On the Bare (22 page)

Asquith increased the pressure on her nipples, rolling them between his fingers. They stiffened fully, responding to his touch with aching compliance.

Gasping and panting for breath, Haley couldn’t focus on either the spanking or the fondling. The sensations began to blend into one.

Asquith commented favourably on her responsiveness, but Haley was in orbit. She was so intent on finding the balance between the pleasure of his touch and the pain of the spanking that his voice was only a fuzzy echo in the back of her mind.

She closed her eyes and drifted deeper into submission. She felt Asquith’s warm breath on her throat and she arched invitingly, as though presenting herself for a vampire’s kiss. His lips travelled down her neck, lingering above her left breast, making her yearn for his contact. His tongue found the hard bud of her nipple, circling it and teasing it. Haley gasped and the sound seemed to fill the cavernous kitchen. She realised that the spanking had stopped. Not daring to open her eyes, she waited for Mr Bathurst’s touch as well.

And when his hand came to rest between her legs she arched her back as much as her position would allow, straining to meet his fingers.

Asquith’s teeth closed softly on her nipple with just enough force to make her whimper. She knew her boss would be feeling the dew the action produced.

Mr Bathurst’s fingers probed and stroked her sleek wetness, making her writhe and squirm. The fire of the spanking had subsided to a warm pulsating glow. She felt herself climbing and her breathing quickened and grew shallow.

Asquith twisted a hand in her hair, pulling her head back to expose her throat even more. His lips and teeth
caressed
the vulnerable flesh there and she shuddered as gooseflesh rose on the back of her neck.

Mr Bathurst trailed his fingers over her sex, teasing her and making her grind her hips obscenely to get what she wanted. She was so close. He had to know it. Why didn’t he finish her off? She wanted both of them. They could take turns with her. One could hold her down while the other …

‘I think she’s enjoying this far too much,’ said Mr Bathurst.

The hand between her legs stopped and she groaned with frustration. Mr Bathurst patted her tender bottom, making her wince.

‘Indeed,’ Asquith said. ‘Bad girls aren’t meant to enjoy their punishment.’

Why not? Haley wanted to whine.

‘Mr Bathurst, would you do the honours?’ Lord Asquith was holding a long chef’s knife out to him.

‘Certainly, your Lordship.’

Haley’s eyes widened with terror. Mr Bathurst placed the knife between her breasts and pressed the tip of the cold blade against her skin. She forced herself to stay absolutely still as he drew it sensuously down along the length of her body, stopping at her navel. Then he slid the blade underneath the cling film and sliced through it, releasing her. He repeated the operation with her legs and her arms, though he left her wrists wrapped together.

Asquith stood her up and turned her around to face the block. ‘Now, bend right over,’ he said.

She obeyed, her legs weak from the bondage and the unfulfilled throbbing need. Surely now they meant to have their way with her. She stretched across the block, presenting herself.

‘There is a punishment Victorian governesses used to find most effective on naughty girls. I think it’s especially appropriate for you, Haley.’

She had no idea what he was talking about.

Mr Bathurst was somewhere behind her and to the left. She thought she heard the refrigerator door open and
close
, but she paid it no mind. Haley closed her eyes and waited. She was their plaything, their slave. They could do anything they wanted.

Her reverie was interrupted by the intrusion of something cold and slippery between her glowing cheeks, too high to reach her sex. At first she thought the hand had lost its way and she adjusted herself to assist.

‘Be still,’ Asquith said sharply.

The oily finger pressed gently against the little puckered rosebud and Haley cried out.

‘No! No, please!’

‘Hush. Do you want your bottom smacked again?’

Awash with shame, she shook her head frantically. She lowered her head to the butcher’s block, mortified at the intrusion. The finger slipped inside her, greasing the passage not even Matt had explored. She was a virgin there. It was a bizarre sensation, but not entirely unpleasant. Still, she wished his hands would roam lower, to where she desperately needed attention.

Gradually, she became aware of a peculiar sound behind her. Some sort of scraping. For a moment she was afraid someone was at the door, but the invading finger was still moving inside her. Surely he would have stopped if someone came in. No, they were definitely alone.

But she couldn’t puzzle out the scraping sound. Like the rasp of a knife against … something.

Without warning, the finger withdrew. Haley heaved a sigh of relief and relaxed against the block. There was a clink as the knife was laid aside. Then Lord Asquith was in front of her. He took her cling-wrapped wrists in his hands, stretching her out across the block until she stood on tiptoe.

‘Since you’re so fond of ginger,’ he said, the corners of his mouth turning up ominously.

Then Mr Bathurst was behind her and she flushed deeply. Now it was his turn. But the cold probe didn’t feel like a finger and all at once it became clear. With an embarrassed cry she tried to pull away, but Asquith held her wrists firmly.

Mr Bathurst spread her cheeks apart with the fingers of one hand while inserting the ginger root with the other. It had a slightly coarse texture, but it didn’t hurt. She made herself relax, surrendering to the penetration.

Suddenly she became aware of a distinct warmth. The ginger began to tingle and she squirmed, waiting for the unfamiliar sensation to pass. But it didn’t pass. The warmth developed into a sharp piquant burning, like the effect of hot peppers on the tongue.

As the feeling built, Haley found herself writhing against the butcher’s block, trying in vain to escape it.

‘Oh, please,’ she begged. ‘It burns!’

One of her tormentors chuckled, but said nothing. It was clear they knew exactly the effect it would have.

Whimpering as the fire intensified even more, Haley struggled against Asquith, trying to pull away. She danced from foot to foot, inadvertently clenching her cheeks and intensifying the sting.

‘Now, now,’ he chided. ‘None of that, my girl. You’re going to take your medicine.’

Mr Bathurst was tearing off a long sheet of cling film, presumably to restrain her kicking feet. But instead, he wound it high around her legs and waist, pulling it tightly up between her cheeks like a transparent thong. It pressed the ginger further inside, holding it securely in place. Haley wailed in misery and wondered if it was possible to die of embarrassment.

The burning showed no sign of dissipating. The men exchanged a look and traded places. Mr Bathurst took firm hold of her wrists.

She closed her eyes, feeling faint.

Lord Asquith caressed her over the cling film, making her jump. The plastic retained the heat from her desire as well as the ginger, making the pressure of his touch even more agonising. The ginger continued to burn with each movement of Asquith’s skilful fingers, and she whimpered with pain even as he pleasured her.

Then she was climbing again, quickly and steadily. Sensations shot through her like jolts of electricity and she
uttered
little gasps and sighs as she struggled both to escape and encourage them. Each time she tensed her muscles she felt the ginger burn.

At last she felt the rising swell of ecstasy and it overtook her with singular intensity as she arched her back, pressing herself into his fingers with breathless abandon. Her eyes squeezed shut, she imploded as the surges of her climax battered her from within.

It lasted so long it was almost unbearable, but soon the throbbing began to subside and she collapsed over the block, panting and shaking and unable to straighten her legs. Mr Bathurst released her hands and she crumpled to her knees, trembling and spent.

It was a long time before she found the strength to stand. She hissed as her movement reawakened the spicy sting of the ginger. With a shaky hand she reached for the cling film at her waist, ready to unwind it and free herself.

Mr Bathurst smacked her hand smartly. ‘And just what do you think you’re doing, young lady?’

She stared at him, bewildered. ‘I … I just …’

He was holding her uniform. ‘Get dressed.’

Bewildered, Haley knew she must obey. But when she reached for her knickers, Lord Asquith plucked them away. ‘I’ll keep these,’ he said, tucking them into his pocket.

Haley blushed and finished dressing, wincing at the unremitting burn. Relaxing her cheeks was impossible.

Mr Bathurst went to the cupboard and got her a fresh apron. ‘Here. You can’t very well wear yours.’

When she was dressed she stood before them for inspection. Did they intend to send her home with the ginger still inside? Oh, Matt would love that.

Mr Bathurst smiled. ‘Mrs Marjoribanks’s party is in the Wellington Room. They’re expecting tea.’

The Improvement Session

I SMOOTHED MY
clammy hands down over my skirt, trying not to think about why I was here. The room was unpleasantly institutional. There were no pictures on the sickly yellow walls, not even one of those soulless corporate still lifes you get in chain hotel rooms. There were no magazines or newspapers to read. Even citizens’ advice leaflets might have provided some distraction. There was nothing to do but fret.

I shifted on the hard wooden bench. I felt too hot, too cold, too apprehensive. Too restless to sit still, too paralysed with dread to move. How had they found out? I’d replaced the money as soon as I’d been able to and I was so sure no one had seen me. But two weeks later I’d come home to find the letter sitting on my little hessian doormat. I knew from the return address that it wasn’t good news.

Dear Miss Parrish
,

I regret to inform you that you have been selected for Improvement under the Young Employees Act 2014. As you will be aware, selection for Improvement is based upon reports submitted by employers concerning conduct in the workplace. You are therefore required to attend Mountjoy Discipline Centre at 10.00 am on Saturday 17th March
.

Please note that the Improvement procedures may in the short term impair your ability to drive a vehicle. For this reason you should not drive to the Discipline Centre
and
return transport to your residence will be provided after the Improvement session
.

Yours sincerely
,

Winston Graham

Improvement Registrar

The bland official note didn’t say what to expect. It read like a nag letter from the dentist, patronising and unavoidable.

We all knew about the Young Employees Act. Since corporal punishment was abolished in schools, the hang ’em and flog ’em brigade had been clamouring for a return of birching for adult hooligans. If childhood was to be sacrosanct, they argued, then citizens should pay for their crimes once they were old enough to appreciate the consequences of their actions.

Terrified of being late, I’d got to the Centre half an hour ahead of time and the unsympathetic receptionist had suggested I go for a walk until it was time for my appointment. I’d circled the building twice in the chilly wind before she would finally admit me. A retinal scan confirmed my identity and she ushered me into the narrow waiting room. I had to surrender my handbag and watch and she told me my personal items could be reclaimed after the session.

I couldn’t stop replaying the events that had got me sent here. I hadn’t really stolen the money. I’d even thought of asking Mr Northcote for a loan, but he’d have given me one of his lectures about being prudent and frugal. The petty cash held three times what I needed and I was sure he wouldn’t miss it if I paid it back quickly. Which I did. But he must have noticed and known it was me. He dissembled well. He never said a word about it – not even after I got the letter. It was business as usual for that awful two-week period. If I hadn’t known he was watching and gloating I might have believed he didn’t notice my preoccupation. The waiting was a punishment in itself.

The door swung open and I jumped as though electrocuted. But there was nothing to fear. Yet. It was only another girl, looking as nervous as me. She offered me a
fleeting
smile and perched on the edge of the bench opposite me. She had long legs, long dark hair and a faraway expression, as though she couldn’t quite believe she was here. The silence was oppressive, but I couldn’t think of anything to say. Eventually she spoke.

‘You here for Improvement too?’

I nodded, knowing and yet not knowing what it meant.

I started to say it was my first time, but that sounded too much like certainty that there would be other times, so I kept quiet.

‘I’m Alex,’ she said after another ponderous silence. ‘Alex Lawrence.’

I tried to relax a little and forced a smile. ‘Natalie Parrish.’

There was so much I wanted to ask, but I was afraid of the answers. Had she been here before? Did she know what was going to happen? How bad would it be?

The mean little room had two doors. One led in; one led out. My eyes flicked occasionally to the exit door, but I didn’t speculate about what was beyond it. I didn’t dare.

Before long we were joined by others. Felicia Lighthart, a tall blonde who looked dressed for a day in court. Liz Kenton, whose sporadic chatter only heightened the anxiety. And Hilary Gosling, a pale little thing with ginger hair and a hunted expression who didn’t speak beyond telling us her name.

We alternated between silence and banal comments that led nowhere. Traffic. The weather. No one spoke of the one thing that crowded everyone’s thoughts. There was no clock in the room, so I had no concept of time. I had no idea if I’d been there ten minutes or an hour.

Suddenly the door banged open to admit a willowy girl with a shock of bright red hair. She sat cross-legged on the bench next to me, a study in defiance as she met our eyes with a challenging stare. I suspected the little rebel had been here before and was trying to impress us with her bravery while really pissing herself with fear.