Butter Wouldn't Melt (12 page)

I nodded, now with a catch in my throat for the memory and blushing red because Helen had obviously been told all about my little session on my desk.

‘It's even better in front of old Mr Montague,' Helen went on, ‘so embarrassing . . . you understand that, don't you?'

‘Of course.'

‘Sometimes he takes pictures and shows me afterwards, or even a piece of video, so I know exactly
what he saw, and he always makes sure to sit right behind me, so everything shows.'

She gave a little shiver as she finished, then an embarrassed smile. I responded in kind, imagining how she'd look across Maggie's knee, her knickers well down, her bottom rosy with smacks, as the handle of a stamp was eased in up her bumhole. She was right, it was embarrassing, hideously embarrassing, especially to be filmed like that and then made to watch her own punishment.

I had to get out of there, or I was going to proposition her. Fortunately somebody passed the door, which broke the mood and I was able to make an excuse and slip away without seeming hurtful. I was burning with frustration as I climbed the stairs to my room, with rude images flickering across my mind in endless succession, and I knew I would have to masturbate.

My room was safe enough, as always, because I could easily cover up before anyone caught me. As soon as I'd shut the door I pulled my skirt up, leaning back as I slipped a hand down the front of my knickers. I was wet and ready, still a little sore, too, but I didn't care. Not even bothering to sit down, I slumped to the carpet with my back against the door and my eyes closed in bliss. I had to come, and I had to come over Helen.

I wanted her badly, but that hurt, because I knew I couldn't have her, yet at least I could share her. Even if I was the one doing the spanking it would be good, better still if I was across her knee. We could take turns, maybe, or best of all, we could be done side by side, bent over a desk, close together as our skirts were raised . . . as our knickers were pulled down . . . as our cheeks were pulled wide to show off our bumholes . . . as we were penetrated with the little stamps, and spanked, and spanked, and spanked . . .

Just as I was about to come my mind slipped, imagining not only Maggie, but old Mr Montague, watching us as we were given our humiliating punishment, with a camera in his hand to record the very rudest details. I remembered that Maggie had said the next time I masturbated it would be over dirty old men, and tried to push the thought aside, gently circling my clit with one finger as I struggled to focus. Whatever I thought about when I came, it would not have anything to do with dirty old men.

Yet Maggie had planted the seeds in my head, and Helen too. Besides, if I was to be spanked side by side with Helen I wanted an audience, and I wanted my shame to be captured on camera. Maybe it would be OK if Maggie filmed us to show Old Montague and Lucius Todmorden later? No, they had to be there. They had to watch my bottom cheeks spread and my anus penetrated, and once Helen and I were spanked and juicy and too far gone to stop it, they'd bugger us . . .

Again I tried to pull back, but I couldn't, sobbing with frustration for my own helpless, dirty imagination even as I began to rub myself again. My orgasm was already rising up in my head, and I had to come over the fantasy I'd evolved, nothing else would do. I bit my lip to stop myself screaming when it happened, and let go.

In my mind's eye I was bent over Mr Montague's big desk, after hours, with Helen beside me. Our skirts were up, our knickers down around our knees, our pussies on show, our bottoms bare with the ends of date stamps sticking out between our cheeks where our bumholes had been filled. Maggie would be spanking us and the two men watching, old Mr Montague with his camera, on which he'd already have recorded a close-up of my bottom hole being
plugged to show me later, and Lucius Todmorden with a fat, straining erection sticking out of his trousers, ready for that same rude, dirty hole once I was vacant.

They'd do Helen first, making me watch as the stamp was extracted from her bumhole and replaced with old Montague's cock. I'd see the pained ecstasy on her face as her hole came wide, and the shame as she began to grunt and pant to her buggering. I'd hear her beg for more as her rectum filled with cock and her satisfied gasp as his balls pressed to her empty cunt. I'd smell the heat of her sex and beg to be allowed to lick her out while she was buggered, even offering to attend to old Montague's balls as well.

I'd be ignored, and I'd be buggered. Maggie would pull the plug out of my anus and guide old Todmorden's cock in. I'd feel it touch my ring. I'd be begging him not to even as my hole spread to the pressure, but I wouldn't mean it. I'd stay just as I was, bent over with my bum stuck out, whimpering, sobbing, maybe in tears, but all too eager for his fat penis to be jammed right up my bottom, jammed as deep as it would go, with his fat ball sack pressed to my empty cunt.

He'd bugger me. He'd bugger me in front of Maggie and Helen and old Montague, and I'd be filmed, close up, so that afterwards I could be made to watch in detail as I moaned and gasped my way through the buggering and even watch the taut ring of my bumhole pulling in and out on his cock shaft. He'd bugger me until he'd spunked in my rectum and pull out to leave me masturbating in his mess as it dribbled out of my gaping bumhole and over my cunt, all of which would be caught on film.

My orgasm was so strong I nearly fainted, but I had filled up with self-recrimination long before it
was over, and was left sobbing on the floor in exhaustion and shame.

Travelling home on the Friday evening, I felt as if I'd been away for months rather than a few days. Everything was exactly as I remembered it; the delphiniums in the garden on the corner, taller than me, the plum tree overhanging the road outside No. 61, from which Jemima and I had always loved to steal the fruit, even Mr Pott's broken down lawnmower, which stood exactly as it had at the beginning of the week. It felt different, no longer somewhere I yearned to escape from, but a sanctuary to which I knew I could always return.

Mum and Dad were out, but Jemima was there, in her room, face down on her bed and still in her school uniform, the long white socks halfway down her skinny legs. She turned her head as I said hello, and padded after me as I went into my own room, folding her arms across her chest and cocking her head a little to one side as she spoke.

‘Well?'

‘Well what?'

‘Well, did you get spanked this week?'

She smacked her lips on the word ‘spanked', as if her sister being punished was both highly amusing and desirable. I opened my mouth to deny it, only to close it again. She was a sight too happy about my spankings, so happy in fact that I could not help but wonder if she wasn't developing an interest in having her own bottom attended to. If there was one thing guaranteed to put a stop to that, it was what had been done to me.

‘Yes, I did, as a matter of fact,' I told her. ‘Hard. It hurt. A lot.'

‘Let's see then,' she demanded.

‘No!'

‘Go on, Pippa, show.'

‘Jemima!'

‘Come on, I want to see. Please?'

There was altogether too much excitement in her voice, but if she saw the state I was in it was sure to change her mind. I nodded and began to undo the button of my jeans as I spoke.

‘OK, Jemima, I'll show you. I'll show you what it looks like when you get a proper spanking.'

I turned my back and quickly pushed down my jeans and knickers, sticking my bottom out a little to let her see the full extent of my bruising. Her mouth came slowly open as she took the sight in, and her lower lip began to tremble before she suddenly rushed from the room. I allowed myself a quiet smile. There would be no more talk about spanking from my baby sister.

The mirror showed what she'd seen, and although the bruises had begun to fade both my cheeks were still pretty colourful and it was obvious I'd been given a severe spanking. Again a little thrill ran through me at the memory, and I was humming happily to myself as I went downstairs, despite feeling a little guilty about Jemima. I made myself an instant coffee and went into the garden, sipping it on the patio and watching Mr Porter prune his hedge.

I'd known him all my life, as a large, taciturn man who seldom spoke save to say good morning if we passed in the street. Never once had I given the slightest thought to his sexuality, but now, as he worked the clippers and the beads of sweat formed on his bald patch I found myself thinking of him as the sort of man who'd attend Morris Rathwell's parties, paying for the privilege of dirty little shows like schoolgirl striptease and spanking some unfortunate
girl's bottom before she was sent upstairs to suck him off.

From what Penny and others had said, that was generally the sort of thing that happened, and a shiver of excitement and disgust ran down my spine at the thought. Determined not to start fantasising about Mr Porter, of all people, I swallowed the last of my coffee and went indoors. As I put my mug in the dishwasher it occurred to me that Jemima ought to have got over herself and come downstairs, but she hadn't. I called out, feeling guilty again, but there was no response. With a long sigh I started up the stairs, wondering what I could possibly say to her to make things right.

I stopped on the landing, trying to put my thoughts together, when I heard a soft, somehow liquid noise from her bedroom. She was crying. I hesitated, wondering if I should wait a bit before speaking to her, but her door was slightly open and I decided to look through the crack and see just how bad a state she'd got herself into. I stepped close, as quietly as I could, and pressed my nose to the wood, peering in.

Jemima was lying on her bed, as I'd expected, but she wasn't crying. She was on her back, her shoes off, her socks around her ankles, her jacket gone and her blouse undone to show her breasts, her school skirt pulled up around her waist and her knickers taut between her calves, her thighs cocked wide to show off her little pink cunt, which she was busily masturbating. I could only stare, transfixed, my mouth open as I watched her fingers move, patting and snatching at her sex.

She was about to come, her back arched tight, her eyes closed in bliss, her spare hand teasing one stiff little nipple. I could even smell her arousal, and had to remind myself exactly who I was watching before my own hand went between my legs. That didn't stop
me, even when she suddenly flipped herself over onto her tummy and stuck up her bottom, into exactly the same rude pose I like best when I do it lying down. Now I knew just how rude I looked.

Her knees were still cocked wide, her lower legs slightly lifted, so that her bright pink panties hung between her ankles. She had lifted her bottom, just as I did, allowing her cheeks to part and show off the tiny pink dimple of her anus, also her pussy, moist and puffy with excitement as she worked her clitoris. Now she was coming, shivering in her ecstasy, her thighs and bottom cheeks in powerful contraction, her anus winking lewdly between, white juice oozing from her open pussy hole.

The instant she'd finished I pulled myself away from the door crack and retreated as fast and as silently as I could, back downstairs. My head was spinning, full of shame and confusion at my own desperate need to masturbate, and worse, for the fact that I could be very sure indeed that I knew what she'd come over, my own well-spanked bum.

All weekend I was telling myself I ought to have a serious talk with Jemima, but I could never find the right words to say. After all, she was old enough to think for herself, and for sex, while her behaviour wasn't really so very different from my own when I'd first begun to explore my feelings. How could I criticise Jem for doing the same?

Besides, she probably hadn't been thinking about me as such, not even me being spanked by AJ. More likely the sight of my smacked bum had merely triggered a fantasy of getting the same from one of the men she was seeing. She tended to go for muscular, sporty types, who no doubt could dish out a good spanking if it was called for. In fact the way
they drooled over her they'd no doubt be prepared to do anything whatsoever if it involved playing with her bare bum.

So I left it, but I was still feeling guilty and cross on the Monday morning as I made my way into London. I was supposed to be going out with Steve Frost again, this time to attend a court hearing, but it had been postponed, leaving me at a loose end. I'd heard that Mr Prufrock had asked if I could help out with the archives, a job I was very keen indeed to avoid, so I went up to the Blockhouse before Maggie could catch me, intending to see if any of the others were prepared to put up with me for the day. Only two people were there, Gail, who was busy at her desk with an expression of such deep concentration I immediately decided not to disturb her, and Clive Carew, who was sucking on the end of a long yellow pencil and staring out of the window.

‘Hi,' I ventured. ‘Clive?'

He hadn't realised I was there, and started visibly, dropping the pencil and going abruptly pink.

‘Pippy . . . Pippa, hello,' he managed, extending one plump paw and promptly thinking better of the gesture. ‘How can I help?'

‘I was supposed to be going out with Steve,' I explained, ‘but the hearing has been postponed. I was wondering if any of you were doing anything? I'll be as good as gold, I promise.'

‘Um . . . er, I'm taking a client to lunch, as it happens, because Mr Montague's not well, um . . . Mr Montague Senior, that is. I'm sure you could come along. It's always nice to have a pretty girl about . . . not, that is, that I mean to suggest you . . . I mean . . . I'm sorry.'

‘That's alright,' I assured him, trying not to smile. ‘Is Mr Montague OK?'

‘Just a head cold, I believe. Would you like to come?'

‘Please, yes.'

It didn't sound a very interesting outing, but it had to be better than being cooped up with Mr Prufrock all day. Clive at least didn't seem likely to molest me, even if he did think I had an apple bottom and therefore was presumably quite keen to get his hands on it. Unfortunately he wasn't leaving the office until midday, and I spent the morning trying to evade Maggie and look busy. I succeeded, and met Clive in the Blockhouse shortly before noon to make sure I wasn't forgotten.