Outside night had fallen. The wood steamed like a tropical jungle. The rain had bowed the trees into a dripping green tunnel and pestled a rank sexy smell out of elder, nettles and the last yellow leaves of the wild garlic. As they emerged the maze reared up, a great jet-black wave waiting to topple over them. An owl hooted warningly, a bat swooped.
‘Duck — it’s the Count,’ said Flora, through desperately chattering teeth.
‘Go into the maze,’ whispered Rannaldini.
‘Give me a ball of thread, Ariadne. Although you’re more like the Minotaur.’
‘Keep your hand on the wall and you’ll reach the centre.’ Rannaldini buried his lips briefly in her neck. ‘I geeve you a minute’s start.’
Never one to resist a challenge Flora plunged into the maze feeling her way between drenched lowering yew cliffs. With a scream she ducked in terror as a sinister dark figure reared up ahead like a black cowled monk about to pounce on her. Then she gasped with relief: it was only one of Mr Brimscombe’s yew peacocks. Shivering, yet pouring with sweat as her feet crunched on the wet, cold, pebble floor, she felt she was walking down an endless beach into a sea of no return.
Turning, twisting, falling to her knees, losing both her espadrilles in her panic, she could hear Rannaldini behind her like the Hound of Heaven (should be hell), his footsteps deliberate but relentless, stealthily drawing closer.
Oh Christ, she could hear breathing in front now — someone else was in the maze, or was it the way it twisted back on itself? Terrified, she started to run, piercing herself as she crashed from one massed wall of sharp twigs to another. Twenty feet above, a thin strip of dun, starless sky gave her no direction.
Her breath was coming in such gasps she would have none left to scream for help. She’d never get out. Meeting a dead end she stumbled to the left, hands desperately searching. Rannaldini was going to murder her, the maze was a trick, there was no centre. She gave a sob as an owl hooted overhead.
Then suddenly she breathed in the headiest smell. The path seemed to widen. Her feet must have touched a pressure point because soft light suddenly flooded a bower of bliss in which an ancient stone bench was fantastically garlanded by great clumps of rain-soaked philadelphus and jasmine with white rambler roses clambering to the top of the yew ramparts, all wafting their sweetness. Flora gave a moan of relief and joy.
Next moment Rannaldini’s arms were around her. She could feel the burning heat of his body, Don Giovanni in the flames.
‘You made it, leetle wild thing.’
‘I’m waiting for Mr Rite of Spring to come along.’
‘You must not mock.’
This time he kissed her with real passion, quivering with tension, his tongue stabbing and probing her mouth, his hands untying the black knot of Wolfie’s shirt. Laying bare her dove-soft white breasts, he covered them with kisses, murmuring endearments in Italian.
Then he seemed to gain control of himself and pushed her gently away.
‘Now we play games,’ he said softly. ‘You must do what I say. You are leetle village girl who wishes to enter the great Convent of Paradise. But first the all-powerful Abbot of Valhalla must inspect you to make sure of your purity and innocence. It ees his privilege.’
His face was totally impassive.
‘Are you some kind of nutter?’ stammered Flora backing away.
‘Take off your clothes,’ said Rannaldini sharply.
Furiously Flora stepped out of her rain-soaked blue skirt and pink and white striped pants.
‘Sit down.’ He pushed her on to the stone bench. ‘Now the Abbot will examine the leetle girl fully. He touches her breasts,’ Rannaldini’s warm hands were stroking, squeezing, searching, ‘and he theenks what a tragedy that two such lovely theengs should be hidden for ever under a nun’s black robes.
‘The little girl is frightened now,’ he went on, sensing Flora’s apprehension, ‘but just when she think the touching has gone on too long for decency the Abbot moves downwards. He is delighted to find her a little plump. Her puppy fat will protect her from the bitter cold of the convent.’
In time to the deep, husky, caressing voice Rannaldini’s hands roved over her belly and thighs, slowly, meticulously, assessing and examining.
Once again Flora was appalled to find herself revolted but wildly, hopelessly excited.
‘Sturdy legs, too,’ murmured Rannaldini. ‘Good for kneeling for hours on a cold chapel floor.’
Then, as he pushed her back on the bench, ‘Now she must lie down and put her knees up to her breasts for the crucial examination to begin. The test of her virginity.’
‘What sort of fucking pervert are you?’ hissed Flora, but, powerless to resist, she lay back, raising her legs and giving a wail of pleasure as his fingers slid inside her.
‘They go in too easily,’ purred Rannaldini, ‘the leetle girl try to tighten up to pretend she is still intacta but she is far too excited. As the Abbot explore probing her most secret places she cannot stop herself gripping his fingers. She is embarrassed how wet she is getting. She knows the Abbot is excited, too. He no longer care eef she is virgin.’
Rannaldini’s iron-hard thigh was rigid against Flora’s bare leg. She began to gasp with helpless pleasure as his finger moved up to her clitoris.
‘See the hood is back. From this tiny pink bud blossoms all female joy. It is so pretty. The Abbot will cure all her tensions, all her fears and geeve her such a lovely feeling.’
‘Oh, you bastard!’ Flora arched her back, went rigid and came.
‘That was nice?’ crooned Rannaldini, delightedly gathering her against his chest and stroking her hair.
‘Bliss but utterly bent.’
‘Is only the beginning. Tomorrow you can be little nun who has been caught in some wickedness.’
‘And you’ll be the Abbot of Valhalla ordering me to be flogged. Not bloody likely.’
Desperate to regain the upper hand, Flora dropped to her knees, unzipping his fly, lowering the blue silk boxer shorts and burying her face in the scented powdered hair flattened by the tight trousers, as the thick powerful cock flew up like a jack in the box.
‘Oh, wow,’ sighed Flora.
But, feeling her tongue, Rannaldini pulled away.
‘I weesh to come inside you.’
‘Pity, I wanted to have my cock and eat it.’
For a second she thought he was going to hit her.
‘Stop taking the pees.’
Lifting her back on to the stone bench he roughly parted her labia and shoved his cock deep inside her.
‘Aaaaaaah, lovely,’ cried Flora, starting to move.
She was used to over-excited schoolboys who came in an instant. Rannaldini now totally in control, could have been a metronone for
‘Keep your eyes open,’ he ordered, his face satanical above hers, ‘I want to see you come. Are you bored now?’
‘Not as much as I was. Twelve bored more likely.’ Ah, those deep slow thrusts, Flora was battling not to abdicate herself completely. ‘For a pervert you’re seriously good at straight fucking. Although this bench is even harder than you — oh my God, on second thoughts perhaps it isn’t… Oh, Rannaldini, oh, Rannaldini.’
At the end of a week’s suspension Flora was allowed back for the Leaver’s Ball, because Wolfie Rannaldini, who’d won every cup and prize going, interceded with Sabine Bottomley.
Two days before the ball Flora, who was supposed to be practising ‘Who is Sylvia?’ with Rannaldini in his tower, was actually perched on his huge treble bed rubbing baby oil into him while he finished the crossword.
‘Ah that’s good. Deeper, deeper. You learn fast.’ Later he combed back the hair between her legs.
‘You are very charming, like a rose called
‘Do you shave all your women?’
‘Usually. Cecilia ’ave a brush like Bernard Shaw’s beard so I ’ad to.’
‘You
