Mr Cuthbert’s Christmas Present

A festive Green Gables story from Blushes Supplement 24. Happy Christmas!

Miranda looked out of the taxi window at stark winter fields on either side of the road and shivered. It was freezing out there: an icy wind and still frost from overnight. It was warm enough inside, in the taxi, but nonetheless… She glanced at the back of the driver’s head, then briefly met his eye in the driving mirror. She looked quickly away. Why had Mr Price sent her in a taxi, especially like this, the way she was dressed. Or wasn’t dressed. The driver knew. She knew he knew. The way he looked at her. Had her coat opened? It couldn’t have, she had been so careful keeping it closed ever since getting in. But she could sense that he knew. That she had nothing on under her coat. And what was to stop him, with one of those hot surges of lust for you that men got, turning off down some side lane, to a deserted, secluded little spot. Taking her out in the icy freezing weather. Pushing her down on the frosty ground. Her coat opened for her to lie on. So that her soft body was all bare to the elements. But not for long as, with a grunted order to open her legs, he came down on top of her. Began to fuck her.

Maybe Mr Price wanted that. That was why he had sent her in a taxi and dressed like this. Or not dressed. He might think it was a nice joke. Sending her as a present to this Mr Cuthbert but before Mr Cuthbert got the present the taxi driver had sampled the present already.

‘Not far now, Miss.’

She started at the sudden unexpected sound of his voice. ‘Oh!’ popped out somewhat inanely from the soft full mouth lightly lipsticked. ‘Put some make-up on, Miranda, but not a lot. I don’t want you looking like a common tart. Mr Cuthbert doesn’t want that for Christmas.’ Mr Price looking at her quizzically and fondling her tits at the same time. ‘Not that you would look like a really common tart, Miranda. But I want you choice, delicate, delicious.’

‘Oh… ahhh… good,’ Miranda added to the back of the taxi driver’s head, not able to think of anything else. But they weren’t there yet. He could still make that sudden detour. He still knew what was under her coat — i.e. just Miranda herself and that silly, rather humiliating gold bow that Mr Price had stuck on her. He could still be planning a quick turn-off of the road. To brusquely, forcefully, jump on her. And there would be nothing Miranda could say, no point complaining. If she said anything to Mr Price he would probably blame her, say she had encouraged him.

‘About a mile,’ the head in front of her said. ‘I’ve been there before but I don’t get a lot of calls. Well, gentlemen have their own cars. Going there for Christmas, are you, Miss?’

Miranda said a mumbled Yes, not wanting to get into conversation. If they were almost there maybe he wasn’t going to do something awful. Was it possible he hadn’t seen after all?

They were turning off. A minor road. ‘In there. That wall. That’s it. Green Gables. The entrance is along here a bit. Yes the other time I came it was a young lady I had in the back. Very attractive, just like yourself. A secretary I thought. A temp maybe. Would that be you, Miss?’

A noncommittal reply. Well, what could she say: ‘No, I’m a Christmas present and that’s why I haven’t got anything on, if you’ve seen that already.’ That other girl: was she a present from someone? For his birthday?

They were slowing after following for some distance this high brick wall that was crumbling in places. A pair of large iron gates that were open. The taxi turned in, onto a gravel driveway. As they passed the brick pillars at the gate there was a wooden sign also somewhat the worse for wear. Miranda fleetingly glimpsed the words Green Gables with something else printed underneath that she couldn’t catch. Well she could breath a sigh of relief regarding the taxi driver now: he hadn’t fucked her either out in one of those horrible wintry fields or here on the nice cosy back seat of his cab. Probably he hadn’t seen, she had imagined that. Because she was so scared, that was why. About being sent off like this. This Mr Cuthbert, an unknown quantity. And this Green Gables hidden behind its high brick wall out here in the depths of the country.

‘Going to have a white Christmas, are we?’ asked the head in front of her. Here was the house now at the end of this quite long drive. Big, and old looking. Mid-Victorian in fact, but Miranda was ignorant of such matters. As the cab door was opened for her Miranda was concerned only with holding her coat tight around herself. Fresh air that was decidedly cool wafted up underneath. Freezing fresh air in fact coming up into the nice snug haven inside the coat. Between her warm thighs. ‘Ooooh!’ she gasped. ‘Freezing!’ The sky was grey, overcast. Maybe it would snow for Christmas.

She looked… and the front door opened. Mr Cuthbert. Presumably. The same sort of age as Mr Price: late fifties. Tall and grey-haired, in a tweed jacket and flannels. Her heart bumped. He looked all right. Sort of ordinary. Not a horrible villainous look. But you couldn’t tell from a man’s face. He could still be… beastly. The driver was getting her bag out of the boot, and Miranda remembered. Her Christmas card. From Mr Price. Fumbling for it she stumbled forward in her high heels on the gravel. Mr Cuthbert standing, smiling slightly.

‘Miranda. That’s what Mr Price said on the phone. Her name is Miranda.’

‘Yes… I’ve got your card.’

He went to pay off the driver. She had the card out now. The taxi was starting up. Heading off down the drive. Mr Cuthbert coming over to her. His arm round her waist. Ushering her in. It was warm at least, with Christmas decorations up. But… Oh Christ.

Handing over the card. He smiled and began opening the envelope. Miranda bit her lip. That silly message that Mr Price had made her write. Not just silly: awful. A horrible jingle.

My name is Miranda and I’m all yours
A present from dear old Santa Claus.
Open my coat and you will see
What marvellous delights are here for thee.
Do what you will, whatever you wish,
For I am a most obedient young Miss.

Merry Christmas from Arthur Price.

Miranda flushed as Mr Cuthbert read it, an expression of wry amusement on his face. He looked up, smiling. ‘Did you write that, Miranda?’

‘No…’ she breathed. ‘Well I wrote it but Mr Price told me what to write.’

‘Ah. Yes.’ Coming closer. ‘I’m sure, if you had you would never have rhymed ‘yours’ with ‘Claus’. His hand at the top button of her coat. ‘Would you, my dear?’

‘Uh… n… no.’ It was warm here in the hall with the door now closed on those icy draughts. Too hot almost with the blood rushing to Miranda’s cheeks. This was really awful. Mr Cuthbert with two hands at her coat. Standing trembling as, saying nothing, he worked down. The four big buttons. The coat was open. Hanging loose. He stood back.

‘Take it off then, Miranda. Let’s see what Mr Price has sent me.’

She did her best to suppress the feeling of wild panic. Just do it. It wasn’t any worse than with Mr Price. It wouldn’t be. Though that ignored the fact that Mr Price himself could be awfully beastly at times. Not looking at Mr Cuthbert… as she slipped it off.

Miranda wasn’t completely nude of course. There were the seamed black nylon stockings finishing at mid-thigh, that went with the shiny black high heels. And there was that bow self-stuck to her pubic hair. But that was all: the only covering or adornment to Miranda’s nubile young body. Apart from nature’s own adornment: the neat but luxuriant tuft of dark hair at the top of her thighs, matching the lustrous curls framing her face. Apart from these items she was all pale, pink-nippled flesh.

She held her coat, not sure what to do with it but desperately wanting to wrap it back round herself. ‘Oh yes,’ Mr Cuthbert said, ‘Mmmm!’ Closing in again. ‘Yes indeed. You are a lovely Christmas present.’

His hand taking hold of a firm-nippled boob. Miranda swallowed but stood still. ‘Do what you will’ the card had invited. And also Mr Price had said…

Mr Cuthbert’s hand let go. And slipped down. To where the luxuriant bush was. Miranda made a little squeaking sound. Trembling even more. Two fingers had slipped into the warm little space between the tops of her thighs. The fingers lightly grazed the roof of the space. Miranda clenched her teeth.

‘Just as well that taxi driver was unaware of what a precious, unprotected cargo he was carrying. Mmm?’ His fingers rubbed some more. Miranda made a gurgling sound. ‘Or one would not know what he might have done. Eh?’ The fingers fingering had caused some wetness. Taking advantage of this they slid in. ‘He’d have been after this like a randy jack rabbit.’

----//----

‘You know what they did in the Middle Ages and such like, my dear. When a girl was sent on a journey and was therefore at some risk from random banditry — or even perhaps from her own escort. Such as our taxi driver friend. She was kitted out with a chastity belt. Her private parts were placed under lock and key so that they could not be enjoyed by any marauding males. My friend Arthur Price should really have done that. To make sure you arrived in pristine condition.’

They were in the sitting room now. Festooned with Christmas decorations: paper chains, sprigs of holly and mistletoe, just like in the hall. Miranda, still arrayed in nothing except her high heels, black stockings and Christmas ribbon, was sitting next to Mr Cuthbert on the settee. He had brought her in here and said he was going to make some coffee, but so far had not. Mr Cuthbert didn’t seem keen to leave her, not for an instant. He wanted to stay there and play about with her tits and talk about chastity belts.

‘I shall certainly speak to Arthur. Thank him for his most magnificent present of course but at the same time point out that he was being somewhat cavalier. You’re quite sure that man didn’t… ah… take advantage as they say?’

‘No!’ Miranda vigorously shook her head. She had said this twice already.

‘Hmmm,’ Mr Cuthbert said. He didn’t sound all that convinced. As if it was most unlikely that the man would not take advantage of Miranda and fuck her whilst she was in his custody. Mr Cuthbert’s hand was casually toying with the now stiff-nippled tits. ‘Hmmm,’ he said again. ‘Well tell me about my dear friend Mr Price. How does he treat you, Miranda? A regular dose of the cane? The strap perhaps?’

Oh Christ! Somehow it seemed inevitable. If it wasn’t chastity belts or that other, the conversation had to get round to caning. Mr Price did cane her, and Miranda hated it. It was extremely painful and also humiliating. It was almost as hateful as having that other done to you by a taxi driver in an icy field. Except that Miranda hadn’t actually experienced the latter. She shook her head. It was best to deny it.

Mr Cuthbert pinched her nipple. ‘I find that awfully hard to believe, Miranda. My old friend Mr Price not using the cane on a girl.’

Miranda flushed a bright red. She was not very good at telling lies: it always showed all over her face. As it probably did now. Oh Christ. It was just that if she had said yes Mr Cuthbert would only… want to do it too. ‘I mean… well…’

He leaned closer. ‘You mean you were telling fibs, Miranda. I’m sure Mr Price will want to hear that. My Christmas girl telling fibs almost before she was in the house. What would he say? ‘Give her a good caning,’ I expect. Don’t you?’

‘I… uh…’ The answer of course was yes. Mr Price would recommend caning.

‘And anyway, I expect he would wish me to give you a touching up now and then while you’re here. So you don’t get out of practice, my dear. I mean that’s for your own good, isn’t it? Otherwise when Mr Price starts again when you go back to him it’ll be that much worse. That’s logical, isn’t it?’

It wasn’t logical at all. It was just that Mr Cuthbert wanted to do it. Wanted an excuse for the cane.

He was pointing to a cupboard opposite, the top of which was strung with paper chains. ‘In there, Miranda. Do you know what’s in there?’

Yes. She could guess. A bloody cane. Or a strap. Miranda shook her head. ‘Well go and have a look then. Bottom door on the left.’

She blurted out this time, ‘I bet it’s a cane.’ Getting up off the settee. Mr Cuthbert’s hand gave a quick squeeze to her bare bottom and Miranda grimaced. It was horrible being like this with nothing on except this stupid bow. She had two dresses in her bag. And underthings. ‘We’ll put them in,’ Mr Price had said. ‘Perhaps Mr Cuthbert will want you properly dressed part of the time. If he takes you out to a party perhaps. But… on the other hand he might want to take you out in just your Christmas bow.’

Oh Christ. Going over to that cupboard with the knowledge of Mr Cuthbert’s eyes focussed on her wobbly rear. Oh Christ. And in this bloody cupboard… Yes. A cane…

‘Take it out then, my dear.’

‘Look. Please… I mean it’s Christmas.’ Well he hadn’t even given her a Christmas drink. All he wanted to do…

‘I know it’s Christmas, Miranda. And you’re my Christmas present. Arthur Price wants me to enjoy it. And he would certainly expect me to use my cane a little.’ He was on his feet now. Taking it from her.

‘I am supposed to enjoy you, Miranda. And I might enjoy you by caning your bottom so hard you wouldn’t want to sit on it for a fortnight. Mmmm?’ The cane was tapping against her bare flank.

Miranda made a pathetic wailing sound. ‘But I’m not going to do that, my dear. Not at all. It is Christmas as you say. I’m simply going to give you a few quite moderate ones across that lovely bottom. And then we’ll have a drink. And then… we’ll go up and see your room eh?’

They weren’t moderate ones, they really stung. Bending over the arm of the settee with her face down in the seat and her poor bare bottom offered up: Mr Cuthbert’s Christmas present. The cane splatting sharply down. Causing the twin spheres to clench, writhe, jerk about; causing the face down in the seat to emit partially muffled yelps, squeals, groans.

‘Keep still, Miranda. And keep your head down. Don’t tell me you haven’t had this before. And we want you to be nicely warmed up after that drive, don’t we?’

Six or seven of those awful stinging cuts altogether. Miranda was really gasping at the end of it. She did feel as if she wouldn’t be able to sit down for a fortnight.

She was standing. With those red stripes across her bottom. ‘Not want to sit down?’ Mr Cuthbert inquired. He was getting some drinks. Miranda shook her head. A gin-and-tonic. And after that… he said…

----//----

In the cosy little bedroom that Mr Cuthbert, or perhaps his housekeeper, had decorated with brightly coloured Christmas trimmings. Miranda’s bag was still unpacked, standing by the dressing table. Miranda could see it, just about, if she twisted her head. Only it wasn’t easy. Not with Mr Cuthbert. Who was heavy, crushing her flat it seemed.

‘Are you sure… that cab driver… didn’t… do this?’ Mr Cuthbert asked without, as you might say, breaking his stroke.

‘Yes,’ she gasped. ‘I mean I am… sure. He didn’t.’

Mr Cuthbert grunted. Still not stopping. He didn’t stop for quite a long while. Under him Miranda’s gold Christmas bow, which had not been removed, was getting well and truly crumpled. Crushed. Not quite so Christmassy looking.

Afterwards Mr Cuthbert said he would get Mrs Mingley, his housekeeper, to do something with it. It would look as good as new again. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve and they would be going to a party. Miranda would wear her Christmas-present outfit, with the freshened-up bow so that Mr Cuthbert’s gentlemen friends could see and admire.