Chapter 6A: Overheard and Overlooked

Clearly, Corky had been right all along. The debaucheries of the Dalrymple household were not merely repellant and vulgar but unhealthy; fundamentally perverse.

Alone once more in his room, Corky was frantically repacking his steamer trunk with renewed determination to quit the household in which he had unwittingly become entangled.

Beatrice's discovery of Maggie in his bedroom may have been an unpleasant experience, but in fact it was a blessing in disguise. The shock of the experience was sufficient to startle him back into his senses. For a moment, for a bare instant, he had been in danger of succumbing to the temptations he was-

No, no! How absurd! He had never been truly tempted. The perversity, the rampant vulgarity that had been paraded before him had sickened him, disgusted him at every turn. Only physical compulsion, and then his own misplaced gallantry, had prevented him from immediate flight. Now the scales were gone from his eyes, and good sense had returned to him.

The blasted trunk would not close. Trembling with agitation, Corky dumped out the clothes once more, and began to refold them more carefully.

It was a shame that matters with Beatrice had come to such a state. He gritted his teeth thinking of the situation had spiraled so rapidly out of control. He repented now of his lewd actions with her, perhaps even more than those with her sister. Beatrice, at least, was perhaps redeemable. Though she had encouraged, even instigated the liberties he had taken, it is the unalterable duty of the gentleman to preserve a lady's purity, even when she fails to grasp or acknowledge that obligation. He had failed her in this regard even more than he had failed her subsequently with Maggie. He realized this now, though he doubted that Beatrice ever would.

The latches on the trunk shut with a satisfying click. Corky took a deep breath, slung several bags over his shoulder, lifted the trunk, and made for the door.

It opened as he approached, the knob held by Mrs. Dalrymple. Oddly, he felt little surprise at her appearance.

"William," she said. "You're home early."

"I was feeling poorly," he explained."

"You do look a little pale," the widow admitted. "But you appear to be preparing for a journey. Pardon my saying so, William, but is travel really wise if you're unwell? And so early in the term, too?"

Corky drew in a deep breath. "M-M-Mrs. Dalrymple, I am terminating my residency here, and s-s-seeking lodging elsewhere." There. He'd said it.

His landlady's pale brow furrowed slightly. "How disappointing! You really have been a most delightful guest, and it saddens me to see you leave."

Corky, who was expecting more vigorous objections, stood awkwardly for a few moments before replying: "All the same. My mind is made up. I am determined to quit this place, and to do so at once."

Corky suppressed a flinch as Mrs. Dalrymple reached out to pat Corky's shoulder softly. "Well, I do hope you'll come to dinner soon," she said. "Have you said good-bye to the girls yet?"

Corky colored a little. "I believe they're preoccupied at the moment. I'd prefer not to disturb them."

"Oh, nonsense," Mrs. Dalrymple chided him. "Are they bickering again? I'll soon put a stop to that! You wait right here, William, and I'll fetch them at once."

Corky found himself divested of his bags and seated on a chair before he could react, and was still in the process of formulating a reply when the door closed behind Mrs. Dalrymple with a click. Corky tried anxiously to imagine the coming scenario: the red-eyed glares from Beatrice, the insolent grins from Maggie, the stiff, artificial farewells. Or else-worse yet-perhaps another scene of compulsion such as that on his first night. Mrs. Dalrymple might once again enlist her daughters in overpowering him and forcing him to submit to her depraved lusts.

Corky shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He could just imagine-Maggie and Beatrice restraining him while their mother exposed her body and slaked her lascivious desires upon him. Would Beatrice still cooperate in such an endeavor? Worse still, perhaps she would turn her attention to exacting her revenge on him for the slight she had endured. With her mother's assistance, she might turn him over her knee, pull down his trousers, and beat his bare bottom until it was red! The humiliation of receiving such treatment would be nigh unendurable. Corky stood, and, readjusting his trousers, paced the room anxiously. He could imagine the dreadful scene-his eyes damp and stinging, her delicate features set in a stern expression as she struck him again and again, forcing him to beg her forgiveness for his disloyalty. Oh, the shame of it!

And then, under her mother's perverse tutelage, she might remove her own garments and gratify herself upon his body. Would the hair of her motte be thick like her mother's, or sparse like that of her sister? Corky could feel the heat and moisture of her snug passage as she lowered herself upon his struggling form. With a handkerchief, he mopped at his fevered brow. This was intolerable-he would not participate in her defilement. Once more, he took up his bags, and made for the door, determined to sneak out of the house before any such scenario could come to pass.

As if on cue, the door opened and Mrs. Dalrymple appeared, grinning and bright eyed "William, you rascal, she whispered. "You're a quicker study than I realized. The girls have been having a fascinating talk about you-I happened to overhear a few words." As she spoke, she divested him once more of the packages he had taken up. "Come quickly now!" she then demanded, seizing the young man's wrist and drawing him into the corridor. "Now hush my lad," she urged him in a thrilling whisper, "and you shall see something rather fine."

She pulled the reluctant student into her darkened bedroom, and Corky steeled himself for another assault. Instead, however, she opened the door of her closet and pushed him inside, following after and drawing the door shut. The smell of violet powder and mothballs surrounded him, calling to mind childhood games of hide-and-seek, where he had crouched in his mother's clothes closet. With fabric brushing against his face, he felt an echo of the giddy tension that had characterized those games, the frightening and thrilling anticipation of being found by the child who was "it." The yielding warmth of Mrs. Dalrymple's body against him called to mind other games, which he had heard of, but never played.

As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he noticed a small circle of light, from which emerged the tense voices of the two girls in the next room. A gentle shove sent him stumbling against the back of the closet, and he pressed his eye to the secret orifice presented to him.

In the next room, Beatrice was seated facing him on a bed, head in her hands, sobbing. Her sister had an arm about her shoulder, and was speaking consolingly to her.

"There, there, Beatrice," Maggie said. "It was'n't his doing. I'm sure William adores you."

"What do you mean 'it was'n't his doing?'" Beatrice sniffled. "The moment he was out of my sight, he was in the arms of another girl. Oh, I was a fool to believe that he loved me!" and she collapsed into sobs once more.

"No, no!" cried her sister. "It's my fault, Beatrice! He would never have done such a thing had I not forced him."

"Forced him?"

"Well, nearly. I used some of the methods mother taught us. And he had'n't spent with you. He was on the very verge of bursting when I started! You can hardly fault him for succumbing under such circumstances as those!"

"Perhaps not..." said Beatrice, sitting up a little straighter.

"Certainly not. Why, when he spent, it was such a quantity I thought I might drown. And so thick, too! It's small wonder indeed that the poor fellow could'n't control himself."

From his vantage point, Corky winced at Beatrice's indelicacy.

Beatrice folded her fingers together and took a deep breath, dabbing at her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. "Thank you, Maggie. You're quite correct. I can't place the blame in poor William's lap. The situation was out of his control."

"Quite right!"

"And now it's clear what I must do next."

Maggie's brow furrowed. "Whatever is that?"

In a sudden motion, Beatrice leapt on her sister and pinned her face down to the bed. "Spank your rude lascivious fat strumpet bottom until it is black and blue!" she cried, and began pulling Maggie's petticoats up over her waist.

"You take that back! My bottom is'n't fat!" Maggie protested, struggling wildly against her sister's grip

Her posterior, whatever adjectives it merited, was soon exposed-not for the first time-to Corky's eye.

Still blotched red and pink from the previous evening's proceedings, it tensed abruptly at the first forceful blow from Beatrice's hand, as Maggie arched her back and redoubled her efforts at escape.

"Not on my poor bottom!" Maggie pleaded. "I'm still dreadfully sore!"

"And still dreadfully wicked as well," her sister retorted, punctuating her remarks with several more stinging blows that made Maggie's rosy flesh darken further as her hips bucked frantically. "ApPARently you weren't SORE enough to reTAIN any of the LESSons mister BRANdywine attempted to TEACH you," each emphasized syllable bringing another resounding slap, and another shriek from her struggling victim.

"Oh, please, Beatrice!" Maggie sobbed. "My bottom is all aflame. Already this morning I could barely sit still!"

Beatrice laughed. "Dear sister, you can barely sit down under the best of circumstances. I do'n't see why a good spanking should have improved your abilities in that regard. Perhaps I am punishing the wrong part of you, though."

"Oh, yes," said Maggie. "Anything else, please!"

Beatrice roughly shoved Maggie's legs apart, unknowingly exposing her sister's nether lips-tinted a blushing pink scant shades lighter than her abused posterior- to Corky's concealed eye.

Mrs. Dalrymple's soft hand had stolen to the front of Corky's trousers and was pressing rhythmically against the protuberance she found there. In the back of his mind, it occurred to Corky that he really ought to do something about that indiscretion, but his attention was too caught up in the scene before him to give it much thought. This was a side of Beatrice's character that he had not seen before; though his eyes were also on a side of Maggie's physique that he had.

"It's not your bottom, after all, that gets you in such awful trouble," Beatrice mused, cupping her sister's plump genitals with one hand, "but this rude and greedy little mouth here. Why, even now I do believe it's drooling with eagerness."

"No, no!" protested her sister. "It's not that, it's just wuh..." her voice trailed off.

"It's just what?"