Part 4: Blistered Sister by Mark Danelaw
Part 1: an error in judgement can found here.
The train had stopped now and gravel crunched outside. Dutch’s voice carried through the metal walls: “Check the fucking manifests again.”
Mary’s pulse thundered against Lorraine’s side. The boxcar’s latch rattled.
Dacre moved like smoke, one hand clamping over Mary’s mouth while the other pressed the .38 into Lorraine’s palm. His lips brushed her ear, “We need a distraction, about five seconds worth.”
The boxcar door screeched open just as Lorraine kicked over the crate of machine parts, a cacophony of metal and splintering wood that drowned out Mary’s gasp. Lorraine lunged sideways, as she rolled behind a stack of crates marked EXPLOSIVES. The .38 felt slick in her palm.
Flashlight beams now sliced through the dust-choked air in alarm. Lorraine held her breath, the five seconds stretched into eternity. Then Dacre moved, a shadow detaching from the wall near the door.
The first gunshot cracked like a whip. One of Dutch’s men crumpled without a sound, his flashlight clattering to the floor. The second shot went wide as Dutch dived behind a stack of freight pallets, his return fire sending splinters raining down on Lorraine. She tasted sawdust and blood.
Mary whimpered behind her. Lorraine twisted, shoving the girl flat as another bullet punched through the crate above them, close enough to smell the cordite. Dacre’s silhouette weaved through the crates like smoke, drawing fire away from their position. Lorraine counted the shots; three left in his revolver.
Dutch’s voice cut through the gunfire: “Eddie talked, Dacre, We know about the…”
The rest of Dutch’s sentence died in a wet gurgle as Dacre’s fourth bullet found its mark. Lorraine didn’t see the shot, just the sudden jerk of Dutch’s silhouette against the boxcar wall, his hat tumbling off as he clutched his throat. The flashlight beam skittered wildly across the ceiling before clattering to the floor.
Silence, then the staccato rhythm of retreating footsteps, whoever was left was running.
Lorraine exhaled through her teeth, the .38 trembling in her grip. Mary’s nails dug into her forearm hard enough to draw blood. Dacre materialised beside them like a spectre, his revolver smoking. “Okay, get up,” he hissed, hauling Mary to her feet by the collar of her coveralls, “We need to go now.”
The rail yard outside was a maze of shadows and angled floodlights. Lorraine’s torn stockings snagged on the boxcar’s metal edge as she dropped to the gravel, the impact sending fresh waves of pain radiating from her punished backside. Dacre didn’t wait, he shoved Mary into Lorraine’s arms and melted into the darkness between two tanker cars.
Lorraine gripped Mary’s wrist, her pulse hammering against the girl’s racing heartbeat. “Count to ten,” she whispered, “Then run for that switch house.” She nodded toward a squat concrete building fifty yards away, close enough to reach, far enough to get killed trying.
Mary’s fingers dug into Lorraine’s forearm like talons. “I can’t,” she was aghast and her eyes were two circles.
“Four,” Lorraine hissed, shoving her forward. The gravel crunched underfoot, behind them, shouts erupted near the boxcar, Dutch’s men regrouping.
A bullet whined off the tanker car to their left. Mary froze mid-stride, her breath coming in panicked hitches. Lorraine didn’t hesitate, she hooked an arm around the girl’s waist and hauled her forward, their combined weight sending them sprawling behind a stack of railroad ties. Splinters bit into Lorraine’s exposed thighs where her stockings had torn.
Dacre’s silhouette appeared twenty yards ahead, his revolver flashing once, twice, as he laid down covering fire. The sharp bark of gunshots sent Mary scrambling backward until Lorraine caught her collar. “Stay down,” she growled as she pressed the .38 into the heiress’s shaking hands, “Safety’s off, you point and pull, do you understand?”
Mary’s nod was more a reflex than comprehension. Lorraine didn’t wait for confirmation; she rolled left just as another bullet kicked up gravel where they’d been crouched. Dacre’s voice carried over the gunfire: “Carter, three o’clock!”
Lorraine twisted toward Dacre’s voice, just as a muzzle flash lit up the gap between two freight cars. The bullet grazed her shoulder, searing heat fanning across her collarbone. She hit the gravel hard with a crunch as her teeth rattled and another shot ricocheted off the rail beside her. Mary screamed, fumbling with the .38’s grip as if it were snake in her hand.
Dacre moved fats; one moment he was a silhouette against the tanker car and the next, he was hauling Lorraine upright by her blouse collar, his revolver barking twice toward the shooter. A body thudded to the ground somewhere in the dark.
“Get to the switch house,” Dacre growled, shoving Lorraine forward, “Now.”
Mary scrambled ahead of them, her stolen coveralls flapping around her ankles. Lorraine’s breath sawed in her lungs, half from the sprint, half from the adrenaline spiking through her veins. The .38 was back in her hand somehow, its weight cold and reassuring.
The switch house door groaned on rusted hinges as Dacre kicked it open. Dust swirled in the dim light from a single hanging bulb. Mary collapsed against a stack of signal flags, her chest heaving. Lorraine braced against the wall, her recently punished bottom trembling keeping her present. Dacre didn’t pause; he was already dragging a heavy workbench toward the door, barricading them in with brutal efficiency.
The switch house reeked of rust and sweat, the single hanging bulb flickering like a dying pulse. Dacre was already peeling back the threadbare rug in the corner, revealing a trapdoor warped with age. The hinges screamed as he yanked it open, exposing a black maw that smelled of damp earth and diesel.
“Down,” he ordered, jerking his chin toward the hole.
Mary balked, her coveralls rustling as she shrank back. “There could be…”
Lorraine didn’t let her finish. She grabbed the heiress by the collar and shoved her toward the opening, her own punished skin protesting the movement. “Rats or bullets, sweetheart, pick one.”
Dacre’s hand closed around Lorraine’s wrist as she moved to follow Mary down. His fingers traced the fresh graze on her collarbone, his thumb coming away smeared with blood. “Police frequency,” he murmured, nodding toward the crackling radio on the workbench, “They’re two minutes out.”
Lorraine’s fingers tightened around the .38’s grip as Dacre dragged the rusted trapdoor wider, the hinges shrieking like a gutted cat. Below lay a narrow service tunnel, its concrete walls slick with condensation and decades of diesel grime. Mary hesitated at the edge, her coveralls little more than rags now and she had less revealing bathing costumes.
“Move,” Dacre growled, nudging her with his boot. The heiress whimpered but slid down the ladder, her descent accompanied by the distant wail of sirens. Lorraine didn’t wait for further instruction; she holstered the gun in her torn garter and swung down after Mary, her punished backside protesting every rung.
Dacre dropped the trapdoor shut above them with a finality that made Lorraine’s stomach lurch. The darkness was absolute until his lighter flared, casting jagged shadows across the tunnel’s curved ceiling. The flame reflected in Mary’s wide eyes as she pressed against the damp wall.
“Three blocks west,” Dacre said, thrusting the lighter into Lorraine’s hand. His voice was rough with urgency, “there is a maintenance access under the flour mill; Eddie’s cousin runs the night shift.”
Lorraine’s eyebrows lifted. Eddie Loomis had a bullet in his gut last she’d heard. “How…?” Lorraine began, but didn’t finish, it didn’t matter, not doing what she was told was would either get them killed or her spanked even more than she had coming to her.
.Dacre’s answering smirk was grim as he upholstered his revolver, three rounds left, by her count. “Family business,” he muttered, shoving Mary forward, “Move fast and stay quiet.”
***
The flour mill’s backroom stank of yeast and gunpowder. Lorraine perched on the edge of an upturned crate, her torn stockings doing nothing to cushion the wood against her throbbing skin. Across the room, Mary hovered near the boarded-up window, shifting her weight from foot to foot like a spooked colt. The heiress kept stealing glances at Dacre’s broad back as he reloaded his revolver, quick, tight movements that made the muscles shift under his sweat-damp shirt.
Lorraine smirked when Mary winced again, “Sit down before you faint, princess.” She kicked a second crate forward with her heel.
Mary’s cheeks flamed, her fingers twisted in the sagging fabric of her coveralls “I am not sure I can,” she grimaced.
Lorraine laughed, “You and me both sister, welcome to my world.”
Mary smiled ruefully and gingerly made to ease her bottom into contact with the crate.
Dacre holstered his revolver with a snap that made Mary jump. “Eddie’s cousin will be here in twenty,” he said, shrugging his jacket back on. The movement pulled the fabric taut across his shoulders, outlining the holster’s weight beneath. Mary’s lips parted slightly, just for a heartbeat, before she pressed them into a tight line and looked down at her ruined coveralls.
Lorraine stretched her legs out, deliberately letting her torn stockings gap wider. “Better fix those, princess,” she drawled, “Unless you want Eddie’s cousin getting an eyeful of Dacre’s handiwork.”
Mary’s head snapped up, her face flooding crimson. She fumbled with the sagging fabric, her fingers tangling in the rips as she tried, and failed, to hitch the coveralls higher without exposing the all too red skin beneath. Dacre didn’t glance over, but Lorraine saw the way his jaw tightened as Mary’s frantic movements made the fabric slip even lower.
Lorraine smirked as Mary froze, torn between modesty and the dawning realization that any attempt to adjust the coveralls would only reveal more.
Mary’s fingers twitched toward the gaping seam of her coveralls, too late. The fabric slid another inch down her thigh, revealing a stripe of reddened skin that matched the heat blooming across her cheeks. She froze, caught between the instinct to cover herself and the paralyzing awareness of Dacre’s presence three feet away. Lorraine’s open smile deepened as the heiress’s breathing shallowed, her chest rising in quick, fluttering motions beneath the grimy fabric.
“I guess the world gets to see your bare ass,” Lorraine said without the least trace of sympathy.
The door creaked. Eddie’s cousin, a barrel-chested man with grease under his nails, leaned in, his gaze skipping from Mary’s dishevelled state to Dacre’s impassive profile. “Train leaves in ten,” he grunted, tossing a bundled apron at Mary. “Wear this, and for Christ’s sake, fix your…” He waved vaguely at the area above her thighs before disappearing back into the mill’s bowels.
Mary clutched the apron like a lifeline, her fingers trembling against the coarse fabric. Dacre finally looked up, his gaze lingering on the pink stripe still visible above her torn coveralls. “Turn around,” he said, voice roughened by exhaustion.
Lorraine watched the heiress’s throat bob as she obeyed, presenting her back, and frankly her mostly bare bottom to Dacre. The apron strings dangled from her white-knuckled grip, to half cover her bare behind, but only half. Dacre holstered his revolver and stepped forward, his shadow swallowing Mary’s slighter frame. He took the strings without comment, his fingers brushing the nape of her neck as he looped the fabric around her waist, to more or less cover some modesty.
The flour mill’s clock ticked past three AM when Dacre finally snapped the ledger shut. The sound echoed through the backroom like a judge’s gavel. Lorraine watched from her perch on the crate as he rubbed his thumb along the edge of the battered book, a habit he only indulged when weighing odds worse than fifty-fifty.
“Margaret’s heading for the Canadian border,” he said abruptly. The words hung in the flour-dusted air between them. “Last train leaves at four-fifteen.”
Mary stiffened on her crate, the borrowed apron strings pulling taut across her hips where Dacre had tied them. “How do you…?”
“Payroll logs.” Dacre tossed the ledger onto the workbench. It landed with a thud that made Mary flinch. “Twelve grand deposited to a Northern Pacific account every third Thursday. Only one reason a Baxter would dirty their hands with train money.”
Lorraine stretched her legs out, wincing as the movement pulled at her torn stockings. “So we intercept her at the station.”
“Better to take her on the train just when she thinks she is safe, you can wait here with Eddie’s cousin.” Then he was gone, Lorraine trotting after him.
***
The night air hit them like a slap as they slipped into the alley behind the mill. Dacre’s hand closed around Lorraine’s elbow, steering her toward a rusted fire escape. “Margaret takes the last car,” he murmured, his breath warm against her temple, “Private compartment with armed guards.”
The freight car smelled of coal dust and something rank, the kind of stale air that clung to the back of your throat. Dacre crouched behind a stack of timber crates, his .38 balanced on his knee, watching Margaret Baxter pace the length of the private compartment like a caged animal. Her silk blouse was rumpled, her usually immaculate chignon unravelling at the nape, tiny details that betrayed the cracks in her polished veneer.
Lorraine pressed closer to the crate beside him, her breath warm against his shoulder. “She’s got two guards at the door,” she murmured, her fingers brushing the tear in her stocking where Dacre’s earlier discipline still throbbed beneath the fabric.
Dacre’s thumb traced the revolver’s grip. “They’ll leave,” His voice was low, certain, “Watch the clock.”
At precisely 3:47 AM, the compartment door rattled. Margaret snapped her fingers at the nearest guard, “Check that,” and just like Dacre predicted, both men stepped into the corridor, pistols drawn. The moment the door clicked shut, Dacre moved. He was across the compartment in three strides, his left hand clamping over Margaret’s mouth before she could scream, his right pressing the .38’s barrel into the dip of her spine. “Scream,” he whispered, “and I’ll put a bullet through your kidney before your boys can turn the knob.”
Margaret froze; her body rigid against him. Lorraine materialized from the shadows, her grin sharp as she kicked a leather-bound ledger onto the chaise lounge. “Missed some pages, sweetheart,” she flipped it open to a damning column of payments, all routed through Margaret’s personal accounts to Dutch Vickers. Dacre didn’t need to look to know the numbers matched the dates Mary had been “missing.”
“You… you don’t understand…” Margaret gasped, she sounded desperate.
Dacre’s grip on Margaret’s jaw tightened just shy of painful as he leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. “Twelve payments,” he murmured, thumb tracing the hinge of her jaw where a vein pulsed too fast, “Twelve jobs. Dutch doesn’t do favours, he does frames.” The .38’s barrel pressed deeper into her spine as he nudged her toward the compartment’s plush settee, “Sit.”
Margaret’s silk skirt whispered against the upholstery as she perched on the edge, her manicured fingers twisting in the fabric. Lorraine smirked from the shadows, her torn stockings catching the compartment’s low light as she circled toward Margaret’s other side. Dacre didn’t need to glance at his secretary to know her grin was all teeth, he could hear it in her voice when she purred, “Should I fetch the hairbrush, sir? Or will you just use your belt?”
Margaret’s head snapped up, her carefully painted lips parting in outrage.
Dacre caught her chin before the protest could form, his calloused fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath. “You have two choices,” he said, flipping open the ledger with his free hand. “Cooperate, and we discuss reduced charges,” His thumb stroked once, almost gently, along her jawline before tightening again, “Or resist and Lorraine and I will demonstrate what happens to spoiled heiresses who waste my time.”
The compartment’s antique clock ticked three times before Margaret’s shoulders slumped. Dacre didn’t relax his grip, he’d seen enough society dames fake submission to recognise the act. Instead, he nodded to Lorraine, who stepped forward with the grace of a panther circling prey. Her fingers made quick work of Margaret’s pearl buttons, peeling the silk blouse down her shoulders despite the older woman’s stifled gasp.
“Stand,” Dacre ordered, releasing Margaret’s chin to tap the settee’s armrest with his revolver. When she hesitated, Lorraine grabbed a fistful of auburn hair and yanked her upright with a force that sent hairpins scattering across the compartment floor. Margaret’s breath was audible as Dacre’s belt hissed through its loops, the sound louder than the train’s rhythmic clatter against the tracks.
Lorraine smirked when Margaret’s manicured fingers fluttered toward her skirt’s waistband. “Allow me,” she purred, flipping open the hidden clasp with a practiced flick. The silk slid down Margaret’s thighs like water, pooling around her stocking tops. The panties were of the French type, and easily joined the skirt at Margaret’s ankles.
“Wh-what are you doing?” Margaret’s voice was pure panic.
Dacre didn’t react to the reveal of lace-trimmed garters or what was between them. Margaret’s breath shallowed, but his gaze remained fixed on the ledger’s damning figures as he folded the belt in half.
Lorraine gleefully pulled the woman forward and turned her now naked hips towards Dacre. The pert rounds formed an almost perfect circle both square-on and in profile.
“That’s a mighty fine ass,” Dacre drawled.
“Soon to be a mighty red ass,” Lorraine leaned in close to coo in Margaret’s ear.
“Look I can give you money… or… please… you can’t do this…”
The first crack of leather against her bare bottom made Margaret jerk forward, a shocked gasp escaping before she could clamp her lips shut. Dacre’s free hand splayed across her lower back, holding her in place as he delivered a second stroke precisely overlapping the first.
Lorraine watched the woman’s knuckles whiten against the settee’s brocade, her spine rigid with the effort of staying silent.
“Ahh,” Margaret yelled as she struggled.
The second lash burned and left a trail of red across Margaret’s nude buttocks and was quickly joined by another.
Margaret’s breathing had gone ragged, her stockinged legs trembling where she’d been forced to spread them wider for balance, an act that only served to present her bottom all the more obscenely to the detective.
Lorraine’s breathless gaze was transfixed; abandoning all decorum as she practically drooled. “She’s holding out for a deal,” she murmured, twirling the pin between her fingers before pressing the sharp end against Margaret’s flushed cheek, “Should I convince her otherwise?”
Margaret’s breath was rapid and ragged now as Dacre’s belt kissed her exposed skin for the umpteenth time, each stroke landing with fierce cruelty just below the last. The compartment’s overhead light caught the rising welts as they darkened from pink to crimson, the contrast stark against her otherwise porcelain complexion. Lorraine circled them slowly, her shadow stretching grotesquely across the wall as she tapped the pearl hairpin against her palm in rhythm with Dacre’s strikes.
The belt hissed through the air again, this time catching the underside of Margaret’s right cheek with a snap that made her knees buckle.
Lorraine caught her elbow before she could collapse; yanking her upright with a grip that left crescent marks in the older woman’s flesh. “None of that,” she chided, pressing the hairpin’s point just below Margaret’s ear, “You wanted to play grown-up games with Dutch’s boys. Now take your medicine like a big girl.”
“Oh you… bitch,” Margaret’s defiant words were a little damp now, “You… you piece of trash… wait until I…”
Margaret’s whimper died as Dacre dragged the folded belt down her spine, slow, deliberate, letting the cool leather contrast with the heat radiating from her punished skin. When he reached the crest of her thighs, he paused, “Twelve payments,” he murmured, flipping the belt to stroke the buckle’s cold metal against her trembling flesh, “Twelve jobs. Dutch doesn’t frame heiresses for petty cash.” The buckle traced a slow circle, “Who else was on the payroll?”
The train lurched around a curve, throwing Margaret forward against Lorraine’s grip. Dacre used the momentum to land another stroke diagonally across both cheeks, the overlapping stripes forming a ragged X. Margaret’s scream was swallowed by the compartment’s plush upholstery as she buried her face in the settee cushions, her body arched in a perfect inverted curve that put every inch of her perfect punished flesh on display.
Lorraine leaned down, her lips brushing the shell of Margaret’s ear, “Dutch’s men talked before they died,” she lied, twisting the hairpin until it pricked skin. “We know about the judge, the DA, who else?”
The next stroke landed with a crack that reverberated off the compartment’s wood-panelled walls, the belt’s tip snapping against the crease where Margaret’s thigh met her punished flesh. Her entire body jerked, a strangled noise escaping through clenched teeth as her stockinged toes curled against the carpet. Lorraine watched a single pearl button pop free from Margaret’s blouse and roll beneath the settee, tiny casualties of Dacre’s relentless rhythm.
The belt whispered through the air again, this time connecting with the trembling underside of Margaret’s left cheek. The upper class woman’s fingers scrabbled at the brocade upholstery, her manicure snagging threads as she fought to anchor herself against the pain. Lorraine smirked when Margaret’s hips twitched upward instinctively, the same involuntary motion she’d felt in her own punished flesh hours earlier.
“I can do this all day, hell I probably will,” Dacre told the woman as he slashed the belt down again with even more ferocity. “Hey Carter, we could take her somewhere… a cabin maybe… and do this all day tomorrow…”
“The next day too, why not,” Lorraine grinned devilishly. “Actually I hope she doesn’t talk.”
Dacre’s knuckles brushing the heated skin as he repositioned and Margaret whimpered at the fleeting contact, whether from pain or something else, Lorraine couldn’t tell. The stroke that followed crossed the previous welts at a cruel angle, the leather biting into already tenderized flesh. Margaret’s breath came in ragged sobs now, her blouse clinging to sweat-slicked shoulders where Lorraine had peeled it down.
The woman’s stockings had begun to sag at the knees, the silk garters straining against trembling thighs. Lorraine reached down with her free hand to snap one against Margaret’s flushed skin, eliciting another gasp. “Focus,” she chided, tapping the hairpin against Margaret’s earlobe. “We haven’t even reached the interesting part.”
The next stroke split the difference between agony and artistry, the belt’s edge catching the crease where Margaret’s thigh met the punished swell of her backside with a crack that echoed off the wood panelling. Dacre’s rhythm never faltered his breathing sure and steady while Margaret gasped in time with the strikes.
“Please,” Margaret wailed, “No please… this is…”
“Painful? What you deserve? A worthwhile civic duty?” the secretary mocked the woman’s desperation, “We are not playing here sister, we really do have all day.”
The leather whispered through the air like a promise before connecting, this time diagonally across the existing welts, transforming Margaret’s once-perfect skin into a lattice of overlapping crimson lines. Lorraine’s grip tightened in Margaret’s hair, forcing her to arch higher as the train lurched around another curve. The motion sent the older woman’s stockings sliding another inch down her trembling thighs, exposing a crescent of untouched skin just above her garters, a target Dacre didn’t hesitate to exploit with another stroke.
There were tears now, real ones, and the woman’s pride was leeching away and desperation had reached her eyes. “I’m sorry; no one was supposed to get hurt… I was… it was… ah…” she let her anger and frustration show, “why should she get all the money?”
Margaret’s scream was muffled by the settee cushions, her fingers clawing at the upholstery as her body convulsed against the pain. Lorraine smirked when she spotted the damp patch spreading across the seat padding, whether from tears or something more visceral, she couldn’t tell. Dacre’s belt tapped twice against the inside of Margaret’s left knee, a silent command that had the older woman whimpering as she spread her legs wider.
“Hey, I know,” Lorraine’s treacle voice oozed in Margret’s ear, “You know I once did a spell inside, I have some friends there still, I could introduce you maybe… Bertha she loves new friend’s, I mean she is a little on the queer side maybe, but hey, after a few years inside you may like it, and if you don’t? Well she does give a mean spanking, a really mean spanking. It is funny how young women just get so eager to make friends after a long conversation with Bertha.”
Dacre landed the next stroke across the softest part of the under-curve of Margret’s very tender bottom, the force lifting her onto her toes momentarily before Lorraine yanked her back down by the hair. Margaret’s blouse had come completely undone now, the silk gaping to reveal the frantic rise and fall of her ribs beneath. Lorraine traced the pearl hairpin down the older woman’s flank, pausing to prick at a mole just above her waistline.
Margaret’s cries were a crescendo of frantic protests as more heavy bites of leather introduced themselves to her bare bottom. “You can’t… this is… oh god…” Her manicured fingers clawed at the settee’s upholstery, silk blouse gaping open to reveal sweat-slicked shoulders. The belt’s next stroke silenced her momentarily, forcing a choked gasp instead of words. Dacre’s rhythm never faltered, each measured lash overlapping the last until Margaret’s porcelain skin bloomed crimson.
“Should I fetch the smelling salts?” Lorraine purred, tapping the pin against Margaret’s trembling thigh, “Or save them for your first encounter with the prison strap?”
Margaret’s head snapped up, eyes widening at the implication.
Lorraine whispered, “You know the prison strap, eighteen inches of reinforced leather, wielded without mercy in dank basement cells,” Lorraine leaned in, her breath hot against the older woman’s ear as Dacre’s belt hissed through the air again, “Twenty-four strokes minimum,” she whispered, “Goes up by the dozen after that, administered cold. No warnings. Just bare and bend,” Her fingers traced the rising welts with clinical detachment, “Of course, the governor’s friend’s will pay extra to watch a society dame take hers bare-assed in the yard.”
Margaret’s entire body jerked as yet another stroke landed dead centre, her cry dissolving into ragged sobs. Dacre paused, letting the silence stretch as he ran the belt’s cool underside along her ravaged skin. Lorraine smirked at the way Margaret instinctively arched into the fleeting relief, the same involuntary response she’d displayed hours earlier over Dacre’s knee.
The train’s whistle screamed through the night as Dacre folded the belt over his palm. “Last chance,” he murmured, thumb brushing the hottest welt, “Names, dates, account numbers.”
Margaret’s shrieks reached a fever pitch as Dacre’s belt cracked down again and again, the leather biting into already-tenderized flesh mercilessly.
“You,… you can’t…” she gasped, her voice breaking as Dacre traced the belt’s edge along the crease down her oh so sore bottom, her heroic curves now swelling red.
Lorraine grinned from her perch on the compartment’s writing desk, swinging her legs like a schoolgirl watching a particularly entertaining play. “Oh, he can,” she purred, tapping the pearl hairpin against her palm, “Seen him top a hundred on a lady burglar once.” Leaning forward, she caught Margaret’s chin with the hairpin’s sharp end, forcing the older woman to meet her gaze. “Course, prison guards don’t bother counting. They just swing till their arm gets tired.”
Margaret gritted her teeth, her eyes meeting Lorraine’s in pure hate. However, she was considering her options. They were narrow. Maybe one of her tame judges would work something out, but maybe things were going too far…
The next stroke landed with a wet-sounding smack that sent Margaret scrambling forward, only for Lorraine to yank her back by her ruined chignon. Dacre’s free hand splayed across the small of her back, fingers spanning the dimples above her crimson-streaked cheeks.
“Too late for deals, sweetheart,” Lorraine murmured, tracing the hairpin down Margaret’s spine. She paused at the dip above her waistline, applying just enough pressure to make the older woman whimper. “But if you’re real nice to the matrons…” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper as Dacre landed yet another blazing leather lash, “They might let you kneel when they strap you. Hands on the bench instead of cuffed to the rings,” Lorraine whispered, “Matrons love a girl who volunteers for strap duty,” she mused, tapping the hairpin against her palm. “On your knees at dawn, licking their boots clean and… other more intimate things before they…”
Margaret’s cries pitched higher as Dacre’s belt landed again and yet again, “You… you animal!” she shrieked, her silk blouse clinging to sweat-slicked shoulders.
Lorraine’s laughter was a dark ripple in the compartment as she caught Margaret’s flailing wrist, twisting it behind her back until the woman arched like a bowstring, her ass like two eggplants.
“Animals don’t give you safe words, sweetheart,” Lorraine purred, her breath hot against Margaret’s ear. She traced the pearl hairpin down the older woman’s trembling spine, pausing to flick at a damp tendril of hair stuck to her nape, “Prisons don’t either.” The pin’s sharp tip dipped lower, skating along the crease where Margaret’s punished flesh met her thighs. “But I hear matrons appreciate… creative problem solvers.”
Margaret’s wail dissolved into hiccupping pleas as the leather connected, “Please, I’ll… ah… tell you everything…” Her stockings had slid to her knees, garters dangling uselessly as she twisted in vain to escape the next stroke. Lorraine watched with clinical interest as a single tear splashed onto the settee’s brocade, the dark stain spreading like a confession.
“Please… I’ll…” Her plea dissolved into a wet sob when Dacre’s calloused thumb pressed into the hottest welt, the pressure just shy of cruel, “I’ll talk.”
***
The compartment’s wall pressed cold against Margaret’s forehead as she stood bare-bottomed in the corner, her punished flesh throbbing in time with the train’s sway. Lorraine had positioned her precisely, angled toward the door so any sudden movement would be visible. Dacre’s belt buckle clicked behind her as he lit a cigarette, the sound making her flinch despite the distance.
“Hands higher,” Lorraine murmured, tapping Margaret’s elbow with the hairpin until the older woman’s arms trembled at full extension, “Matrons won’t remind you twice.”
Margaret’s fingers curled against the wood panelling, her nails leaving faint crescents in the veneer. The silence stretched, broken only by Dacre exhaling smoke and the rhythmic tick-tick-tick of his revolver’s cylinder rotating.
“Account 4472 at First National,” Margaret whispered to the carriage corner, right into seam where the two walls met. Her arms trembled at full extension, fingertips brushing the ceiling, “Twelve thousand deposited monthly since March.” A droplet of sweat slid down her temple, tracing the same path as the tear that had dried hours ago.
Dacre’s pen scratched across notepaper without comment. Lorraine’s shadow loomed closer, the hairpin’s sharp tip skating along Margaret’s spine. “And the withdrawal slips?”
“Bottom drawer of Mary’s vanity,” Margaret told them, “False panel behind the…”
It was quite a time later that they were sure Margret had no more secrets. Dacre nodded that they should go, a motion unseen by Margret, who under duress and so very eager now to please, did not take her face from the wall.
Margaret didn’t even move when the compartment door clicked shut behind them. Not when the train’s whistle shrieked through the predawn gloom. Not when the first distant shouts of police echoed down the corridor. The corner held her like a moth pinned to corkboard, her punished flesh still throbbing in time with the fading ache in her outstretched arms.
The textured upholstery imprinted itself on her forehead where she’d pressed too hard for too long. Her silk blouse clung to her back in damp patches; the fabric rucked up around her waist where Lorraine had left it to expose her once elegant secret curves, now reduced to a red-bottomed naughty girl. Every breath made the hem whisper against her punished skin, a cruel reminder that she could lower her arms if she dared. But Dacre’s last words curled like smoke in her mind: Stay put until the matrons come.
Margaret didn’t move, she didn’t dare. Even after Dacre and Carter had gone.
Boots pounded in the corridor. The compartment door burst open. “Jesus Christ,” someone muttered, “Someone did a number on this dame; I guess she will be glad to get arrested.”
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