Bad Sisters

by Chance, Rebecca

  ‘Oh, absolutely,’ Maxie said, her voice light and friendly, perfectly pitched.

  ‘I’ll have my girl ring yours,’ Sir Tristram said, just as if his ‘girl’ weren’t a fifty-something woman in a twinset and pearls.

  Maxie reached for her coat, hanging on the wrought-iron stand, but he was ahead of her, easing it off and holding it open so she could slip her arms in.

  ‘It might be useful if you were to ring me beforehand, too,’ she said very casually. ‘We could discuss . . . parameters.’

  What you like, she meant. What you want. If you want me to bring anything. Paddles, whips, other things. Dress in a certain way. Say words that push your particular buttons.

  That kind of thing was always better discussed before the actual encounter, and as she settled her handbag over her shoulder and looked up at him, she could tell he knew it too.

  ‘What a very good idea,’ he said, smiling as if she were a civil servant who had come up with a plan to slash unemployment benefits without losing any political capital. ‘Olly’s a very lucky man. Oh,’ he added, striding with a gentleman’s good manners to hold the door to the outer office open for her, ‘do tell him from me that you won’t have to keep his promotion to yourselves much longer. The official announcement will be tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘That’s wonderful news,’ Maxie said, smiling at him. A couple of other MPs passed down the corridor, and nodded courteously at Maxie and Sir Tristram as they passed.

  ‘Much deserved,’ replied Sir Tristram, his smile in return full of meaning.

  Maxie returned the MPs’ nods with easy politeness. No one could possibly have told that anything remotely out of the ordinary had passed between her and the chief whip as she walked away down the corridor, her step as steady and her expression as calm as ever.

  But her heart was racing like an express train. And the chief whip wasn’t the only one to look like a cat that had just had an entire saucer of cream. Maxie’s smile was so self-satisfied that she, rather than Sir Tristram, might have been the one who’d just reached climax in his office.

  Hmm, she thought, catching sight of herself in an ornate mirror at the far end of the corridor, that gives me an idea . . .

  She knew her way around the House of Commons by now as well as any MP. In a few minutes, she was pushing open the heavy door of the closest ladies’ toilet, her heart beating, if possible, even faster than before. Maxie was very lucky in more ways than one: not only was she able to fully satisfy the whims of her husband and now the chief whip of his party, but their sexual tastes happened, very pleasurably, to coincide with her own. It had been a considerable shock to her, with that first Oxford boyfriend, to realize that with every stroke of the Mason Pearson hairbrush to his bare buttocks (he had apparently been spanked with that implement in the nursery, and never forgotten it) Maxie herself was experiencing an increase in stimulation on her own account. Afterwards, shaking with excitement, she had left him sprawled over the back of the sofa, moaning his gratitude, and retreated to the bathroom of his flat to take care of herself.

  It had been the pattern ever since.

  The toilet was mercifully empty: the House wasn’t sitting late that day, and there were much closer lavatory facilities to most MPs’ offices – or the bars, where they would usually be found at this time of the evening. The doors of the four stalls were all open. Maxie chose the last one, and made sure it was locked behind her, the metal bolt sliding across the door, secured into its slot, before, taking a deep breath, she reached down to pull up her skirt.

  Maxie had always been intensely private. From childhood, she had schemed in total secrecy, never letting even her sisters into her most closely guarded plans. It was entirely typical of her that this most intensely personal act of all should be one that she only performed when alone, behind a locked door. Beating willing male victims, bringing them to orgasm while remaining in total control herself, was the perfect fit for her personality; she would rather have died than let them see how intensely aroused she became by watching their surrender to her.

  No one would ever see Maxie herself let down her guard.

  Her skirt was around her waist now, her fingers scrabbling at her tights and La Perla smooth microfibre knickers now, pulling them down, giving her enough room to slide her right hand between her legs as her left covered her mouth, keeping her silent. She fell back against the wall, bracing herself, wet already with excitement, her clever fingers reaching easily up inside her, coming out slick with moisture, rubbing against herself exactly where she needed it. Maxie had always been her own best lover, infinitely better than any man. No one but herself had ever brought her to orgasm, and no one would have the chance to try; Maxie wouldn’t give them the opportunity. This – isolated, alone, dependent on nobody else for her own pleasure – was utterly perfect.

  She was already coming, her bare bottom beating a rhythm against the cold plaster of the wall as she rode her fingers, moaning into the hand covering her mouth, her eyes closed, conjuring in the darkness the image of Sir Tristram over his own desk, begging her for more strokes of his own belt. She heard his voice in her head, his whimpers of pain and pleasure, as she reached her first orgasm, and the second followed almost immediately.

  She felt completely debauched. Her tights and knickers were binding her knees close together. The hem of her skirt tickled her wrist. The smooth French twist of her hair, rubbing against the wall, was coming loose, falling down her neck, as she bit into her left hand, allowing herself, for these few minutes, to utterly let go the usual iron self-discipline she exerted over her behaviour and appearance.

  Poor pathetic men, she thought happily. Poor pathetic men who just shoot their load and come once. God, I’d hate to be a man . . .

  Because she was flicking the nails of her index and middle fingers over her swollen nub now, tickling and teasing herself, giving herself a few moments to recover, to build herself up again till she was gasping, bucking her hips, the throbbing between her legs growing more and more insistent. Until she was ready to come again, even harder this time, a deep guttural sigh of relief flooding out through the fingers over her mouth, her bottom slapping against the wall.

  God, this is so good . . . so good . . .

  Sir Tristram’s voice was still in her head, his pleading cries. His trousers and boxers puddled around his ankles, his buttocks striped with his belt, his absolute passivity as he lay across his own desk, offering himself up to her whims. It was the biggest turn-on in the world for her, the most powerful man she had ever had under her command, and the orgasms she was giving herself now were in direct proportion to the dominance she had just exerted, the best that she had ever had. She came again and again, her eyes rolling back in her skull, her head lolling back against the wall, waves of sensation pounding through her as strongly as if she were strapped to a washing machine on spin cycle.

  She had lost all control of herself. The fingers in her mouth were damp from being pressed against her tongue, the fingers between her legs were slick with her own moisture. She heard Sir Tristram calling her ‘Mistress’, saw him kissing her feet, felt the jerk of the leather belt in her hand as she whipped his bottom, and came again, as helpless as he had been, delighting in her ability to satisfy herself when weaker people needed to make themselves vulnerable to others to reach the same mad rush of pleasure.

  How long it lasted, how many orgasms she gave herself, she didn’t know. Her entire body was limp by the end, her legs barely able to support her. She slumped onto the toilet seat, wincing a little in soreness; she had ground herself down on her fingers so hard, so often, that she had bruised herself a little. She was panting, her mouth soft, her eyes glazed, as she reached out for the toilet paper and patted herself dry.

  Gradually, Maxie managed to get to her feet, to pull up her tights and knickers, wincing again as the soft fabric rubbed against the sensitive skin. She pulled down her skirt, everything happening in slow motion. It was the only time she allowed herse
lf to relax the efficient, brisk movements with which she bustled from home to office. Almost every minute of her day was scheduled for maximum productivity; this kind of surrender to her body’s urgent need for sexual release wasn’t a regular occurrence.

  She knew that men would often ‘knock one out’, as Olly put it, first thing in the morning, or maybe last thing at night, idly watching some porn on the internet, as if it were no more important to them than a bowel movement, a quick tug and then an even quicker rush of come. ‘Cleaning the pipes’, to use another expression of her husband’s.

  Maxie didn’t know what it was like for other women; she had never had friends or confidantes. But she had always been a hoarder, squirrelling away her treats, saving them for the perfect time to enjoy them, and highly disinclined to share. She liked to wait until she couldn’t bear it any more, until the sexual pressure was simply too great, and then to spend all her capital in a private orgy of release, like a glutton, pushing herself to come again and again until her body finally begged her to stop.

  The soreness would last a couple of days, a delicious reminder of the good twenty minutes she had spent giving herself up completely to the needs of her body. It was due some fun, she thought, smiling as she unlocked the door of the stall and, always cautious, peered out to ensure that no one else was in the bathroom, even though she was sure she’d have heard the heavy door swing open if another woman had come in. I starve it and make it slave away on the cross-trainer to fit into a size 8, I run round all day like a Duracell bunny, I zip and button it into tight uncomfortable clothes to look appropriate for work and the media . . . It definitely needed some fun, poor thing!

  Her hair was a mess, her make-up was smeared. But the lighting in the bathroom was good, and, being Maxie and always prepared, she had plenty of cosmetics in her handbag to repair the damage. She didn’t, however, redo her foundation or layer any powder over her face, because the natural glow on her skin was the kind that you can’t buy in a bottle. Heightened, radiant colour on her cheeks, a luminosity to her entire face that one usually only saw on a carefully photographed and photoshopped model in the most expensive glossy magazines.

  The French twist was perfect again, her navy blue mascara equally so, as Maxie stepped out into the corridor. Her silk scarf was rearranged and tucked back into the neckline of her jacket, her skirt smooth once more. But the open stares of appreciation from everyone she passed weren’t for the precision of her grooming. For the first time, MPs, researchers, secretaries, turned to look at Mrs Stangroom with a sudden realization that, as one of the deputy speakers muttered to the clerk of the House, she was a ‘damn fine filly’.

  And Maxie relished it. Normally, she left the sex appeal to her sisters: she prided herself on having enough intelligence and drive not to have to parade herself with her bosoms propped up on a balcony dress, like Devon, or her legs bare practically to the crotch, like Deeley. But every so often, after one of the most enjoyable sexual encounters of her life, yes, it was very nice indeed to walk through the long vaulted Commons Corridor with its soaring, white-painted walls, past the awful oil paintings of seventeenth-century political scenes – William and Mary lumpenly receiving the crown in ermine and blue velvet and horsehair wigs – and to see heads of some of the most important political players turning in her wake. To make an entrance into the Central Lobby, its ribbed and vaulted walls heavy with Venetian mosaic and endless marble statues, and call attention to herself simply by crossing the elaborately tiled floor, her heels clicking a smug rhythm, her body radiating sexual satisfaction, her skin glowing.

  This is a perfect moment, she thought, smiling at everyone she passed, not slowing her step at all, wanting to be in her own little bubble of triumph, not dilute her enjoyment by pausing to talk to anyone. Right now, this is perfect. Olly has his promotion, and more to come after that. This is the first step on a long ladder to the top. And I’m not only going to be the wife of a rising star in the party. I get to discipline the chief whip in his own office on a regular basis . . . and have my own private celebration afterwards . . .

  The mere thought of repeating this evening’s activities sent an extra rush of blood to her cheeks, a delicious flush of excitement. As she tripped lightly down the flight of steps leading to St Stephen’s Entrance, a peer of the realm, coming up, stumbled on a stone tread and caught himself on the stair rail, nearly taking a nasty fall, so dazzled was he by the wife of the Honorable Olly Stangroom.

  Plenty of people here want a good spanking, Maxie thought, as she stepped out onto St Margaret Street and raised her hand for a passing black taxi. She knew that was what they were sensing from her aura; not just the sex, but also her capacity for dominance. As she settled into the comfortably wide leather seat of the cab, she closed her eyes, spreading her arms wide along the back of the seat, relishing, totally and utterly, the sensations still coursing through her bloodstream.

  This is a perfect moment, she thought again, as the cab swung round Parliament Square, and she glanced sideways at the House of Commons, scene of her recent triumph. Nothing can stop me now.

  I feel like the queen of the world.

  Her phone was ringing. It must be Olly, wanting to know how the meeting with Sir Tristram had gone. A smile curved her lips as she reached for the phone.

  ‘Oh, very well, darling,’ she would say airily. ‘All things considered, I think I can safely say that it went very well indeed . . .’

  Deeley

  Deeley was in such a daze on the slow local train journey from Riseholme that she only realized they’d reached Leeds when another passenger tapped her arm and told her it was the end of the line. Her head was spinning with the aftermath of the visit she’d just made to Bill’s old house, and her meeting with the unpleasant, intimidating woman in the street outside. The train to London was late, the platform cold, and when the train finally limped into the station, there were no seats to be found anywhere in second class. Deeley walked up the entire train, unable to believe that there wasn’t a seat; for what she’d paid for her day return that morning at King’s Cross Station, she could have flown from LA to Vegas – And not on a crappy airline either, she thought ironically; on JetBlue, with leather seats and live TV.

  But no, there was not a seat to be had. It was unbelievable; this wasn’t even peak time, and yet overflow passengers were sitting on their cases on the cold, juddering floor, by the doors, in front of the stinky loos, their faces grey and resigned.

  You’re kidding, Deeley thought in disbelief as she reached the end of the second-class section. What’s happened to the trains whilst I was in the States?

  In first class, of course, there were plenty of seats. She sank happily into a front-facing one at its own little table, the seat opposite pleasantly unoccupied, a fresh copy of The Times lying in front of her.

  I’ll just pay the upgrade, she thought, chucking her Fendi bag onto the opposite seat, stretching out her long legs in relief at being cocooned in the kind of luxury she’d grown used to in her time with Nicky. I was so virtuous, buying a standard ticket! And look what it got me – not even a bloody seat!

  But as soon as her head rested back on the beige leather seat, her eyes shutting, her thoughts immediately returned, like a dog chasing its own tail, to the events of the day. She kept seeing Bill’s face, projected on the dark screen of her closed eyelids; not a handsome face at all, battered by life, a broken nose and a cabbage ear which he’d got, she seemed to remember, from a short-lived amateur boxing career. She’d loved Bill so much, had poured all her childish, little-girl enthusiasm out to him at having finally found what seemed like a settled home with a real father figure at last. Bill truly had felt like a real father; he’d been gruff sometimes, annoyed by the shrieking and giggling and catfights of three sisters, short-tempered and grumpy when he got home, tired, from a long day’s stint at the factory where he worked, hungry for his dinner.

  But that was what had really made him feel like a proper dad, like the dads
of friends of hers: he was normal, genuine, honestly himself. Bill never pretended to be something he wasn’t – unlike their mother, whose drug and drink addiction had turned her into a liar and a fantasist, spinning wild stories, making promises she couldn’t fulfil, a perpetual inhabitant of cloud cuckoo land. Deeley had been the last of the sisters to let go, with great pain and suffering, her ideal of her mother as good, caring, and loving; still grieving for the dream of a mother who actually had a maternal bone in her body, she had fixated on Bill instead as a replacement parent figure. And his lack of airs and graces, the fact that he was a straightforward man who would never promise to do something he couldn’t, had been hugely reassuring to a little girl who had been lied to by her mother ever since she could remember.

  But this is why I’m so fucked up! Deeley thought miserably, wrapping her arms around her waist for comfort. I still look back and can’t manage to see Bill as anything but nice and kind and caring – the dad I always dreamed of having. When I know that really he was abusing Maxie, and going to start with Devon. When I know that all the time he was being nice to me – brushing my hair in the mornings when he had time, letting me sit on his lap when we watched game shows, buying me that pink bike from Argos for Christmas, the bike I wanted for so long with the tassels on its handlebars – he was actually grooming me. That’s what they’d call it now. Softening me up so he could do what he wanted later.

  She remembered the huge fight Maxie and Bill had had the night before it happened, a hissing, yelling scrap in the front room, with the TV blaring so that Devon and Deeley, even with their ears pressed to the door, couldn’t hear what was going on. Maxie had finally slammed out of the room, furious, and gone straight to bed, refusing to talk to either of her sisters; but the next day, Maxie had told her and Devon they were skiving off school. They’d hidden out in the park and then sneaked back into the house when Bill had left for work, so Maxie could sit them down, tell them what had been going on with Bill, that her fight with him had been about his intention to do the same to Devon.