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“Party’s out here, Lily!”
Lily nodded, her head reeling.
“Mmm. Okay, Mrs . . .” (oh, dear) “. . . Morgan.” (Yes! That was it!) “I’ll be right out. Just . . . just need a minute.”
Mrs. Morgan retreated, apparently satisfied, and certainly unaware that Lily needed infinitely more than that. Lily, alone again in the dark of the cloakroom, rested her cheek with gratitude on some slippery silk-lined fur creation and longed for sleep.
She’d known the punch was spiked when she took the cup from Mr. Beecham but she hadn’t thought it would affect her this badly. She had only wanted to feel a little grown up and tipsy, maybe trick herself into believing she belonged in these heels she’d stolen from Dina’s closet, stuffing the toes with newspaper to ensure a proper fit. Mr. Beecham had winked at her like he knew it, and she’d felt very proud and mature to take the little cut-glass beverage container at his offer, pinching the delicate handle between two fingers and airily, gladly, sipping the punch. Only it didn’t sit like something she’d merely sipped. It went all through her body like fire and molasses, heating her blood and deadening her senses, so that she had to curl up in the cloakroom and wonder exactly how grounded she’d be right now if she sought out her parents and came clean.
Dad would be furious, she supposed. He would not like her doing this to him in front of everybody. Mom might get him calmed down, but it would take her a while and there’d almost certainly be consequences beyond tonight. Maybe even big ones. Lily thought of Ambleside Prep and repressed a shudder.
Couldn’t let Dad send her there. All girls’ school, for one. And the uniforms . . . Lily grimaced. Schoolgirl was only sexy when your kit didn’t button to the neck and boast both a green plaid pinafore dress and a Peter Pan collar. She’d look all of ten years old in something like that. Ten years old with boobs. Sure, some guys might go for that look, but those guys were not the same age as Lily.
Ambleside was out, which meant she could not possibly take the risk of shamefacedly confessing to her parents that she was improbably, obscenely, ragingly drunk. And off one glass of punch! How ridiculous was that? She’d have to build up a tolerance, she thought, before accepting any invitations to parties in college. Though she’d been to a few put on by kids at her high school, and she seemed to handle alcohol just fine there. Maybe Mr. Beecham could afford better stuff. That would make sense, given this incredibly beautiful house.
Lily nodded off, still blearily enumerating reception rooms and half baths and ornaments, silver snowflakes sparkling on fir boughs and blue and white glass baubles tumbling over each other, following her into sleep.
When Lily woke, somebody was leaning over her, his hand feeling around carefully underneath her skirt, and she thought, distantly, that she was at a friend’s house for the night.
“Geddoff,” she mumbled, and the person touching her chuckled.
“Didn’t finish the whole thing?” he guessed, and Lily, distantly, registered the soft laugh as belonging to Mr. Beecham. “Well, that’s all right. You’re not likely to remember much anyway.”
She frowned, focusing on nothing in the dark, as his fingers hooked in the waistband of her underwear and worked to drag them down.
“What . . .”
“Shh, shh,” he soothed. One hand came up, gentle, to touch her lips. “Don’t want you making a lot of noise, Lily. They’ll find you in here with your panties off. I’ll have to say I found you wet. Drunk and wet. Passed out in the closet, pissed herself . . . is that how you want them to hear of this?”
Foggy mortification clouded Lily’s more pragmatic attention on her most immediate reason to panic. Wet herself! She hadn’t, had she? No, she definitely had not . . . but she supposed if a man like Mr. Beecham said she had, if he confided it privately to her parents, his expression tender with parental concern, they were bound to believe him.
Lily whimpered, not wanting to make a sound but also too upset at the thought of such exposure to hold it in. Fortunately Mr. Beecham didn’t seem to mind her sounds, as long as they weren’t shaped like speech. He returned his fingers to her private parts underneath her fancy skirt—this had also, originally, belonged to Dina but Lily had inherited it outright once Dina grew hips and could no longer fit the narrow waistline of most misses’ garments—and stroked her there.
Lily shut her eyes.
Okay, so Mr. Beecham was a pervert. He’d gotten her drunk, maybe even drugged her, so that he could touch her pussy when she was passed out in the cloak room. She could cope with that, couldn’t she? How many girls in their class had been touched by boys already? And they were mostly fine. There were even very quiet rumors about one of the teachers, though you couldn’t put much stock in anything Shana said. Shana had probably made the whole thing up. She was like that.
Lily squirmed uncomfortably when the gentle stroke of his fingers demanded something more. His fingers found their way between her lips, probing gently, and she was mortified to know that now he’d definitely find her wet.
Sure enough, he chuckled, pleased.
“Oh she’s a very good girl,” he said, rubbing his thumb across the very top of her pussy where it sparked a little hum of response. “Getting herself all ready for me like that. That’s a juicy little peach of a cunt you have, Lily. I’m looking forward to it. But I think a good girl deserves a reward, don’t you?”
He did not wait for, or even seem to require, an answer. Instead he ducked his head and pushed it up under her skirt, and—Lily’s legs went rigid in shocked, horrified response—put his lips and tongue on her there. The place he’d called her cunt, which Lily was definitely not supposed to say, but maybe if Mr. Beecham said it, he’d expect her to say it too.
She didn’t say anything, really; she honestly couldn’t. But she did make a sound he must have thought was too loud for safety, because he gave her thigh a warning pinch.
“None of that, now,” he warned, and went back to licking her. Licking. Lily didn’t know what to think. She hardly could think, come to that. His tongue was soft and wet and warm, and she wasn’t enjoying it, surely, not really, but . . . but . . .
Her head lolled back against the coats behind her. She arched her spine, vaguely longing. There was something building. It felt so sweet and warm and kind of trembly inside her. If she could just let him do what he wanted, if she could take it quietly, maybe she’d get to see . . .
The noise that broke from her as the wave of pleasure rolled through her insides had Mr. Beecham shooting up to crush a suppressive hand down across her mouth.
“Shh,” he warned, his fingers up inside her even as he said it, curling proprietorially against the upper inside of her cunt. “No noise. They’ll hear. You have to take it quietly, Lily, there’s a good girl now.”
She tried to nod, but her muscles weren’t working very well. Her head kind of just drooped, instead. But he was already sliding her down, lying her out on the carpeted floor, lifting her skirt . . . she heard a zipper.
Oh. Oh. He was actually going to . . .
Panic did stir Lily’s limbs to life at the realization. He couldn’t! It wasn’t safe! She wasn’t on birth control, she wasn’t on anything. And she had never actually done this before. She tried to tell him all of that, but it mostly came out as a throaty moan, and it had entirely the opposite of the desired effect.
“Oh, fuck, yes,” Mr. Beecham growled. “Do that again, if you want. I love the way that sounds.”
Lily whimpered, and did try to speak. To tell him no. But it was mostly “Nnngh,” and still sounded mostly like a moan instead. In any event, Mr. Beecham could not have heard. He was poking at her down there, with something hard and somehow a little soft, and she tried to roll her hips, to angle them away, but he had no trouble overcoming her reluctance and forcing the blunt, warm object inside.
Lily shrieked.
Mr. Beecham’s hand came clapping down over her mouth with brutal force.
“Shut up,” he hissed. “Shut the fuck up, do you hear? You can’t make any sound. Just shut your mouth and take it like a good girl, and before you know it, it will be all done. You won’t even remember it, Lily. I’ve done this to dozens of girls and they never remember.”
He punctuated this casual confession with a thrust. She garbled her panic uselessly under his thick fingers and was on the verge of screaming out again when a thin crack of light widened across Mr. Beecham’s face and Lily realized somebody had opened the door. She tried to turn her head to see, twisting, hoping it would be somebody to help her, somebody who could tell him to stop, but the next words dashed her hopes.
“You need to keep her quiet, Arnold. I put some music on and they’re all in the other room, but if she gets any louder than that, somebody is bound to hear.”
“Yes, yes, all right,” he said irritably. “Thank you, Helen. If I could find something to gag her with . . .”
“Won’t do you any good if she chokes,” said Helen dryly. “Here. Let me see.”
Lily heard rustling and the sound of shifting cloth. Then a thin, finely-knit fabric was applied to her mouth, forced between her lips, and wound around the back of her head.
“Her scarf,” said Helen, and Lily realized it was the same pretty white scarf she’d worn with her deep blue coat when they left the house tonight. Only now she had it in her mouth as a gag, so she could not cry out and betray them.
“Much better,” approved Mr. Beecham. “Thank you, Mrs. Morgan.”
“My pleasure,” said Helen Morgan. “I think it makes her look quite cute, in fact.”
“Do you know, it does.” Mr. Beecham admired Lily’s gagged, tear-streaked face with detached pleasure in the dim light that filtered in from the room beyond. “Thank Mrs. Morgan for gagging you, Lily.”
Lily felt like she were floating in a dream. A surreal, fuzzy-edged nightmare where even her rapist expected good manners. But she could see he would not be satisfied until she had done as she was told, so she raised her eyes to the ankles of Mr. Beecham’s secretary and gurgled, “Thggh yrr Mshh Mrghhn.” So that was all right.
“That’s a good girl,” said Mr. Beecham. “So well brought up. That will be all, Mrs. Morgan.”
The door clicked shut on his gratitude, and they were alone again in the dark.
He rocked against her, cock driving in, filling her with his weight and bearing her down. Lily cried around the gag but she could not make much sound, and Mr. Beecham was able to drive into her to the full extent of his desire to do so.
“There we go, sweetheart,” he soothed, as she began to cry in earnest, the dull stabbing pain in her tummy proving too much for her to bear. “You’re handling it very nicely. It won’t be long now. Look at you, all pretty and crying, and learning how to take my cock.”
Lily did not want to look at herself. Lily did not want to be there. But the thickness of her mental processes and the distance of the party and the warm, smothering darkness of the room and Mr. Beecham’s weight bearing her brutally, demandingly, into the rug were all the biggest parts of her focus and even in the dark, somehow, she could not look away.
“Won’t,” Mr. Beecham panted, his breathing growing laboured, “be long,” his hips drove down, painful, like he was punishing her for a thing she hadn’t done, “now.”
She squeezed her eyes tight shut, shutting out the dark with more of the same, and felt him fill her. Gasping in her ear, grunting as he thrust once more. Then he rolled off her, and there was no more pain or pressure, or suffocating warmth of his body. She only felt empty, wet, and cold.
“Good girl,” said Mr. Beecham, reaching down to fondle her cunt. “What a good girl you are, Lily, taking my cock. Now I know your head must be spinning, so you can get some rest. And don’t worry,” he untangled the scarf gag to press a wet, smacking kiss to her lips, “you really won’t recall a thing.”
Lily came to her senses on a nest of fur coat and her own winter scarf. For a moment she could not work out where she was or how she got there, but then it all came rushing back.
She’d gotten drunk! At her father’s company holiday party. In Mr. Beecham’s house. And apparently—she looked around in a head-splitting daze—passed out in his cloak room. Oh, God. Oh, no. And . . . she looked down in terrified mortification. Had she actually wet her pants?
She squirmed uncertainly, and determined that indeed, she probably had. Her panties were wet and she ached, strangely, but that maybe made sense, if she’d been lying here in a puddle of her own . . . well. For who even knew how long, now!
Her hands went to her hair in a panic, and she tried to pat it down into order. Carefully, shakily, she got to her feet. Decided she felt just sturdy enough to make a go of it, and ventured nervously out into the room beyond.
Her parents were just making their good byes, which made this kind of perfect timing. Lily ducked back into the cloakroom, found her coat and theirs, and walked very carefully over to where they were exchanging farewells and holiday wishes with Mr. Beecham.
“Brought your things,” she said, and it almost sounded normal when she did. Mom thanked her, pleasantly surprised, and relieved her of her burden.
“Ah! Here is the young lady!” said Mr. Beecham, jovial. He smiled and patted her on the shoulder as she lowered her eyes and her parents shrugged into their coats. “My goodness, Barry, she gets taller every year. You must be fighting the boys off at this point, eh? Eh?” And he laughed heartily at his own wit.
Dad laughed politely in response, and Mom made some remark about Dina’s success at college inspiring Lily to focus solely on her studies at this time.
“Right, right,” Mr. Beecham nodded. “Time enough for boys in the future. Boys will wait! They’re bound to, when the gal they’re waiting for is as pretty and charming as this.”
The party was winding down all around them. Her parents were moving toward the door, Dad offering his thanks to Mr. Beecham, something about a very generous year-end bonus, when Mr. Beecham stopped her with a laugh and a hand on her arm.
“Oho,” he said. “Look what luck I have. Caught myself a pretty girl, right beneath the mistletoe!”
Lily looked up. The white-berried sprig of greenery did, indeed, sway dizzyingly above her head. She shut her eyes to still the spin and swirl, and Mr. Beecham seemed to mistake this for her consent because when her eyes were still shut he pressed a wet, bristly kiss to her mouth. His moustache tickled.
“Um,” said Lily.
“Thank you!” her mother filled in, a little too bright and awkward in the gap. “Thank you for having us.”
“Yes,” her father agreed. His hand was under her mother’s arm and they were on the point of opening the door. “Thank you.”
So clearly, Lily had to say it too.
“Thank you, Sir,” she said politely, and Mr. Beecham beamed.
“Not at all, folks,” he declaimed, as she followed her parents out the door and into the night beyond. “Not at all. Indeed, you must believe me: the pleasure was all mine.”