Butter Wouldn't Melt (4 page)

‘That's my girl . . . that's my pretty little tart . . . That's right, Moppet, lick my cunt and rub your own, you dirty little bitch . . .'

She finished with a hiss and her hand twisted my ponytail harder still, hurting me as she came in my face. I kept licking, and I kept rubbing, my own orgasm already rising in my head as I thought of the overwhelming, delicious shame of being spanked in front of somebody else . . . the biker, his eyes full of shock as he stared at my blazing, bouncing bottom . . . Jem, laughing to see her big sister kick and squirm over another woman's knee . . . anybody, and everybody, a huge crowd enjoying my pain and my shame as I was spanked bare for something I hadn't even done, which was the thought I held as I came with my face buried firmly in the wet flesh of AJ's pussy.

THE QUESTION THAT
occupied my mind for the rest of the week, and the weekend too, was whether the Morris mentioned by Mr Todmorden was Morris Rathwell and, if so, whether the event on Saturday had been the spanking party AJ had been asked to attend. There was nobody to ask, not that I'd have had the nerve anyway, so I found myself brooding over the implications.

Dad definitely wouldn't have been involved, I could be sure of that, but if it was true, and Mr Montague and Mr Todmorden had known that I liked to be spanked, then somewhere between Dad and them my secret had leaked out. Not that they knew all that much, because there's a big difference between allowing my girlfriend to punish me and being willing to accept money to let my knickers down for a load of dirty old men I'd never even met.

All I knew was that the contact had come through Thames Vista Estate, a project Dad was involved with. They were represented by Montague, Montague, Todmorden and Montague, which presumably meant Richard Montague rather than his uncle, but Morris Rathwell had to be involved. The next question was: did Morris Rathwell know I got spanked?

Just thinking about it was enough to bring the blood to my cheeks, but I had to face the fact that he probably did. AJ was completely casual about our relationship and made no secret of the fact that she disciplined me, so she might well have told Morris, or more likely his wife, or one of the other girls who attended the parties. There were other possibilities too, and if he did know, that left a much simpler question: was he involved with Thames Vista Estate in any way?

I could hardly ask Dad, as he was bound to want to know more and the possible consequences didn't bear thinking about. It was embarrassing enough that Jemima knew, never mind my parents. What I could do was have a look on his computer, as he often brought work home, but he was very fussy about it and none of us were even allowed to touch it, let alone search for things. To do what I needed I'd have to be alone for at least an hour, and be absolutely sure I wasn't going to get caught, and I didn't get an opportunity.

By the Monday morning I was feeling distinctly apprehensive, with all sorts of alarming images floating around in my head. What would I do if Mr Montague, or even worse, Mr Todmorden, decided he wanted to spank me and made up some excuse to get me over his knee? I'd refuse, obviously, but it would still be intensely embarrassing, and if they thought I wanted it from them, the whole thing was sure to come out. Possibly my job even relied on me being available for spanking sessions, or worse, in which case when I refused I'd presumably get the sack.

I knew I'd refuse anyway, but it was impossible not to picture myself with my bum in the air across Mr Montague's knee, knickers down and kicking as Mr
Todmorden gloated over my rear view. My scenario also provided a possible explanation of old Mr Montague's curious remark about there being only four of them, and the four had included the clerk, Miss Phelps, and his secretary. Helen was young and pretty and seemed very gentle, even meek, so she presumably got it rather than gave it, but Miss Phelps looked almost as much a natural spanker as AJ.

On the train into London I was formulating a situation in which I accepted that I would be spanked, but only if Miss Phelps was the one to dish it out, with the others watching. After what had happened in AJ's office it was really rather horny, so horny that by the time I got to the office I'd turned myself on so much that I was willing to negotiate for real.

It didn't happen. In fact the day was excruciatingly dull. Miss Phelps showed me up to my top-floor cubby hole and the only even faintly sexual thing I got was a sadistic smile from her as she put an enormous pile of old files down on my desk. They apparently had to be arranged alphabetically, tied into bundles and taken down to Mr Prufrock in the archives. There were plenty more where they'd come from and she expected the job to take me several days.

I got down to work, telling myself it was probably some sort of test, and as I ground my way down the pile, sheet by sheet and file by file. I allowed myself to construct a fantasy around it, in much the same way that I'd always been able to distract myself from even the dullest of times at school. Back then, I'd usually either imagined what it would have been like to be given old-fashioned discipline, a spanking or caning in front of the class, or that one of the teachers I'd had crushes on would take me to bed. Now I
imagined the exercise as a way to trick me into taking a punishment, expanding on the fantasy I'd had in the train. Miss Phelps would have arranged it, deliberately giving me the wrong instructions so that there would be a complaint from Mr Prufrock, who I imagined as some sort of grotesque gnome lurking in the basement. I would then be hauled before old Mr Montague and Mr Todmorden, where I would be lectured, put across the clerk's knee, and spanked.

It had been shortly after nine when I started, and by eleven I'd worked my way through a dozen versions of the fantasy and simply couldn't hold myself any longer. Nobody had disturbed me all morning, and the stairs outside creaked badly, so I had no compunction about letting my thighs come apart and easing my skirt up to show off the front of my knickers to the empty room. There was an ancient, cream-painted radiator under the window, and I used it to brace my feet, my legs well spread as I closed my eyes and slipped a hand between my thighs.

I spent a long moment just touching myself through my knickers, running over the fantasy as I felt the soft swell of my pussy lips and the gradually expanding wet patch between them. The original version of my fantasy was best – a plain, old-fashioned bare-bottom spanking from Miss Phelps while the two older men bore witness to my punishment. I focused on it, teasing pussy through my knickers as I played through the details in my mind; the awful moment when I'd be told I was going to get a spanking, the agonising shame as my panties were pulled down and my bottom exposed in front of the watching men, the pain as my meat was smacked up to a glowing pink, my tear-filled ecstasy as I ran to the loo and brought myself to a shivering, gasping
climax, which was exactly what I'd now done, without even putting my hand down my knickers.

Tuesday started out much the same as Monday. I'd been trying to persuade Mum to let me stay with AJ, but she hadn't given in yet, so I was still taking the train. AJ had an early call in Bayswater, so gave me a lovely surprise by meeting me at Paddington and taking me to work as her pillion passenger. Montague, Montague, Todmorden and Montague used her courier company, so she knew exactly where to go, and I had the pleasure of dismounting from the bike and kissing her goodbye just as Mark James and two of the other men from the Blockhouse arrived for work. It was just a peck, but it made them stare, which kept me smiling as I went back to my tedious task.

The files were in a complete muddle, so I made a series of piles on the floor, each representing a different letter of the alphabet, which were growing gradually taller as I worked. There seemed to be an endless supply of the things too, and I knew I'd have to finish them before I could be sure I'd got all the letters complete, after which I could take the whole lot down to the archives. Miss Phelps seemed quite impressed by my system and even smiled at me as she left.

An hour and a half later I decided I deserved a break, and that it would be fun to explore the rest of the top floor, which seemed to be empty. I've always been fascinated by old, deserted rooms, ever since Jem and I used to explore Gran's attic when we were children, but Montague, Montague, Todmorden and Montague proved disappointing. The rooms were simply empty, save for a stack of old chairs in one and a box of Christmas decorations in another. I'd
been hoping for some evidence of the partners' depravity; perhaps an elephant's foot umbrella-stand well stocked with canes, riding whips and other implements suitable for application to naughty girls' bottoms, or maybe a pillory, or a stool I could be bent over for a whipping.

What I did find was a ghost, or at least that's what my imagination told me would account for the faint voices I could hear in one of the rooms, until common sense got the better of me and I realised it was just people talking in the Blockhouse on the next floor down. That was still interesting, or at least more interesting than filing, and I soon found out how it worked.

There wasn't even a carpet on the floor, just bare planks, grey with age. A large, square hole had been cut out where the radiator had been fitted, and the bright sunlight coming in at the window allowed me to see down it into the space above the false ceiling of the Blockhouse. Kneeling down, I could even make out what they were saying, although it wasn't very interesting, just some of the men discussing a case which involved a dispute over how to calculate the floor area of an office block. It was still fun to listen, just for the sake of eavesdropping, but my knees had quickly begun to get sore when a new voice joined the conversation, also male, and highly excited.

‘Would you fuck the new trainee?'

Even as my mouth came open in shock and outrage, one of the others answered him.

‘Who wouldn't fuck the new trainee?'

A third agreed.

‘I would. She's fucking gorgeous. I love the way her tiny tits stick up in the air, and when she walks it's like watching two cats in a sack.'

A different voice answered him, in a public school drawl I recognised as Clive Carew, the fat boy of the office.

‘You're so poetic, Steve. Apple bottom, that's how you describe a girl like her.'

‘Apple? More like a peach, and boy would I love to sink my teeth into it.'

‘No, if you say a girl's got a peach it means her bum's big and round. Pippa has an apple bottom.'

‘I still say it's a peach, maybe not big, but it's certainly round, and juicy, and oh so fuckable.'

‘Do you normally go around fucking peaches then?'

‘Call it what you like. I aim to fuck it.'

My outrage had been growing at every remark, also my embarrassment, until my fists were clenched in fury and my cheeks burning with blushes, but the final remark really took the prize. It was so arrogant, and insulting too, not merely to imagine that I'd give in to him, but to describe me as ‘it', as if I was no more than the sum of my body parts, which was obviously how they thought of me.

I thought of stamping downstairs and confronting them, but I was sure they'd only laugh at me. If I tried to take it further they'd simply deny it all, and it would be the end of my job, so I was forced to clench my teeth and suffer, because I couldn't bring myself to stop listening. They were still talking about me, with the yobbish Den Coles scoffing at whoever had claimed he was going to have me.

‘Fat chance, mate!'

‘Why not?' the first man answered, aggrieved. ‘I'm in with a chance.'

‘Why not?' Den sneered. ‘ 'cause she's more likely to go with Claire or Gail than any of us, that's why not.'

‘That I would like to see!' Clive put in.

‘No way,' the first man exclaimed against a chorus of laughter as my cheeks burned hotter still.

Gail and Claire were the two female members of the Blockhouse, and obviously not present. I'd only glimpsed them when we were introduced, and neither had made any real impression on me, but the thought of the five men watching while I got off with them was painfully embarrassing. So was Den Coles's response.

‘She's a fucking dyke, I tell you, a regular slit licker. Did you see the girl who dropped her off this morning. She looked like something out of Judge Dredd; six foot she was, easy, with piercings all over her face and tattoos right down her arms. That's what Miss Double-Barrel's into, cunt, and rough trade cunt at that.'

‘That doesn't mean she won't fuck,' somebody else answered, the one who'd claimed he was going to have me, ‘just that she hasn't found out how good it feels to have a cock inside her. She's just waiting for the right man, and that man is me.'

‘Sure, Andy, in your dreams!' Den answered, and my mouth came wide once more in fresh outrage.

Andy Wellspring was about five foot four, shorter than me, and in his thirties, with a face like a rat and wispy red hair already going thin on top. If I'd been forced to choose between them, which would have taken a gun to my head, he would have been last on the list, even after Clive, who might have been fat but was nice, at least to my face, and also the tallest of them. Not that the other three were in the least bit appealing. Mark James reminded me more and more of a lizard every time I saw him. Den Coles was tall and quite good looking but an utter yob. Steve Frost would have been the best of them, except for his
humiliating description of my breasts and bottom. It was he who spoke next.

‘Face it lads, it won't be any of us. Richard'll have her knickers off before the end of the week, any money.'

‘Why Richard? Why not me?' Andy demanded.

‘Because,' Steve replied, ‘Richard is a partner in the firm, looks like Pierce Brosnan, is single and is loaded, while you, my son, are a weedy little bugger with a wife, two kids and a mortgage.'