Bad Sisters

by Chance, Rebecca

  ‘But she’s a bit of a loose cannon, what?’ Sir Tristram was continuing, his eyebrows raised. ‘I mean the American one, of course, not the luscious TV cook girl with the amazing cantilevered bosoms who always causes such a stir when she comes here for parties. Quite a bombshell. But sensible, eh? Sticks to talking about how to make cakes. That’s the ticket. The other one, though, the one from the US . . .’ He pulled a face. ‘The trouble with Americans,’ he said, ‘is that they’ve got this rather awkward idea that no publicity is bad publicity. Which is definitely not the way we do things over here. I understand you and Olly have had a stiff word or two with her about this debacle?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Maxie said quickly, cursing Deeley silently with every single foul swear word that she’d learned in her youth.

  ‘Because a lot of the red tops have picked this up,’ Sir Tristram sighed, using the trade expression for the tabloid newspapers, with their bright red strips across the top of the front cover. ‘It’s just the kind of petty salacious gossip the working classes love. Rags to riches, poor beautiful girls make good . . .’ he looked contemptuous, ‘not the kind of thing we want to be associated with. Time to put a lid on your sister, Maxie. I certainly hope you didn’t engineer this in the hopes of getting some publicity for your handbags, did you? I can’t tell you how much the party would frown on something like that.’

  ‘Oh God, no!’ Maxie blurted out, all her carefully cultivated poise and composure deserting her at this terrifying suggestion. If she were considered a vulgar publicity seeker, it would torpedo any career chances Olly might ever have as an MP. ‘I’d never do anything like that! Sir Tristram, you must believe me! Devon and I shot round to Deeley’s as soon as that awful piece came out in the magazine, and we read her the riot act! She knows better than to do anything like that again, I do assure you.’

  She bit her lip so hard it hurt as she looked anxiously across the wide expanse of desk for the chief whip’s response. He had set down his glass and was steepling his fingers together, propping his chin on his manicured nails, watching her intently, his eyes cool and calculating.

  If Deeley’s ruined everything – everything I’ve planned and schemed and pushed for – Olly actually becoming a junior minister, the first step on the ladder – I swear I’ll strangle her with my bare hands! Maxie thought grimly, her teeth sinking deep into the tender flesh of her lower lip.

  Her ambitions for her husband were by no means unrealistic. Although Olly was hardly blessed in the brains department, he had a truly great asset for a politician: he was hugely charming. His smile could light up a room; you couldn’t help smiling back at him, even though you might disagree with every word he was saying. On TV, he was very appealing; and because he was too stupid to realize when the party line he was spouting didn’t make sense, his absolute conviction was very compelling.

  Men just as stupid as Olly Stangroom had gone very far in politics. It was Maxie’s hope that Olly would follow in their footsteps. She already had her own highly successful business; to have a husband high up in government would make them the ultimate power couple.

  And the chief whip, the man whom Olly and Maxie needed to impress above all others, the one who advised the prime minister on all his most important staff decisions, nodded slowly as he took in Maxie’s reaction.

  ‘Olly told you about the promotion we’ve been discussing, I imagine?’ Sir Tristram said, picking up his glass once again.

  ‘Of course,’ Maxie said, her entire body relaxing in a wash of relief; if the chief whip was moving on to this subject, he had accepted her assurance that not only was she innocent of scheming with Deeley to get publicity, she would make sure in future that her sister kept her pretty mouth very firmly shut about anything to do with their deprived childhood. ‘He tells me everything. But,’ she added pointedly, to make it clear that Olly knew how to be discreet, ‘only me.’

  ‘Exactly right,’ the chief whip said, nodding at her. ‘Shows his good judgement. It’s easy to see that you’re the brains of the operation, Maxie, my dear.’

  Maxie considered, briefly, how to respond to this. There was no point in her insisting that Olly was actually very intelligent; that wouldn’t convince the chief whip, and it would make her look stupid too.

  ‘Olly,’ she eventually said, ‘is terribly good at toeing the party line. He’s awfully loyal. And he never says the wrong thing.’

  ‘Very true,’ Sir Tristram agreed urbanely. ‘He’s been absolutely gaffe-proof so far. Doesn’t put his feet in his mouth. Most impressive.’

  He took another drink of the Macallan.

  ‘But, from what I understand,’ he continued, ‘you’re very much the firm hand on the reins.’

  Maxie’s eyebrows raised a little. She turned her head a fraction, so she was looking him full in the face, trying to decode his words. He was staring at her very intently, she realized.

  ‘When Olly gets out of line . . .’ he continued, ‘when he’s a naughty boy . . .’ He cleared his throat. ‘Well, you know when you need to crack the whip. Don’t you?’

  Maxie nodded, her brain churning. She had to play this perfectly. Because if she wasn’t hearing what she thought she was hearing, things would go very, very wrong indeed . . .

  ‘Olly does need a bit of discipline from time to time,’ she said carefully, pushing back her pale blonde hair from her face. ‘He definitely can be a naughty boy.’

  This was the crucial moment, the one where she’d know for sure what message he was sending, where she’d be able to judge the tone of the rest of this entire encounter, and whether Olly’s promotion was assured or not. She picked up her glass, drained it, and set it back on the coaster. Noticing that Sir Tristram wasn’t saying a word, but was waiting, utterly focussed on her.

  ‘But,’ she said crisply, ‘he isn’t the only one, is he?’

  His eyes were bright now, his lips slightly parted, moist with whisky. Silently, he shook his head.

  And there it was. The balance of power had shifted across the desk. Sir Tristram Cavendish, chief whip, who ran his party with an iron hand on the reins, had named those reins and then given them to her. He picked up his glass with a hand that trembled for the first time and downed what was left of its contents.

  Maxie took a deep breath. Then she pushed back her chair and walked over to the door. There was a ridiculously old-fashioned wrought-iron lock above the handle, more suited to a Tudor mansion than an office in the House of Commons; but the key turned. She heard the wards align, the metal bolt slide into the waiting cylinder, with a clearly audible click.

  And she heard, too, a sigh from Sir Tristram. A deep panting sigh of anticipation.

  ‘Stand up!’ she snapped over her shoulder.

  It was very gratifying to hear how quickly he scrambled to his feet. When she swivelled back around, her posture and bearing now commanding, her back straight as a ruler, he was standing in front of his desk, staring at her eagerly, his hands still trembling.

  ‘You pathetic little worm,’ she said coldly. ‘I can’t even bear to look at you. Turn around and face the desk.’

  He couldn’t obey her fast enough. Maxie contemplated his grey-suited back for a moment, feeling calm sweep over her. This was a scene she had played many times before. Olly Stangroom had not been her first university boyfriend, and as soon as she had entered the ranks of the Sloanes at Oxford, she had been aware that many of the young men in the elite social circle were very attracted to a quality she possessed, of which she herself hadn’t been fully aware.

  Maxie was a natural leader. She liked to run things, to be in control. To tell people what to do. And to many posh young men, brought up by Nanny and Matron, that characteristic was very compelling. Maxie’s very first Oxford boyfriend had had a marked taste for corporal punishment, brought on by years of caning at public school; he had begged Maxie to oblige him, and Maxie, much to her surprise, had discovered that she was very good at it indeed.

  It was one of the ma
in reasons Olly had married her. Much more sensible to keep your vices in the family, rather than pay a dominatrix who might be secretly filming you to sell on to a tabloid newspaper. Clearly Sir Tristram Cavendish had much the same philosophy; only here, the family was the party to which they all belonged.

  ‘Take off your belt,’ she snapped at him, crossing the room to draw the curtains. She heard the click of the buckle, the leather sliding through the loops of his trousers, and then his hesitant voice.

  ‘Mistress?’

  She turned to see him looking at her, the belt curled into a neat coil in his outstretched hand.

  ‘Put it on the desk!’ she said angrily. ‘And don’t you dare talk to me unless I specifically order you to!’

  ‘Sorry, Mistress,’ he said humbly, ducking his head, laying the belt on the desk.

  ‘Did I tell you to speak?’ she said, snatching the belt up, seeing his eyes go wide with fear and excitement.

  ‘No,’ he said, and then clapped his hand over his mouth as he realized he had disobeyed again. A strong, elegant hand, with a gold signet ring on his left little finger, next to his wedding ring. The hand of an adult man, who at this moment was enjoying himself tremendously by behaving in a not-remotely-adult fashion.

  ‘Naughty boy!’ Maxie hissed close to his ear, watching his eyes close momentarily with ecstasy as she said the magic words. ‘You need to be punished for your disobedience! Take your jacket off! And then pull your trousers down!’

  The jacket flew over the back of his chair, the trousers puddled at his feet. He was wearing silk boxers in a dashing shade of emerald. Definitely a dandy, Maxie noticed with amusement.

  It had taken her some time to learn how to use a belt properly; backhand, for maximum control and placement. By now, she was something of an expert.

  ‘You’re going to get six strokes on your bum,’ she said coldly. ‘After each one, you will thank me. You will not make a sound otherwise. You will stand up straight. You may not brace yourself. You may not touch yourself. And you most definitely may not come. Understood?’

  He nodded frantically, shaking with anticipation by now. The first stroke made such a satisfying swish through the air, followed immediately by the lash of leather on silk, that she couldn’t help smiling to herself with satisfaction. He jumped a little as it landed, babbling: ‘Thank you, Mistress!’ just as she’d instructed him.

  She walked round to observe him; he ducked his head immediately, knowing not to look her directly in the eyes. This was by no means the first time he’d put himself in the hands of a dominatrix. His cock, which had already been hard, was now swelling impatiently against the buttoned fly of the boxers; it wasn’t particularly impressive as far as size went, Maxie noticed.

  ‘Hands by your sides,’ she snapped, walking back behind him and landing the second stroke before he expected it, making him jump again, gasping with shock before the ritual thanks.

  She laid the next four on hard and fast, placing each at a slightly different angle, showing off her technique, careful to avoid the base of the spine and aim for the flesh of the buttocks, a swift, expert deluge of lashes that came so swiftly he could barely thank her for one before he was flinching from the next. When the six were done, she coiled up the belt, and said softly, ‘Turn around, you revolting little boy.’

  Sir Tristram was unrecognizable from the smooth, groomed master of the universe who had greeted her at the doorway of his office not half an hour before. He was panting, his face suffused with blood, his lips parted, his eyes bright and moist, his whole body trembling from head to toe. His trousers round his ankles, catching on his shoes, his shirt-tails hanging loose over his boxers, his cock straining at his fly, he was utterly humiliated. And loving every second of it.

  ‘Kiss it,’ Maxie said, holding out the belt, far enough away that he had to hop and strain to reach it with his lips.

  She jerked it back.

  ‘Now kiss my shoes.’

  He nearly fell, scrambling to the ground, tripping over his trousers, to kneel first and then extend his head to press a fervent kiss of worship on the tips of each of her shoes.

  ‘Disgusting,’ she said icily. ‘You revolt me. You’re clumsy and repellent. Stand up and turn around again. I can tell your punishment has not been severe enough.’

  A lock of his hair flapped loosely over his face as he clambered to his feet again and turned to face the desk. Every part of his carefully controlled appearance was falling to pieces; she was stripping him down to the animal beneath.

  ‘Boxers down and hold on to the desk,’ she snapped. ‘And pull up your shirt. You’re getting six on your bare bum for being such a horribly clumsy pathetic piece of shit.’

  She could see her previous work as he dragged his boxers down, hooking them over his erection. Six neatly placed stripes. She landed the first lash right over one of them, for maximum pain, and watched his knuckles, clasping the edge of the desk, go white, heard his: ‘Thank you, Mistress!’ moan out from between gritted teeth. He’d be sore for days. Every time he rubbed his buttocks, he’d think of her. Hopefully, he would want her to do this again, tan his bottom till it hurt. And he’d know that advancement for her husband would ensure that Maxie would return to his office, around the time his secretary was due to leave, and humiliate him thoroughly over his own desk. It was exactly what so many powerful men truly loved; a woman who would take the power away from them every so often. Under strictly controlled circumstances, of course. A window in time where they could hand the reins of power to someone else and revel, deliciously, in the suffering they spent most of their time inflicting on others.

  Two. Three. Four. A fast sequence that had the chief whip shuddering, groaning, his fingers drumming on the leather of his desk, his legs trembling with the effort of keeping himself still, bent over his own desk, grabbing the sides, his hips jerking back and forth.

  ‘Two more,’ Maxie said slowly. ‘Two more strokes. Beg me for them.’

  ‘Please!’ he moaned instantly. ‘Please, Mistress, I beg you! Please may I have them! I’ve done everything you said!’

  Maxie was holding the tip of the belt; she let it go, aiming for a nasty cut between the buttocks that lifted him as it landed, drawing a half-scream from him.

  ‘I think,’ she said, drawing it out for maximum effect, ‘I think you might have learned your lesson by now. What do you say?’

  ‘I have! I have!’ Sir Tristram’s head was turned to the side, one cheek pressed flat against the leather, his hair completely disarranged, his mouth open. Maxie held the belt to it once more and he kissed it with utter passion, his eyelashes fluttering.

  ‘You want to come, don’t you?’ she said into his ear. ‘Filthy, horrible little boy. You want to come now?’

  ‘Yes! Please!’

  He licked his lips, not daring to lift his head, his voice a thread of pleading.

  ‘On the last stroke,’ she said, and strode back into position.

  She made him wait for it, as long as she could, until his hips were already jerking, his buttocks rising to receive the last lash. It was the hardest one yet, and for a moment she worried she’d drawn blood; but she was experienced enough by now to avoid that danger. The crack of the belt sent him stumbling against the desk, falling against it now he didn’t need to hold himself up any longer, the convulsive movements of his hips, the gasping cries he was making, a clear indication of how powerful an orgasm he was having. He was spread-eagled over his own desk, his entire body throbbing with release.

  Maxie dropped the belt to the carpet, a smile curving her lips. It was always hard to judge how far you could push them, how much they wanted; you had to be very alert, to read their signs, their body language, with great sensitivity.

  This encounter had been an audition, she was all too aware. A payment for Olly’s promotion, but an audition for his future success. And as she watched Sir Tristram Cavendish’s half-naked body still spasming over his huge Victorian desk, she was pretty sure
she’d passed with flying colours.

  She just hoped he hadn’t made a mess on the leather. That would be very hard to clean off.

  ‘I’ll be waiting outside,’ she announced, retrieving her sleek Bilberry bag from beside the visitor’s chair, careful not to look at him as she did so. She unlocked the office door, closed it behind her and seated herself in one of the capacious leather armchairs in the waiting area beside his secretary’s desk, her heart pounding. Had she done well enough? Had it been what he wanted? With Olly, they had all sorts of scenarios worked out; she knew exactly how far to push him, which words would trigger him, how to send him over the edge and make him so grateful to her that he would do anything she wanted afterwards.

  But with Sir Tristram, she had had to play it completely by ear. He had clearly sensed what she was capable of with that radar that allows people with certain, specific sexual tastes to identify each other: the misfits of society, the ones who aren’t part of the happy, vanilla mainstream, have a way of signalling to each other, like calling to like in a high frequency only they can hear. He had doubtless seen the masochist in Olly just as clearly, and used code words that Maxie would recognize, while keeping Sir Tristram’s secret safe in the possibility that she wasn’t what he hoped she was.

  Still, she’d had no time to prepare. It had all been improvised. Had it been too basic, too obvious a scenario? Had she gone too far – or not far enough?

  The brass handle on his office door turned; the door swung open. It took all she had not to jump to her feet, anxiously awaiting Sir Tristram’s verdict. She tilted her head and glanced up at him coolly, but one look at him had her heart singing with triumph. He had performed a small miracle, reconstructed his appearance as if nothing untoward had just happened. His suit was pristine, his hair smooth, his smile as urbane as ever. But as he walked toward her, his smile was utterly and completely satisfied. A cat that had most definitely eaten the cream. And his voice was a positive purr of content.

  ‘My very dear Maxie,’ he said, reaching out to take both her hands, pulling her to her feet and planting a kiss on each of her hands in turn. ‘What a great pleasure it is to have you visit me. We must do this again soon.’