‘I was red all over last night,’ Hermione pointed out.

  ‘I’d put your bottom away if I were you,’ Stephanie advised, ‘or you’ll be red all over this morning too, at both ends if Sir Murgatroyd comes down while you’re being done.’