Butter Wouldn't Melt (2 page)

My mind began to dwell on the possibilities. Maybe it would be in her room and she'd put me over her knee on the bed, take down my knickers and smack my bottom until I was well and truly contrite, after which she'd put me on my knees and make me lick her pussy. Then again, if we'd been talking motorbikes it might be in her garage, in which case she'd probably put me over the seat of her big black machine for my punishment. Perhaps she'd even make me mount it, after having me strip from the waist down, or nude. Either way my bottom would be fully open to her, with my bumhole showing between my cheeks and my pussy all wet while she spanked me. Her hands would be dirty, making black handprints all over my skin, and when she'd finished she'd use the grease-gun to lubricate my bumhole so that she could slip a screwdriver handle up my bottom. She'd leave me like that too, to think about how ridiculous I looked, mounted on her bike in the nude with a screwdriver sticking out between my smacked cheeks.

I was going to have to play with myself. There was nobody else in the house anyway, so why not? I wanted to do it face down and imagine I'd been spanked, so I quickly lifted my hips to push down my knickers from underneath the old shirt I'd worn to bed before turning up the tail to leave myself bare behind. Just the feel of exposing myself was enough to send a powerful shiver through me, and I knew it wouldn't take long. Parting my knees and lifting my bottom a little more, I imagined myself in the same position over the seat of AJ's bike, legs spread and
vulnerable, hiding nothing as she worked my bottom over with her dirty hands.

Everything about it felt good, the cool air on my bare bottom, the tautness of my knickers around my thighs, the subtle feel of my upturned shirt tail on my back, all of it keeping my exposure firmly in mind. I slid a hand back to find pussy, already moist, my lips puffy and swollen, pouting out from between my thighs. My cheeks were open too, my bumhole on show, tempting me to reach back and tickle the tight little knot of flesh until it began to pulse and squirm.

I imagined how the screwdriver handle would feel up my bottom, hard, thick and round, and wondered if being sodomised with a tool counted as losing my anal virginity. It was such a delicious thought it made me squirm, wiggling my bottom as I eased the top joint of my finger into my hole. For a moment my mind slipped, as I wondered how it would feel to have a man insert his penis into the same tight orifice, or even in pussy, taking my true virginity as I posed spanked and spread before him. As always when I thought of men, distaste quickly pushed aside the thrill, and as I began to tease my clitoris my thoughts were back on track, or almost.

My mental image had shifted, to my kitchen spanking of the week before. It had hurt like anything, and left my cheeks marked with dull bruises, but the sense of utter helplessness under so much pain had been overwhelming. I normally take it quite well, fairly well anyway, but not then, not held firmly down across AJ's knee with my bottom stripped as she applied the big wooden spoon to my meat. She'd been mercilessly hard, and I'd wriggled and kicked and squirmed, going into what a certain somebody called a spanking tantrum. Jemima was right, it must have looked funny.

I was on the edge of orgasm, unable to stop myself as my fantasy slipped to where I desperately did not want it to go, imagining that Jemima had really been there, watching as my jeans were pulled down, giggling as my knickers followed and big sister's bottom came bare, laughing openly as the spanking began and I went into my helpless, agonised tantrum. A sob of deep shame escaped my lips, but I couldn't stop myself, and I couldn't get the image out of my head, spanked in front of my little sister . . . spanked bare bottom in front of my little sister . . . spanked bare bottom in front of my little sister and then made to masturbate with a finger up my bumhole, just as I was doing now.

My orgasm came and I cried out in a mixture of ecstasy and overwhelming shame, but I still couldn't stop myself, my mind fixed firmly on the image of my own well-spanked bum with my finger inserted into the little central hole as Jemima laughed at my plight. Not that it was the first time I'd got carried away with a fantasy, but I was left feeling sheepish and distinctly sorry for myself as I went slowly limp, and I stayed lying on the bed with my knickers still down behind for a long time, lost in thought.

I'd put a lot of effort into getting my work placement, writing to dozens of firms and constantly pestering Dad to use his business contacts. Unfortunately I wasn't the only aspiring law student with a clutch of A*s on my CV, and so far I'd had nothing but rejections. Now, as I finally managed to haul myself downstairs after playing with pussy and taking a leisurely bath I found that another two refusals had arrived in the post, which completely spoilt my mood.

There was nothing to do, and I spent the day mooching around the house, until Jemima got back
from school, along with Mum, who'd spent the day at Granny's. They picked me up a little, but nothing like as much as when Dad got home. He was grinning from ear to ear as he threw a big white envelope down on the kitchen table.

‘I think this might be what you're looking for, Pip,' he told me.

I'd already guessed what it would be, and was tearing the envelope open even as I kissed him in thanks. As I'd hoped, it was a letter from a firm of lawyers, and not just any old lawyers, but a firm in the City of London with a very grand and old-fashioned sounding title – Montague, Montague, Todmorden and Montague – arranged beneath an elaborate gold crest and a foundation date in the mid-nineteenth century.

‘How did you manage it?' I asked.

‘Contacts,' he replied casually. ‘No, seriously, one of the Montagues is the lawyer for the firm who're developing Thames Vista Estate, and they owe me a favour. You have to get through an interview as well, so it's not a foregone conclusion.'

‘Thanks anyway,' I answered, already scanning the letter.

They wanted me to come down the very next day, to an address in the Minories, EC3, which sounded very grand indeed. As I let my imagination run that evening I was imagining a stately old house nestled in among the smart office blocks and ancient institutions of the city, quiet and respectable, with only a polished brass plaque to announce their name – Montague, Montague, Todmorden and Montague – four words that were still going around and around in my head as I fell asleep.

Next morning I was up early and through the shower while Jemima was still yawning and
dishevelled in her nightie. I was determined to make a good impression, and had a clear idea of what Montague, Montague, Todmorden and Montague would expect. They were an old firm, and old-fashioned too, so would expect me not only to be smartly turned out, but in a style that reflected their values.

I didn't have to be there until the afternoon, so I badgered Mum into driving me into Henley to buy some new clothes. For once we were largely in agreement on the sort of thing I'd need, and we quickly purchased a set of white blouses, smart black shoes with just an inch of heel, three packs of black stockings and, at her insistence, three packs of plain white knickers and bras to match. I tried to point out that the people who interviewed me weren't going to be seeing my knickers or bra, but got her lecture on dressing properly in return.

That left my suit, and while we both agreed it had to be black I couldn't resist a new style they were showing in Russell's, which not only had a tapered knee-length skirt and a tight-waisted jacket, but also a neat little waistcoat which I felt gave it a daring touch as well as making me look as if I had hips and a bust. Mum said I looked like a boy who'd dressed up in his sister's clothes.

Back at home and inspecting myself in the mirror, I had to admit she was right, but if I looked like a boy then it was a very pretty one. AJ was going to love it, but I brushed my hair out and tied it back in a curly black ponytail instead of the tight bun I'd been planning, which softened the look a little. It was going to have to do anyway as time was getting on and I needed to be at the station in less than half an hour.

I just made it, and spent the journey fidgeting with impatience and adjusting myself as I rehearsed what
I would say to either Todmorden or one of the Montagues. Only when I got to Paddington did I begin to lose a little enthusiasm. The tube was packed, and I found myself wedged in at armpit height among a group of German tourists who seemed to have spent the morning working out and not bothered to shower. The thought of having to repeat the same journey every morning in even thicker crowds was pretty depressing, until it occurred to me that I might be able to use the journey as an excuse to stay with AJ.

She lived in Kingsbury, and came in early every morning to her bike couriers, so I would be able to catch a lift as far as the West End of London and get to work with just a short tube journey. I'd spent the night with her a few times, but actually living in her house would be rather different, and opened up all sorts of exciting possibilities, which kept me smiling as I finished my journey.

I hadn't been to the City for years, but it was as I remembered, the modern mixed in with the ancient, and everything redolent of money. Everywhere I looked people were hurrying from place to place, all of them smartly dressed and about half of them talking into mobile phones. It was hard not to feel a little awed, but the way I'd planned my life I'd be doing the same soon enough, and hopefully earning as much as the best of them, perhaps even as a partner of Montague, Montague, Todmorden and Montague.

By the time I turned into the Minories I'd constructed a wonderful fantasy world, in which I would be a partner before I was out of my twenties, with an office in the top floor of their fine old building, only to have my dreams crumble around me as I searched for the address. The top of the road was much like those I'd
already followed, but it quickly changed, first to great low concrete buildings like something from a council estate, and then to dirty red brick where a railway bridge crossed the road in a broad span, with a tiny shop built into the wall. Next to the bridge, and also made of red brick, although perhaps a fraction less dirty, were the offices of Montague, Montague, Todmorden and Montague.

The only part of my mental image that was at all accurate was that the office was old and surrounded by taller, newer structures, only not so much nestled in as loomed over, with a vast concrete and glass building casting the whole area in a somewhat dank shadow. Nor did it look particularly busy or efficient, with the huge black door firmly closed and the windows open against the July heat. A single buddleia had managed to insert itself into the corner beside the railway bridge, to send up long shoots tipped by deep purple flowers nodding lazily in the sun.

I tried to put my disappointment aside, telling myself that they would no doubt be handling all sorts of fascinating cases and that the experience would be far more valuable and interesting than anything I could gain from a firm dealing with financial matters. There was at least a brass plaque, although it looked as if it had last been polished around about the same date the firm had been founded – 1852. I rang the bell and waited, my hands folded in my lap and my face frozen in a smile, which had worn off long before the door opened to reveal a man who looked like a lizard.

‘Yes?'

‘I'm Philippa Bassington-Smyth,' I told him. ‘I have an interview.'

‘Come right in,' he said, his initial look of perplexity vanishing to be replaced by a toothy smile. ‘I'm
Mark, by the way, Mark James. Anything you want to know around here, just come to me.'

‘I have to be accepted first.'

‘Oh you'll be accepted,' he assured me, pushing open a door. ‘Maggie, this is Philippa Bassing . . . er, something double-barrelled, our new trainee.'

Maggie, or Miss Phelps as the sign on her desk read, looked as forbidding as Mark James had been welcoming. She was a thin, middle-aged woman, very precise in her crisp white blouse and with her dull blonde hair wound up in a bun. The look she gave me over the top of her glasses as she turned away from her computer wasn't exactly unfriendly, more irritated, as was the tone of her voice when she spoke.

‘Your name is?'

‘Philippa Bassington-Smyth.'

She moved back to her computer, frowning as she examined the screen and employed her mouse with brisk, exact motions.

‘Catch you later, doll,' Mark James addressed me and he had left.

‘You have an appointment at three-thirty,' Miss Phelps said after a while, her tone suggesting that by being twenty minutes early I was making a thorough nuisance of myself.

‘I thought it best to arrive a little early,' I began but trailed off as she reached for the telephone on her desk.

I waited as she spoke into the receiver, and was surprised to see her irritable scowl suddenly soften as whoever was on the other end replied to her statement that I had arrived. When she put the phone down again she was positively beaming.

‘Mr Montague and Mr Todmorden will see you now,' she said. ‘if you would like to go up. Second floor, the front office.'

Thanking her, I quickly climbed the stairs, telling myself that the worn state of the ancient wine red carpet was a sign of reserve rather than merely slovenly. There was no mistaking the room she meant, with a set of double doors open on the second-floor landing and two men visible at a huge desk within. I knocked anyway, smiling as I quickly took in my surroundings.

The office was comfortably furnished, if a bit shabby, painted in foxy brown and magnolia with paintings and photographs decorating the walls, while a sign in the middle of the desk allowed me to identify Mr Montague, presumably the senior partner. He was tall, almost military in his bearing, and somehow managed to look stern and benevolent at the same time, for once absolutely in keeping with my original image. Mr Todmorden was very different, a squat, heavy-set man with a roll of reddish fat escaping from around his collar, while his smile of greeting was pretty much a leer. He was going bald, and had combed some strands of greasy-looking hair across the top of his head in a futile effort to hide the fact. Both rose to greet me, Mr Montague extending his hand.