Notebooks of the Young Wife (11 page)

‘Jane,’ she said, ‘I own two perfectly good rattan canes. Full senior grade both. Another time remind me to try and interest you in one of them.’ As the words sank in – another time, the angel had said
another
time – I ventured a chuckle and a little squeeze to the corrugations that lay thick under my fingers. ‘Ouch, fucking ouch! Easy, girl, you’ve done enough damage in that department for one day. But the front bottom – as I believe it is politely known – now that is all yours.’

I worshipped at the shrine of Venus until its black curator was brought to the heights that were her due. Then I posed her over pillows on the bed and gave her buttocks the most gentle but persistent massage with a herbal cream devised by Samantha’s Rigorist Order in Brittany for exactly the present requirements. So visibly stimulated was Ama by the procedure that while she lay still undulating to the rhythm of my hands, I replaced my jeans with a strap-on from the shelf. The phallus was appropriately brown in colour and realistically shaped with the additional feature of a back-spur that pressed into the apex of my vulva. It slid easily into the slick vaginal opening and I fucked my partner with slow, deep strokes to spare her bruising, until the climactic end when the pain would be but one more strand in the overmastering web of sensation.

Later I helped her into a loose-fitting overall and broached the issue of transport. I explained that if I had wheels, the boy could lead me to the woman who had held in her hands the notebooks we couldn’t lay ours on. Ama understood their possible significance and nodded in agreement.

‘How about the Healey? The stick can be a tad clunky, but you’ll turn plenty of heads. And it’s just the day for the wind in your hair.’

I was privileged. ‘Terrific. I feel I ought to say something about how I won’t prang it.’ She laughed and I reached for the dildo that still lay on the divan between us. ‘This might come in handy too, if I may?’ The black mechanic laughed again.

‘Can I guess it’s going somewhere tight that might need a spot of lube? Don’t answer that, I’m just being nosey. Instead come on down and I’ll show you round the car.’

I was spared the task of hunting for the boy. All it took was for me to draw up with a throaty growl of exhaust at the front entrance and he was there, watching as I climbed out of the cream leather interior and patted the shining red paintwork. He was already kitted out in a black polo neck and cotton trousers rather similar to my own. We made a pair and I had a mental flash of a placard hung from his neck that read NOT MY SON, placed in order that the world and her husband should know what we weren’t. What kind of pair we
were
was a more tricky question, though I was developing some notions of how to push things along. As things were, I settled for a comradely arm round the shoulders to guide him towards the kitchen.

There we made an early lunch of thick vegetable soup and fresh bread with Mrs Beaton’s home-cured ham. She left us to it, and as we ate I mulled over our expedition to the sometime secretary who went under the name of Edith Faversham. She had not been forewarned of our visit, so we could take her by surprise should she be party to any monkey business with the elusive Notebooks. I thought that unlikely, but we had nothing to lose by calling unannounced since her movements were restricted by a lack of transport. Our quarry lived by herself and was not a driver, so unless on a job that provided transport she would be found working at home. That was what the boy reckoned, unusually garrulous, and I was happy to take his word for it. The cottage, he insisted, was a mere twenty minutes away and the trip could easily be repeated.

After the burst of speech the actual journey took place in silence, and I was able to indulge myself hurtling along the surprisingly empty country lanes in the spring sunshine. All too soon we were slowing to pass through a nondescript estate of new housing, and pulled up at a gingerbread cottage that stood on the edge of the village green. Before we had time to get out of the car the door opened and a woman in a tweed skirt and brogues emerged. Fifty-ish, with broad shoulders and a heavy bust, she glowered in our direction, no doubt affronted as much by our choice of parking place as our loud arrival. Then her eyes fixed on the boy and her expression cleared somewhat.

‘Oh, it’s
you
,’ she said, plainly no more equipped with a name than I was. I got out of the car and held out my hand.

‘Jane Barrett-Greene. Miss Faversham, I take it.’

‘Indeed so. How may I help you?’

‘I’ve come from Ardingley End about the transcribing work you were doing a few weeks ago. You see, we can’t seem to come across the books you were using and wondered if—’

‘I looked
everywhere
. Did you make off with them, or what?’ It was rather typical of the boy to find his voice, and a petulant one at that, when the situation called for a little diplomacy. Before I could undo the damage, the lady drew herself up to make an angry retort.

‘I can assure you both that when I left for the last time, the volumes were returned safely to their proper place.’ She looked fiercely at the boy and then at me.

‘But that’s just it, Miss Faversham, what is their place? Where can we find them?’ I tried to sound ingratiating but she regarded me with pursed lips.

‘I could tell you that, of course. However, I must say how much I resent the suggestion that I was not a proper custodian of such valuable materials.’

‘I’m sure it wasn’t meant the way it sounded. He’s annoyed with himself for not being able to come up with the goods. Isn’t that right, lad?’

‘Um, yes, I’m sorry.’ It was muttered at the ground while he scuffed a foot in the dust and I was not surprised when the words cut little ice.

‘I’m afraid that an apology is not going to be enough. Perhaps, though, if you were to come inside...’ We followed her into a low-ceilinged room shared by a sizeable computer workstation and a floral three-piece suite. From a stand by the door she picked up a wooden clothes brush and was regarding me with an expression I couldn’t quite make out. Then the penny dropped: she was unsure of my proprietary status and didn’t like to ask.

‘Be my guest,’ I put in breezily. ‘I hold the opinion that regular bottom warming would be of benefit to young men in general. And especially those who have forgotten their manners.’ It should have occurred to me that one who had been employed in Monty’s library was likely to be favourably disposed to corporal punishment. As it was, my enthusiastic response had turned the frown into a quiet smile, while the boy eyed the item in her hand with resignation. The lady of the house wasted no time in pulling out an upright chair and after seating herself motioned him into place.

It was a broad lap that gave him good support and I had the impression he was going to need it. The trouser seat was a close fit, without pockets, and once he was bent over presented a smooth, wrinkle-free surface. Miss Faversham began at once with an admirable firmness of action, and in the confined space the long flat back of the instrument made a splendid splatting noise on impact. Soon each stroke was accompanied by a yelp, and after perhaps a couple of dozen she released him to spring up and rub.

‘Let’s have a look at you, my lad,’ she said, reaching for the fastening at his waist. It was plain to me that she meant to inspect his behind, in order to judge if it should receive more of the same. But when the trousers came down that was not what caught our attention. Instead we stared, all three, at the engorged penis that stood to attention in front of us. Eventually the chastiser broke the silence.

‘I don’t believe,’ she said carefully, ‘that such a thing could, by any stretch of the imagination, be taken to indicate a suitable state of contrition.’ I failed to suppress a chuckle, and under the scrutiny the boy’s face turned bright red. Then I saw my chance to push the envelope of our disciplinary practice. In the hallstand I’d noticed a crooked handle amongst the umbrellas, and went to pull it out. As I thought, it was a decent length of rattan and I held it out to our host with a raised eyebrow.

‘Do you think, Miss Faversham, the cane might do better to achieve the desired aim?’

‘Indeed I do. And please call me Edith. You are Jane, if I heard you right.’ While we were becoming more amicable through the swapping of first names, the boy without one was looking less than overjoyed at the appearance of the new implement. However, I saw no indication of outright rebellion, so I decided to take a direct part in the proceedings. Pulling him towards me by the hand, I bent him forward and circled his waist with an arm. His bare bottom, glowing rather from the action of the brush, was thus in prime position for the continuation.

‘Perfect, Jane, if I may say so. And since you have him fast, I shall be able to exert myself a little. I’ve never been one to draw out a licking, believing that six strokes, if they really are of the best, suffice more often than not.’ I agreed heartily and while tightening my grasp contrived a covert examination of the male organ below. Cheekily hard yet, in the face of adversity, its chances of staying so were, I thought, slight. Edith Faversham had a look about her that said she meant business.

She took careful aim for the first, but the remaining five were laid on with a grunting force that precluded fine control. Notwithstanding, they were beauties! At the last the boy twisted out of my grip, shouting and clutching desperately at his injured seat. When the contortions had abated somewhat I encouraged him to stow the deflated cock away and zip up while it was still a shadow of its recent self. Having returned the cane to the stand, the chastiser was bright-eyed.

‘I have to own I enjoyed that, boy, and precisely to the extent that you didn’t, I’m afraid to say. But I do hope there are no hard feelings.’

‘S’pose not.’ He was still rubbing but I could tell the worst was well past.

‘Bertie doesn’t get much exercise these days, you see.’ She turned to address both of us. ‘There was a girl in the village who did for me once a week and she usually made some blunder that would afford him an outing. By design I became convinced, though we never spoke of it. Unfortunately she moved away, and her replacement warned me that if I so much as glanced in his direction she would be “out the door”. Her words. So there we are.’ Miss Faversham sighed, then pulled herself up.

‘That’s enough about me. Now take a seat, do. That chair there has a good soft cushion, lad. And when I’ve made a pot of tea, I’ll tell you what you came here to find out.’

On the return journey I lasted the three minutes it took to reach a field with an open gate where I could pull off behind the cover of a hedge. He was as hot as I, with an erection that strained in my hand. I stroked the shaft until the whole was slippery with his juice, all the while fondling the lumpy tramlines that crisscrossed the bum.

‘Sorry to land you in it, boy, but you don’t really mind, do you?’

‘Not now I don’t, Miss.’ He managed a grin, but I got the hint that I should rein in the impulse towards greater severity. Pledging to behave myself in the future, I persuaded him to bend over and hold his ankles.

‘Eyes closed, because I have a surprise for you. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt, but it might just stretch you a bit.’ I opened the boot and took out the borrowed strap-on and a tube of gel. In a matter of moments I had jeans and trainers kicked off and buckles tightened around my waist and between my legs. The boy was obediently as he’d been placed, so I parted the welted buttocks as gently as I could and pushed a blob of lubricant into the anus. Then I smeared my phallus with a coating of the same and touched its moulded tip to the puckered hole. At once it dilated and I, or I should say my prosthetic addition, was in: the cork to the neck of the bottle.

It was a coarse, needy fuck on both sides: I pulled him hard into my thrusts and he clawed back at my body. In seconds flat the pressure on my clit sent spasms rocketing up my spine and I felt his hot flow over my fingers. A water trough stood by and I took my time to wash in it his penis and its artificial counterpart. By the time I’d done he was again as firm as ever and I was sorely tempted to bugger him – and by dint of Ama’s device, me – slowly to another climax. But we had a job to do, so I contented myself with a last squeeze of punished buttocks and touched my lips to his foreskin.

‘Later, boy, later.’

Back at The End, I stopped the car beside the entrance and we went quickly through the library to the study. Around the doorway through which we’d entered was a decorative wooden frieze whose abstract weave of lines was interrupted at intervals by the representation of an acorn. The third from the top on the left-hand side, Edith had said, and one was to press it just as one would a doorbell. I counted down and there it was, carved in a little more relief than its neighbours, and it did exactly what we’d been told it would. With a click a gap appeared in the frame of the doorway itself that allowed a panel to be slid back. Behind it was a cubbyhole set into the thickness of the wall and there, as promised, lay the first Parisian edition of
Les 120 Journées de Sodome
. But there was the signal absence of the Notebooks that were the object of our quest. Instead, tucked into the first page of the de Sade was an envelope addressed to Jane Barrett-Greene, D.Phil.

The lad brushed his fringe away from a forehead creased into a frown, while I frowned back. Then I made myself go over to the workspace, retrieve the silver letter-knife and with a show of calm resolution slice cleanly up through the top of the flap. Inside was a single sheet with a single sentence in a large, bold font.