Whip Hands (12 page)

He collapsed on top of her as she felt his seed pumping into her. It had been the most spontaneous fuck she could remember, yet he had always been in control. Max was certainly an experienced lover. Pity he was such a bastard, but maybe she could work on his better nature, especially if he gave her a lift home.

As she suspected, the door wasn't even locked. They went down to the waiting club members and their dinner guests. And, as before, she smelt the mingled cigar smoke and perfume. But this time she seemed to be floating in the light gown of Prussian blue. This was going to be interesting, even if she would have to find a way of explaining why there was no story for next Sunday's edition of the
Trumpet
.

Max, with the gentlest of pressures on her tender buttock, propelled her into the smoke-filled room.

 

 

 

Naomi was received in the Superintendent's House by a man with a severe greying haircut, in a brown chalkstripe suit and steel-rimmed glasses. He introduced himself as ‘Mr Porteous, superintendent'. Then he gave a nervous little cough.

He showed her courteously into a cramped room that obviously doubled as his office. Despite the grand-sounding title, the original Victorian prison governor could hardly have lived in great state, especially if he had boasted a large family. But then, she reflected, who would want to bring up children in immediate proximity to all the suffering and disease endemic a hundred years ago?

‘So, welcome to our house of correction, Miss Kidd. I am right, it is Miss Kidd, isn't it?'

‘Yes, but please call me Naomi.'

‘It is always gratifying to see the attention our historic premises receive from the research community. I assume you count yourself among that illustrious company of scholars, Miss... er, Naomi.'

‘Well, I'm researching a doctoral thesis on Victorian institutional treatment of women offenders. I'm not sure whether that means I'm illustrious or not,'

She gave a nervous smile. Surely he wasn't going to continue in this pompous fashion for the whole visit? It would rapidly become quite unbearable. She sprawled back in the authentic Victorian armchair, one tightly denimed leg crossed over the other and one hand resting in her lap, a posture that contrasted with the more formal look of the curator. He sat bolt upright, his elbows on the desk and his fingers interlaced.

‘Quite so. Well, I'm confident that this afternoon you'll encounter just what you're seeking for your academic laurels. In the past, few have departed this place without finding themselves approaching their researches from a totally new perspective as a result.' Mr Porteous, his diction as well-clipped as his hair, beamed across the leather-topped desk at his visitor. ‘They have all been refreshed in their endeavours, I think I could say without fear of being accused of embellishment.'

‘There have been many others, then?' the young woman asked with a faint frown.

‘Ah, yes, we receive constant requests for visits from self-styled academics, Miss Naomi, but we do require to vet them pretty carefully, as you may imagine.'

‘Why is that, then?'

‘Miss Kidd - I mean, Naomi - we live in an age when people have a thirst for living vicariously. We love nothing better than to imagine ourselves far and away, in a distant land or to be transported back in time. I'm sure you're familiar with that kind of escapist fantasy. Motion pictures seem to thrive on it these days.'

‘And books as well, surely?'

‘Well, yes, I suppose so, but I always think books are in a different category, don't you?'

Naomi was once more exposed to the searchlight beam of his smile. Despite the glasses his gaze seemed strong and focused. She would not be intimidated, though. She decided not to let this bland generalisation pass without question.

‘I would be extremely wary of grouping all books together into the same category, Mr Porteous. Much modern fiction is fairly trashy and aims to provide just the kind of escapist fantasy you've been referring to. Often with an unpleasant dash of sadism added, I've noticed.'

‘You may have a point. But it has always been so, I think. Are you by any chance studying the popular literature of the period for your dissertation?'

‘Only in so far as such works of fiction reflect typical attitudes towards women who fell foul of the law. Usually establishment attitudes and usually written by men.'

The curator surveyed her thoughtfully. She decided to take the initiative whilst he appeared preoccupied.

‘I notice you called this a house of correction. Strictly speaking, it was known as a house of detention.'

‘You have done your homework, Miss Naomi. Our Victorian friends were in two minds on this matter, of course. Some saw the bridewell as a place only for keeping ne'er-do-wells and criminals off the streets, while others, perhaps more enlightened in attitude, saw a place like this as a golden opportunity to reform the inmates.'

The curator had become more animated, but he was still curiously preoccupied. Perhaps he was imagining a scene quite different from the mere reality of this small room. Dust danced in the late afternoon sunshine. The paned window looked out on to a small garden.

‘But few would have even attempted it,' the young woman responded. ‘Surely the numbers of inmates, men, women and children, would have made it impossible, even if the reforming zeal was there.'

‘Quite right again. Correction, in the Victorian sense of encouraging moral improvement and social aspirations, was rarely attempted in the bridewell. But one superintendent pioneered it and according to the records was quite successful. He was able to claim that one in ten who left here never returned again. They had indeed become reformed characters.'

‘That's a remarkable figure for the mid-eighteen hundreds. Do you have reliable statistics? And who was the man responsible? I'm surprised I haven't heard anything about him.'

‘An unsung hero, my dear young lady, a totally unsung hero of the Victorian reformatory movement. He went by the name of St John Lachlan, a Scot who came down from Aberdeen with all the benefits of a strict Presbyterian upbringing and served in the fledgling prison service for nearly forty years. I come originally from that part of the country myself, as you may have noticed by my speech.'

‘Did he actually live here, with the tunnels and everything underneath his house?'

‘Yes, he was a very dedicated man. He had the advantage of being a bachelor, so there were no female sensibilities to take into account. I am currently in a similar situation myself.'

‘You live here? Alone?'

‘Just a temporary arrangement. I find it helps me to get inside the head of the superintendent.'

‘Oh, I see. The title is painted on the door, I notice. It looks quite fresh.'

‘It adds that extra authentic touch, don't you think?' He absentmindedly pulled out a fob watch on a silver chain. ‘Now we mustn't spend any more time in these fascinating discussions. Otherwise there will not be sufficient for you to pay your subterranean visit, as we call it. We close to the public in half an hour, but don't let that worry you unless you suffer from claustrophobia. By the way, what you will see down there has lain more or less untouched since the prison was sealed up after the First World War. You do realise that, don't you?'

‘Yes, but why do you ask?'

‘Some previous researchers have found it all a bit too authentic for their taste. They were expecting something more like a heritage centre - more... sanitised, I suppose. Whereas what we have here is a real Victorian bridewell that somehow was forgotten. We've brought it back from the dead, in a manner of speaking, or at least preserved it. I'm glad to see, for example, that you've not come wearing light summer clothing. It can get pretty cold and dank down there, Miss Naomi. Ready for your visit?'

‘Can't wait. What do I do when I'm finished?'

‘Oh, I'll be around, finishing off some items of paperwork, I expect. One of the guides will take you down and show you the layout.'

 

The carefully chosen words of the curator were an understatement. As she descended the stone steps, leaving the evening sunshine behind, Naomi Kidd shivered despite herself. She had read plenty about Victorian ways of dealing with criminals and the vagabond element from official commission reports and social observers like Mayhew. But this was the real thing, a combined assault on the senses by darkness, rankness and bone-numbing chill. She wondered again why she had been drawn to this whole area of research.

It was the same question Rufus had put to her last night as they were relaxing after a particularly active session on his waterbed.

‘What is this thing with you and the punishment of women?'

‘I think you'll have to rephrase that. Surely you know how I chose my area of research. After all, you helped me to track down some of the more unusual source material.'

Rufus was also a postgraduate in the department, with some teaching responsibilities. She teased him occasionally by saying that, as a part-time member of staff screwing one of the student body, she could get him sacked for unprofessional conduct. It was one of her best come-ons, she noticed. Rufus obviously liked to feel she was totally subservient when they had sex.

Rufus had held her down by a hank of her long hair as his hand roved freely up the side slit in her dress. She had chosen it for a candlelit dinner he was cooking, a lilac PVC number that she knew would bring out the beast in him. And Rufus had certainly been quite a beast last night.

Once he had pulled the dress off roughly she had fallen back on to the undulating surface of the bed, panting heavily. She watched him strip, revealing a slim but hirsute torso. His erection had already been dancing before him as he removed each sock, standing on one leg then on the other. She raised her buttocks and eased down her black satin thong, giving him a flash of her glistening cleft as she freed her legs. Sometimes she wondered which of them was the greater exhibitionist. She also wondered about some female undergraduates Rufus took a close interest in, but put it to the back of her mind.

She had been tempted, as always, to giggle as he struggled to roll the condom over the purple head of his cock and then down the thick shaft right to the root. In that bulging sac she imagined his balls to be like dried figs. He was very well endowed, she realised from her own experience and from talking the matter over with her more liberated friends. But she suspected Rufus knew that already. Modesty was not one of his obvious qualities.

‘No, not like that, you trollop. On your knees, arse in the air.'

Why did it give her such a powerful thrill when he spoke to her like this? She had felt his hand circling the taut contours of her arse cheeks, one by one, then gasped as a probing finger reached her anus and probed insistently at the puckered ring. Until recently she had called it her forbidden entrance, but Rufus had overcome her initial reluctance. Instinctively she'd clenched her buttocks, realising at the same time that this would only encourage Rufus to intrude at least two fingers slicked with gel, which a moment later he had done. She felt a chill sensation followed by a growing heat between her thighs. Supporting herself on one hand, she'd used the other to cup her neatly clipped pubic mound.

The waterbed had squeaked and sloshed as Rufus nestled up behind her, his fingers easing her wider to make an entrance for his rod. She felt the greased condom brush one side of her cheek, then the full width of the head and the burning spasm as he began to fill her with his length.

‘Gently, Rufus.'

‘Now, missy, no demur from you. I'll take you as you deserve to be taken, no better and no worse. By the rear passage first to make sure you give your master full respect.'

That phoney lord of the manor stuff again. To hear it made her feel she was a serving wench. Rufus pushed her by the shoulder until her face was buried in the bedsheet, her upraised buttocks stretched tight. The burning had become more intense as Rufus eased yet more of his length into her.

She'd gasped as the wave of pleasure began to build, reaching down with a forefinger to rub her own lubricated folds with increasing vigour. Rufus picked up her rhythm and began to inch in and out, gradually increasing the length of his stroke as she responded with deep groans.

He asserted his mastery over her, gripping her by the hips to pull her towards him and match his stroke. She arched her back in response to his demands, her cries becoming more throaty, almost grunts of animal pleasure. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand, too late to damn the flood of passion that was to overwhelm them both.

Rufus had thrust deeper. She felt a dull internal pain in response but it was matched by the sensation of losing all control as her orgasm burst upon her. She'd seemed to be floating in fire, a red haze covering the immediate objects within her sight. She heard Rufus groan. Head thrown back, he had been racked by a series of shuddering convulsions that slowly diminished in intensity.

He eased out of her and they both collapsed. For several minutes neither had been able to move, let alone speak. It was then he'd asked her the question about female punishment. She fobbed him off with some standard right-on feminist answer, and they left it at that.