Like Father Like Son Parts six to eight

David excelled at school. He was always top of his class, the perfect target for the bullies. Peter could never prove it, of course, but he was certain that Michael was the instigator. Michael was too clever to ever be directly involved. He knew only too well that Peter could deliver a sound thrashing when called upon to do so, something Michael had experienced on one or two occasions, the last only recently for calling his mother a ‘Welsh cow.’ Peter still believed the problem lay largely with Beatrice. She indulged Michael totally; would hear no word spoken against him. It was Beatrice, now the grieving widow, who supplied the expensive presents, who insisted on taking Michael on holidays to France and Italy. Peter felt powerless to intervene. Had it not been for David’s obvious unhappiness, he would have been heartily relieved to see them back to school at the end of Easter. Something would have to be done.

Once the little ceremony at the graveside was over and Beatrice had been escorted back to Pitton House, Michael took the opportunity to slip away while the rest stayed for tea. He was glad to get away from the stultifying air of gloom and that bastard Riley and his precious brats. Besides, he had a rather interesting appointment; at least, he hoped it would be interesting. The girl was a trollop, of course, but she was pretty enough, for all that. What was her name again? Meg, yes, that was it. The daughter of one of the estate workers with artful, knowing eyes and a fine set of tits that just begged to be squeezed. And he was just the very fellow to oblige. 

Perhaps he might go further, get his hand into her knickers and finger her juicy cunt. He felt himself becoming aroused as he imagined it. She wouldn’t be the first, of course. That privilege belonged to his housemaster’s wife who had initiated him into the mysteries of sex last term. Christ, she was hot – even if she was old enough to be his mother and her tits sagged down to her belly. That had given him the confidence to try elsewhere and Meg Horniblow – Christ, what a stupid name – seemed a likely sort. 

He met her at the back of the orchard, as arranged. She simpered at him – silly little bitch. He pulled her roughly to him and kissed her, forcing his tongue into her mouth. She spluttered a bit at first but soon got the hang of it. His hands moved to her coat and he almost tore the buttons off in his rush to undo it. She squeaked a bit when his hand found her tit and muttered something like ‘not so hard, Michael, you’re hurting me.’ He exulted in her pain and squeezed some more, rubbing his thumb roughly over her nipple as he felt its firmness through her blouse. He sensed he was losing her and panicked for a second or two before easing off just a little and she settled down and accepted his kisses once more. He’d have to be more careful if he was to get what he wanted. 

She wriggled a little in his arms, her back against a gnarled old apple tree. He was gentler now as he eased her blouse out of the waistband of her skirt. Damn! She was wearing some sort of bodice. He pushed it up to expose the skin of her stomach and the underside of her breasts. She was mumbling a protest of sorts into his mouth but he knew it wasn’t serious, as she didn’t push his hands away. At last! He had freed her breasts and he feasted his eyes on them. They were gorgeous! Perfectly conical, jutting towards him in their pink-nippled glory. He swooped and took one into his mouth, sucking hard on the perky little tip and teasing it with his tongue, just as Mrs Swainson had shown him, back at school. Meg’s tits were much, much nicer than old Mrs Swainson’s. Meg’s were firm and weren’t ruined by stretch marks. Meg was beginning to enjoy it, he could tell. He switched breasts, sucking on the other while rubbing the slick, wet nipple between his finger and thumb. This was better. The silly little tart was begging for it! 

He relinquished his hold on Meg’s breast and his hand dived under her skirt, forcing its way between her thighs. She clamped his hand for a moment then gave way, letting her legs part as he insinuated a finger under the leg of her pants. He caught the sharp smell of her sex and it intoxicated him. He almost shoved her down onto the damp ground, only just remembering to spread out his overcoat under her. He didn’t see the look of alarm in her eyes; he didn’t hear her protests as he hiked up her skirt and tugged her panties down to her knees. He half fell on her, pinning her down with his weight and superior strength. He took her struggles for enthusiasm. Then he had his finger sliding into her. God! She was tight; tight and hot and wet. He jammed another finger into her, rotating his palm against her mons as he did so. He didn’t notice she was crying now. 

He fumbled with the buttons of his trousers, shoving them swiftly over his hips and letting his massive erection spring free. He didn’t think his cock had ever been so hard, not even when he’d buggered that pretty little first year boy who liked to suck off the prefects at school. He pushed against her. She lay still, eyes wide like a rabbit hypnotised by a poacher’s lamp. He wasn’t looking at her face though. He leaned forward and bit her nipple hard. It was a mistake. She screamed and somehow found the strength to throw him off. Freed from his weight, Meg was suddenly able to move and move she did. She stepped out of the restricting panties and ran for her life, away from that cruel, thrusting hand, those sharp, hurtful teeth and most of all, away from those mad, mad eyes. 

Later that night. Michael faced Peter in his stepfather’s study.

“I didn’t do anything. We were just messing around a bit, I swear!”

“That’s not what Mr Horniblow says. The way he tells it, Meg came in near hysterics, yelling that you’d tried to rape her.”

“Then she’s a lying little cow. I admit that I felt her up a bit but she was game for that, game as anything. On my honour, I swear to you that was all it was.”

“Her father tells me that she has a very pronounced bruise on one breast; a bruise that looks very much like a bite mark.”

“Well I didn’t put it there. Anyway, who’re you going to believe, me or some common little skirt from the village?”

“Michael, is that really the best you can do? That common little skirt, as you so delicately put it, is only 18 years old. Her father wants to go the police. You are in a lot of trouble, my boy.”

“Sorry, stepfather. I didn’t mean it, of course. It’s simply that I’m upset about being accused of something I didn’t do. I bet Grandmama offered him money, didn’t she. There! You see? The whole things trumped up so they can get their hands on some lucre. And I didn’t know she was thirteen. She looks a lot older and she said she was nearly sixteen, just like me.”

“Do you still maintain you did nothing at all to hurt this girl?”

“Nothing. We were just messing about and she went along with it, loved it in fact. She couldn’t keep her hands off me. I bet it’s not the first time as well. You know what they’re like, these peasants, at it like rabbits, I dare say.”

Peter shook his head. He knew Michael was lying but he knew also that was absolutely nothing he could do. Mr Horniblow had been angry and apologetic at the same time. Had said he didn’t want to intrude at a time of grief etc but he wanted some satisfaction for the hurt done his little Meg, who, as everyone knew, was a good girl. Beatrice had harrumphed at this and he had had the good grace to look slightly abashed. Beatrice had simply gone to her room and returned with twenty crisp £5 notes. As soon as Horniblow saw the stack of white paper, his demeanour changed. He’d tried to disguise the avarice but confronted with something like five or six months’ wages for an agricultural labourer, he became conciliatory, suggesting perhaps it was a misunderstanding after all and making no further mention of the police.

When he left, one hundred pounds to the good, Beatrice had been loftily dismissive of the whole affair.

“I know that girl and she is trouble. I suspect that she was fooling around with Michael and got found out; invented the rest to shift the blame, little bitch. My grandson is a young gentleman and far too innocent in the wicked ways of the world, Peter. I have no doubt she lead him on. Peter, you will really have to a talk with a Michael – explain to him about the birds and the bees – you know what to do. We can’t have him getting trapped by some little gold-digger, you know.” 

Peter had been rendered speechless and made his exit. He was fuming inwardly but now, confronting Michael, he found he just felt tired. He got up from behind his desk and moved closer to the offender. Stooping slightly, so that their faces were on a level, he stared into Michael’s eyes, saying nothing. Michael blanched. Peter continued to hold his eyes until Michael was forced to look away.

“I didn’t mean to hurt her. You must believe me. I just sort of got carried away. And she didn’t ask me to stop. I was a bit clumsy, I suppose. I wouldn’t have raped her. Please, say you believe me! I mean, she lay down on my coat, didn’t she?”

Michael’s voice trailed off in the face of Peter’s silence. He looked at his stepfather’s face and saw the contempt written there. It made him shrink inside. Peter slowly straightened, drawing himself up to his full, imposing height. When he spoke it was in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone but his eyes never left Michael’s face.

“Michael, ever since I’ve known you, you’ve been a little shit. Now, it appears, you have become a shit of the first water. There is little I can do about that and less that I care to do. You must go to Hell your own way. I would just ask you to consider this. Your father was the gentlest man I have ever known. He was also one of the bravest. I am so proud to have known him and to have had him as my friend. If he was alive to see what he helped bring into the world today, he would be ashamed. I am ashamed for him. I am ashamed for your mother and your grandparents but, most of all, I’m ashamed for you. For whatever reason, the Good Lord alone knows why, you have been blessed with more than your share of advantages in this life. Yet, continually, you choose to abuse them.