Contents
About the Book
Also by Penny Birch
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Copyright
Why not visit Penny’s website at:
www.pennybirch.com
A TASTE OF AMBER
BAD PENNY
BARE BEHIND
BRAT
DIRTY LAUNDRY
FIT TO BE TIED
IN DISGRACE
IN FOR A PENNY
JODHPURS AND JEANS
NAUGHTY NAUGHTY
NURSE’S ORDERS
KNICKERS AND BOOTS
PEACH
PENNY IN HARNESS
PENNY PIECES
PETTING GIRLS
PLAYTHING
REGIME
TEMPER TANTRUMS
TICKLE TORTURE
TIGHT WHITE COTTON
UNIFORM DOLL
WHEN SHE WAS BAD
THE INDIGNITIES OF ISABELLE
THE INDISCRETIONS OF ISABELLE
(writing as Cruella)
MY ANAL RING gave, the plug popped inside and it had been done. I was a fox, or rather a vixen, with a long, swishy brush standing proudly over my bare bottom. The game was simple: if they caught me, they could do whatever they liked. I’d be made to suck cock, lick pussy, kiss bumholes. Certainly I’d be fucked, and if I knew them I was unlikely to get away without a cock up my bottom. I was going to be beaten too, first, they had assured me of that, stretched out and thrashed with riding-crops and birch twigs until my bottom was a real mess. There are other tortures a piece of spring woodland can provide: mud for my face, and worse, big, smooth stones for my pussy and bumhole, fresh young nettles for my boobs, gorse too, and holly. If they caught me I could expect all of that and more, whatever subtle and sadistic torment they could think up. I would probably be tied up by the end, in some awkward and vulnerable position, bringing my anguish to a peak. They had to catch me first, and I didn’t intend to make it easy. Well, not too easy: that would spoil my fun.
I fixed the slender belt that held the tail around my tummy and stretched, feeling gloriously nude in the warm spring sunlight. Aside from my trainers and socks I had not a stitch on, while the great, thick brush added a lovely touch of erotic humiliation to my exposure. I was ready to run, and to judge by the way the others were looking at me, they were ready to chase. Amber was fingering her riding-crop, with her pretty face set in a wicked smile. Henry was rubbing his hands and looking at me as if inspecting a particularly fine sirloin of beef; Rasputin was by his leg, tongue lolling out and eyes peering from beneath shaggy brows. Vicky had one long leg up on a stump and was limbering up her muscles. Anderson was leaning on the car, cool and poised, idly fingering a vicious bone-handled whip. Ginny was head first in the car, her ample bottom straining her jodhpurs and wobbling slightly as she searched for something, presumably her whip.
‘Got it,’ she said and drew back, holding not just the heavy riding-crop I had expected, but something else: a fox’s mask.
The sight of the thing sent a fresh tremor of anticipation through me. It was so well made it looked real, and as she took a tiny bottle from inside it I realised that it wasn’t going to hold on with just a piece of elastic, either. She passed both to Amber, whose smile grew broader.
‘Hold still, Penny,’ she ordered happily as she held the thing up to my face.
I opened my mouth. I had to, because the interior of the thing held a ball that was clearly designed to go in it, gagging me. My body had started to shiver from the intensity of my feelings of exposure and humiliation, and I could feel the dampness between my thighs as I took the gag lightly in my teeth. I caught the scent of gum arabic as Amber unscrewed the bottle, and at greater strength as she began to paint the edge of the mask and then my face. It was done quickly and skilfully, the result of long experience at turning girls into ponies, pigs and whatever else fantasy demanded.
Now it was a fox, with all the trappings of fox-hunting subtly changed to suit erotic fantasy in place of blood sport. As it had originally been my idea, I had the right to be the first victim, or rather quarry. Most of the other detail had come from the others, including the term ‘in at the rape’, which had terrified me but added so much raw emotion to the game that in the end I’d accepted it.
It was just a game, but that didn’t stop my heart racing as I waited for the gum to dry. After all, the chase would be real, my pain would be real and the sex would be real. True, I expected a truly explosive orgasm at the end of it, but that didn’t stop me being scared, especially as I wasn’t entirely sure why Henry had brought his dog. The mask made it worse, and yet more real. Now I couldn’t speak, so there was no chance to use a stop word. Nor could I see very well, with the eye-holes limiting my vision much in the way of blinkers.
‘Ready to go, Penny?’ Amber asked as she took her hand away from the mask.
I nodded, picturing my vixen’s face moving to the action.
‘Twenty minutes then,’ she said, ‘you had better run.’
She didn’t have to tell me twice. I set off, with my brush tickling my bottom as I went, its motion drawing a giggle from Ginny.
The wood was a fair size, ninety acres of mature oak and beech belonging to some horsey friend of Henry’s. Horsey, rich, respectable, and so seriously gay that he hadn’t even bothered to turn up to watch. With farmland on all sides the chances of us being seen were minimal. A single, overgrown footpath skirted the northern border, but it was easy to stay clear of that. The interior was a maze of gullies, thickets, ancient ditches and still more ancient earthworks, the ideal place for me to go to ground. That was what they expected, but it was not what I was going to do.
I was fairly sure how they’d hunt. Vicky and Anderson were fast, and would act as wings, fanning out to the sides. Amber and Ginny, less athletic but young, would come forward inside them, leaving fat old Henry at the middle, along with Rasputin. That way they could chivvy me forward and close the pincers at the far edge of the wood where an area of open ground and a ruined barn provided gorse, nettles and all the other things they would need to bring my torture to the most exquisite peak. All of that was fine, except for the fact that they’d be too pleased with themselves to really take it out on me. Instead I wanted them sweaty, scratched and hot before they caught me, thus guaranteeing that they would really make me pay.
So, rather than make for the sheltered depths of the wood, I ran until they were well out of sight and then turned north, towards the footpath, the one place they would expect me to avoid. My plan was simple. I would hide by the path until I heard one of the flankers coming, wait until they passed, then dash back down the footpath and into the wood behind them. Hopefully the manoeuvre would leave them completely puzzled and frustrated, ensuring that I got punished for my temerity when I finally allowed them to catch me.
It went well at first, and would have worked if it hadn’t been for my brush. I found a thick stand of elder right beside the fence and hid in it, freezing to the ground when I heard someone coming. It was Anderson, jogging slowly along and scanning the woods. I stayed perfectly still, sure he would miss me among the thick green leaves. He looked right at me and kept on, only to stop abruptly as he drew level, no more than twenty yards from my hiding place. His face broke into a happy leer and I knew he had seen me, only he wasn’t looking at my face but behind me. That was what made me realise that my brush was sticking out of the bush.
I bolted, breaking from cover at a run. He called a view and followed, whooping with joy as he came. Normally I would have stood at least a chance, being smaller and more agile than him. Now it was hopeless, with my bare skin, limited vision and the plug jerking in my bottom-hole making it impossible to get any real speed. I tried, though, jumping logs and dodging around trunks until finally I slipped in mud and went down, sprawling in the mess and slipping as I tried to rise, only for his hand to fasten in my hair, twist and pull my head back hard.
As I was on my knees, the pressure forced me to curve my spine back and lift my bottom, an action that drew a satisfied chuckle from Anderson. I was really shaking, panting for breath around my gag with my heart hammering in my chest, needing what was about to be done to me but also genuinely scared. His grip tightened in my hair, forcing me to bring my bottom into greater prominence. My knees came apart of their own accord, spreading my pussy to him beneath the shelter of my brush.
‘Good little vixen,’ he crowed, ‘that’s right, stick it out and I’ll fill you, but not just yet. First you have some sucking to do, if it’s practical with your mask.’
It wasn’t, which I could have told him if I’d been able to speak. With my mouth full of gag it was hard enough to breathe, never mind suck a penis. Vixens don’t talk anyway, so I just wriggled a bit as he pulled my head around to inspect the mouth.
‘Damn,’ he swore as his fingers caught at the mouth. ‘Oh well, in that case I’ll just have to put a couple of lines across your bottom to help me get ready.’
A moment later I felt him take my brush. It was lifted and laid on my back, exposing the full spread of my rear view with nothing hidden, bottom-cheeks flared wide, pussy agape, anus showing with the shaft of the tail disappearing into the little hole. My stomach tightened and my bottom clenched as he gave a chuckle at the display I was making of myself. I heard him shift position and suddenly my buttocks jolted and a line of fire sprang up across then. My arms had gone limp at the shock, and at the second my breasts went into the mud, my muscles jumping at the pain as his crop lashed down on my naked bottom. A third stroke caught me and he laughed to see me as I kicked my legs and cocked my thighs wide in my pain. I collapsed, putting my belly in the mud as well as my boobs, to leave me grovelling in submission as he laid a fourth cut across the crests of my bum-cheeks.
I’d have screamed if I’d been able, but all I could do was make a ridiculous gurgling noise in my throat. He stopped at four, leaving me sprawled in the mud, pathetically grateful to him as I lifted my bottom to offer myself. He gave his dry, wicked chuckle again and I heard the crop fall to the ground. Looking back, I found him pushing his jodhpurs down, taking his briefs with them to reveal a good-sized cock, already half-stiff.
I lay still as he masturbated over my beaten bottom, his eyes fixed to the four red cuts he had put on my skin. They stung; my bottom was throbbing hard, my pussy wide and wet, while my anus was contracting over and over on the neck of the plug. He hardened quickly, his eyes never once leaving my bottom until his cock was a solid bar of glossy flesh, the head so shiny it might have been oiled. I went up a little, offering myself, knees wide and bottom lifted, surrendered to penetration. He came behind me in a squat, careful not to soil his jodhpurs on the dirty ground. That was perfect, with me beaten and filthy with mud, while he wasn’t even prepared to dirty his knees while he had me.
His cock found the mouth of my pussy and he pulled me on to himself, filling me and spreading my thighs wide across his front. I swallowed on my gag as he began to fuck me, holding me by my hips and jerking me on to his cock. My brush was tickling my back, my whip marks smarting in the cool air, my boobs rubbing in the mess of mud and leaves: all perfect to take me so, so high. Soon the others would come, and I’d really be used, beaten again, and entered and teased and tortured until at last they let me come myself . . .
No, it was no good. It hadn’t been long enough. I needed more of the excitement of being chased, the alarm and desperation, the fear as I was hunted, the final dismay as they caught me and dragged me down. I braced and hurled myself forward, kicking off from Anderson’s leg. He gave a startled cry, went backwards and I was gone, darting across the sunlit glade where he had been indulging himself with me.
He must have fallen right into the mud puddle, because I heard him curse, and I was laughing inside as I skipped between two massive beeches and away. I’d taken him completely by surprise, leaping up while he’d been lost in the feeling of having his cock in me. Doubtless he’d imagined me already beaten into submission, and had been enjoying his dominance and the sight of the whip-stripes on my naked buttocks as much as the physical pleasure of fucking me. Now he was sat in a mud puddle with his erection sticking up in the air, rigid in his frustrated lust.
I nearly collided with Ginny, dodging just in time as she grabbed for me. She had seemed to come from nowhere, and the shock brought me back to earth. With her startled yell ringing in my ears I ran on, rushing through dappled sunlight as her view calls rang out behind me. Others answered: Henry’s deep roar to the south, Amber’s and Vicky’s from much further. Ginny yelled again, close on my heels, then Anderson, now well behind me.
Anderson might have been too fast for me, but no girl with a figure like Ginny’s was going to catch me: she has just too much flesh. I sprinted, my eyes fixed dead ahead, forcing myself to ignore the stabbing pain of the plug in my rectum. Her calls had been full of glee and pleasure in the chase, but as they changed to frustration I knew I had the edge on her.
Not that it meant I’d got away, as I knew Vicky would be coming as fast as she could, and against her I had no chance at all. If I kept running they would just herd me into the tip of the wood, exactly where they wanted me, gorse, nettles and all.
At the thought of having my pussy tickled with nettles I hurled myself to the side, crashing through a stand of birch and undergrowth. Twigs whipped at my breasts and tummy; stems caught at my legs, but then I was through, only to feel a smarting throb start on my thighs and pussy. I had run into exactly what I was trying to avoid, nettling my sex without them having to bother. My nettle stings hurt, and lent me new energy as I imagined what it was going to be like when they finally caught me.
They wouldn’t just whip me with nettles. They’d spread me out, one to each limb, with my legs wide and my breasts and sex completely vulnerable. They’d each take a nettle and work me over, tickling my nipples and pussy, the tender skin of my breasts and the sensitive area under the tuck of my bottom. If they were feeling really cruel they would even do the centre of my pussy and my bumhole, which would probably be enough to make me come, although I’d writhe and scream while it was happening.
Ginny had cried gone away as I went through the brake, but she hadn’t followed. For a moment I was invisible to her and I used my chance, turning back to the north and running low beneath the overhanging birches and hazels. A twig lashed across my breasts, leaving a line of fire, then another, lower, across my tummy. I heard Anderson call from some way off to my left and Vicky answered, already to my right.
At that, and with the pain in my body, I panicked. How she had come up so fast I could not understand, but it seemed barely human. I ran full tilt, indifferent to branches, scratched by holly, stung by nettles, tearing blindly through the wood with my head full of visions of my own torture. Henry’s phrase came to me, and the piece of fox-hunting parlance he had changed it from – in at the death, in at the rape.
With that all sense, all reason went and I was running blind through the wood in true fright. Their calls seemed to be coming from all around me, five human voices and Rasputin’s bass bark, and with that what had been just a dirty thought became certainty. They would give me to the dog. They’d hold me down and let Rasputin mount me. They’d let him fuck me and he’d knot in my pussy. They’d tease my boobs and tickle my pussy while he was inside me. They’d make me masturbate and they’d take photos of him humping me, of when he came, of when I came . . .
I never saw the bank. One moment I was running in blind panic and the next I was sliding and rolling down through mud and wet grass to land in a huge puddle, face first. The shock of the cold water brought me back to my senses and I pulled my face out of the mud, or rather my mask, which had stayed on and was so heavily plastered in mud that I couldn’t see at all and could barely breathe. I sat up, aching and filthy but still intending to run, only to find that I had hurt my ankle as I fell. That was the last straw and I collapsed back into the cool slime, defeated, willing to surrender to whatever tortures and degradations they chose to inflict on me.
Already I was lying face down in a pool of dirty water, blind with mud and probably cow dung, naked but for my footwear, mask and brush, scratched, bruised and with four scarlet whip marks decorating my bottom. How much worse could it get?
A lot, especially with the five of them all determined to get their pleasure out of me, making me service them in whatever way they pleased once my own wants had been dealt with. Henry was most likely to make me suck him and come in my mouth, either that or in my face. Vicky and Ginny would both make me lick, down on my knees with my face in their pussies and my bare bum stuck up in the air, one after the other. Anderson would probably bugger me. Amber would queen me and make me lick her bottom while she played with herself: it was her favourite thing and, at the thought of her lovely bottom being lowered into my face, I couldn’t resist a little purr.
I felt a hand on my shoulder, not the rough grip I had expected but a gentle pressure, suggesting that it was one of the girls and that she was worried in case the game had gone too far or I’d really hurt myself. I was in a sorry state, but compassion was the last thing I wanted, at least not until I had been thoroughly abused. Intent on assuring them I pushed the gag from my mouth, wincing as the gum pulled from around my chin and lips.
‘You’ve got me, take me, rape me,’ I managed, and sank back into the slurry.
‘Oh my God!’ she answered: a female voice, but not Amber, not Ginny and not Vicky.
It was like having a bucket of freezing water thrown over me. I’d been in a sort of erotic haze, well worked up, with my adrenalin running high and my endorphins higher still, in a deliciously awkward situation from which there was no escape. Suddenly I was in a genuinely awkward situation, with some concerned woman leaning over me and babbling out horror-struck questions about what had been done to me and by whom.
Fortunately, although it didn’t seem so at the time, I’d taken a mouthful of filthy water when I slumped back into the puddle, so instead of saying anything stupid I just choked and spluttered. That gave me a chance to collect my wits and ignore her barrage of questions and sympathetic remarks, which ended with a determined statement that she would call the police on her mobile phone.
I tried to answer that one, begging her not to do it, but it was too late. For once the call got through without delay, and before I could stop her she was jabbering out the most frightful stuff about me being assaulted and beaten up and raped and even kidnapped. Then it was too late, and as she went back to trying to comfort and interrogate me simultaneously I tried frantically to decide what to do.
I certainly couldn’t tell the truth, as it would lead to all sorts of trouble for my friends, not to mention the man who owned the land. Nor could I run for it as, with my ankle and a squad of police about to descend on us, there was no hope of escape. It was too late to reason with her, and as I managed to get enough mud off my mask to see I realised that it would have been hopeless anyway.
She was small, not much bigger than me, with dyed blonde hair framing her face and an expression of concerned, honest alarm. From what she was saying and the way she kept repeating ‘Oh my God’, it was obvious that she was not going to believe anything except that I had been brutalised in some awful way. Why she imagined any rapist would put a girl in a fox’s mask and stick a pretend brush up her bottom was a question that could wait until later.
I said nothing, hoping she would accept that I was in shock while I sorted my mind out. She was scared too, and not without reason, because from her point of view whatever maniac had attacked me was probably still in the vicinity. When Anderson gave a hunting call from the wood she stiffened and threw a terrified glance over her shoulder, but the chase had begun to move in the opposite direction. With that, and looking around me, I realised that I was not in the wood at all, but on the public footpath.
My only chance was to bluff it out. I couldn’t even admit who I was, as if I did the story would be bound to get out. The thought of my colleagues at the university thinking I’d been horribly raped was nearly as bad as the thought of them knowing how debauched my sex life was. The idea of my mother finding out was worse. It would also mean a full investigation, and it wasn’t going to take Sherlock Holmes to put two and two together. What the police would then make of my little fox-hunting fantasy I wasn’t sure, but I had no intention of finding out.
I finally pretended to come to my senses, peeling the mask off my face with considerable difficulty and looking up at my rescuer with what I hoped was a suitably frightened and grateful expression. She immediately cradled my head, muttering soothing words and stroking my hair, apparently indifferent to the mess she was making of her jumper. My head was held tight to her breasts, which were fairly big, and firm too, briefly making me forget how awkward a situation I was in. I let her hold me anyway, and reached back for my tail, which I was determined to get out of my bottom before the police arrived.
She watched me do it, mouth and eyes wide as I pulled the plug out of my bottom-hole and undid the belt. I was pretty sore, and winced as it came out, which drew a fresh spate of sympathy from her. I stood and stretched, still not feeling able to answer, and as she got her first proper look at my body she went quiet.
I have to admit I was a pretty sorry sight. My legs were red with scratches, particularly the fronts, which also had some pretty bad nettlerash. My tummy and chest were scratched, too, less badly, but with two livid welts, one of which ran across both breasts as if somebody had hit them with a cane. My back was less bad, but the four whip marks on my bottom left no doubt that I had been beaten, and well. There were bruises, too, new ones and a few fading marks from when Amber had had to spank me with a hairbrush the week before.
‘Oh my God!’ the girl said for about the thirtieth time and at that moment I heard the sound of sirens in the distance.
If I’d been lucky the police might never have found us and would have gone back thinking it had been a hoax call. Unfortunately Beth, which was my rescuer’s name, insisted on helping me to the road. She gave me her jumper, too, which was big enough to cover most of me. By chance a squad car was passing at the exact moment we arrived. After that it was absolutely ghastly, and took more strength and downright obstinacy than I’ve ever had to show before.
They started off assuming I’d be happy to help, and when I wasn’t they decided that it was because I was scared of my supposed attacker. First it was the doctor, who let me wash the worst of the mud off and then gave me a pretty humiliating inspection that would have had me fully aroused in normal circumstances. I was in stirrups, legs up and open, pussy wide, while he pulled on gloves and gave me a thorough internal, not just vaginal, but anal too. Samples then followed, swabs and fluids, all of which I consented to just to buy me time to think. He asked questions as well, which I was forced to answer so that they accorded with the condition of my body. Yes, I had been beaten. Yes, I had been penetrated. No, nobody had come inside me. He saw the brush and mask and immediately rang for a psychiatrist, but chose not to question me on that subject. Only then did he dress the few minor cuts I’d sustained and give me some ointment for my nettlerash.
A WPC helped me to wash properly, and stood by while I rubbed the ointment into my rash, a process which I’d also have thoroughly enjoyed in any other circumstances. By the time I was ready and wrapped in a police-issue towelling robe, Beth had given her statement, which seemed to have been pretty dramatic. It was now my turn, and as I sat down and took hold of a cup of thin coffee I was bracing myself for what was to come.
They were pretty sympathetic at first, putting my lack of co-operation down to shock, but it wasn’t long before their patience began to wear thin. This was especially true of the male officer, a bullish sergeant who seemed to take it personally that I wasn’t eager to tell my story in lavish detail. I’d given my name to Beth as Penny Brush, which had been a pretty stupid thing to say but the first name that came into my head. I had to stick with it anyway, and if any of them thought it a bit peculiar that a girl found naked and made up as a fox should be called after a certain well-known children’s TV character from the seventies, then they didn’t say so.
Only when they asked my address did I clamp down, refusing to give it. They presented me with several good reasons why I should, but I stuck to my guns and eventually they moved on to asking me about my attacker. I said he had been just under six foot, of medium build and dark haired, with no distinguishing features. By then I was beginning to feel a bit of temper, or perhaps hysteria, because I had to bite back the temptation to say he was four foot tall, one legged, bald and with a livid scar running from forehead to chin.
When asked what had happened I kept to the minimum of what the doctor already knew. I had been walking and had stopped for a picnic lunch: ciabatta with chorizo and sun-dried tomatoes washed down with a Valpolicella ripasso. That was true, as it was what Henry has served for lunch before the fox-hunt, and while I doubted they would pump my stomach, the alcohol was bound to show up in my samples. At the mention of the wine the sergeant gave a knowing frown and the last piece of my intended scheme fell into place.
‘And what were you wearing, Miss Brush?’ he asked.
‘A little summer frock,’ I answered. ‘It was such a nice day.’
‘With what underneath?’ he went on. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m sure you will understand that we have to ask these questions. Your clothing may provide important clues.’
‘Well, nothing actually,’ I said after a moment’s pause. ‘It was such a nice day, and . . .’
‘A light summer frock with nothing underneath?’ he demanded. ‘A short summer frock?’
‘Yes,’ I answered and saw his brow furrow.
I knew what he wanted to say – that as I’d been out walking, alone, in a short cotton dress with nothing on underneath then I shouldn’t really be surprised when I attracted male attention, even to the point of being assaulted. It had been quite windy on the footpath and I could imagine him picturing my dress blowing up to show my legs, maybe even my bottom, my bare bottom. Any red-blooded male would see it as provocative, and if I didn’t realise that I was stupid. He wanted to tell me, but he didn’t dare, not in front of the WPC.
From then on it was quite easy. He had decided what I was, a silly girl who had more or less got what she deserved, and I was happy to play along with the image. The WPC was pretty outraged at his attitude, but in the end rank told. She tried the line that if I didn’t co-operate I would be leaving a violent attacker at large, trying to make me feel guilty. As there was no attacker this didn’t work either and I just sat there with a petulant expression on my face until they gave up.
I began to worry again when the time came to speak to the psychiatrist. Having read zoology at a university no more than a few miles away I was worried that they might produce someone who actually knew me, which would have been the end of my little pretence. Fortunately it was just some man full of his own theories and much more inclined to talk than listen.
He more or less told me that the reason I had been put in a fox’s mask and brush was that my attacker had been a huntsman frustrated by the moves to outlaw hunting with hounds. My light dress, lack of underwear and casual manner had led him to identify me as the epitome of the enemy; urban, left-wing and unrestrainedly female. Thus I was the ideal victim and what had happened to me had had nothing to do with sex whatever but only power, the act of a male powerless in the face of government and so determined to exert himself on weaker members of society. I let him drivel on for a while and then agreed that this was a brilliant theory and undoubtedly true, and really that was that. He left thoroughly pleased with himself, doubtless intending to write a paper on the subject with plenty of flow charts and bad statistical analysis. From his age it was certain he had grown up during the seventies, yet for all his cock-sure assumption of intelligence it never occurred to him that there was something odd about my name.
All the while I had been dreading that they would run into Amber and the others and bring them in. It didn’t happen, and at eleven o’clock when the night’s drunks and troublemakers started to appear I began to feel I was going to get away with it. Not wishing to end up wandering around Berkshire in the middle of the night I made no demands, and presently went to sleep from sheer exhaustion.
In the morning they had to let me go, as I had known they would if I just stuck to my guns long enough. The WPC made a final effort to get my identity when she brought me tea in the morning, but I resisted and so two hours later I found myself on the street.
My feelings were mixed as I walked away from the station. Most of them had been sympathetic to me, but several, the sergeant especially, regarded me as a complete time-waster. I did feel bad about that, but really I had had little choice. More importantly, it hadn’t been my decision to go there in the first place. I must admit to a degree of triumph too, for having led the sergeant’s thought processes down his own preferred line and evading the attentions of the psychiatrist.
Not that my troubles were over. Standing in the road in Beth’s jumper and an ill-fitting skirt, it was not obvious what I should do, while I had to consider the possibility that I would be followed. My parents’ house was no more than a stiff walk away, but that was the last place I wanted to go, while with no money my options were limited. The best bet seemed to be to take a roundabout route cross-country, until I was absolutely sure I was clear, and then to beg the use of someone’s phone to call Amber.
So I walked, north along the river and then out across the fields on a footpath, constantly checking behind me. By the time I was certain I was not being followed I was in the hilly country to the west of Pangboume, which I know quite well. I was starting to feel confident again, and to see the funny side of what I’d been through, and the naughty side as well.
What with the fox-hunt, Beth, the medical examination and the interviews it had been quite a day. The irony of the situation was not lost on me either. While it has never really been my thing, I know more than one girl who has submissive sexual fantasies centred on forcible medical inspections, and police fantasies too, about being arrested and subjected to various sexual humiliations. I’d had the medical bit for real, stirrups and all, and while I couldn’t fault the police for their behaviour, there had been a definite element of humiliation about the whole thing.
Vicky, for instance, has a fantasy about being taken to a health farm and deliberately humiliated for being overweight. She is put in a room with a dozen or so other women, all thinner than her, and made to strip while the others keep on their smart clothes. The nurse then gives her a lecture, spanks her across the knee and puts her through a full medical, including being made to provide a urine sample and given an enema, all of it while the other women watch and make condescending and insulting remarks. Normally she comes when she gets to the enema, and in one version she refuses and has to be tied into stirrups before it happens. This is strange, as she is tall, slim and muscular, but that’s fantasy for you.
I was looking forward to telling her, as there’s no better way of getting over something like that than making a joke of it with friends. Naturally I’d need to embellish it a bit, and as I struck off down another footpath I began to think of what details I should add to turn her on and make her jealous. I doubted she’d believe I’d been given an enema, but I could say he’d watched while I provided the urine sample, which was guaranteed to both horrify her and turn her on. Yes, that would be perfect, saying I’d been made to pee in front of him, on a thing like a potty, still in the nude with him gloating over my embarrassment.
Really I should know my own sexuality by now, but I doubt it will be the last time I work myself up by accident. Thinking about medical inspections and public spankings and humiliations, I had become desperately turned on. There was the frustration of not having come after the fox-hunt as well, an orgasm I had been looking forward to for days. I had to do it.
There was no hesitation. I was walking down the side of a field, with a thick wood ahead, bright green with spring leaves. On reaching it I ran in far enough to be safe, all the while with a lump of tension building in my throat. I adore masturbating outdoors, but I’m always careful not to be caught, however badly I need it.
Having chosen a thick stand of young hazel, I stood still for a moment, listening for any sounds that might indicate a human presence. There was nothing, just birdsong and the distant rumble of the motorway. A moment later and my panties were down under my skirt and I was settling my bare bottom on to a hummock of wet moss, which felt wonderfully cool and soft. I put my fingers to my pussy and closed my eyes, allowing my mind to drift as I started to play with myself.
It was the police station at first, and the way I’d been spread out, thighs cocked wide, ankles high in the stirrups, pussy wide to the peering doctor. I thought of his clinical manner, the calm, detached way he had pulled on his gloves as I lay there with all the most intimate parts of my body on show. He had seen my breasts and bottom, sore with whip marks, my pussy, wet with my own juices, my bottom-hole, still greasy with the lubricant that had been used on the tail-plug. His hand had gone up me, filling my pussy out opening me, exploring me . . .
I could have come, and it would have been good. Good, but not perfect: medical fantasy just isn’t really my thing. It would have been better if the grumpy old sergeant had told me not to waste his time and put me across his knee for a good old-fashioned spanking, hard, on my bare bottom while the pretty young WPC giggled over my distress. That was nice, especially the thought of her enjoying watching me being beaten while in fear of getting the same treatment on her own pert bottom, panties down and all. Unfortunately it was too wide of reality to get me there and I stopped, idly massaging my pussy while I searched for the right fantasy.
Just stroking myself was lovely, feeling the soft, furry mound of my pussy and the wet, open centre, with the heat of my sex a wonderful contrast to the cool air of the wood. Too aroused to worry about where I was, I pulled my jumper up and off, exposing my naked breasts, cupping them and bumping my fingers over my nipples. I lay back, kicking my legs high and spreading myself to the wood. My panties came down further, and off one leg, leaving them hanging from my right ankle. Only of course they weren’t my panties at all, but a spare pair belonging to the WPC who had looked after me. I pushed off my skirt to leave myself nude but for trainers, socks and her panties, then went back to stroking my pussy, only now thinking of her. Barbara, she was called, a pretty, freckle-faced girl, bigger than me so that her panties had felt oddly loose around my hips. For all her sympathy, there had been something matronly about her, and it would have been great to be spanked across her knee, in the nude, kicking and blubbering as I was punished.
My legs were right up to my chest and wide, too, leaving me just as spread as it is possible to be. I was rubbing hard, my clitty burning under my fingers, my pussy starting to contract. My orgasm started, rising in my head as my bottom clenched and my spine arched. I slid my spare hand down between my cheeks, found my bumhole and teased her open, feeling so, so dirty as my finger eased into the slimy interior of my bottom. I pictured Barbara slapping my bottom, punishing me, telling me off as she smacked my naked cheeks and then without warning she had turned to Beth, holding me tight to her chubby little breasts, cuddling me, stroking my beaten bottom. She’d squeeze my cheeks, let her hand stray between them, spread them, probe my dirty little hole, all the time whispering soothing remarks in my ear. At last she’d lose control and put me face down for a spanking, punishing me, beating me, until I was a snivelling, tear-stained mess at her knees . . .
I came, squealing aloud in a beautiful, long orgasm that had my back in a tight arch and my head swimming in ecstasy. Beth’s name came to my lips and I called for her, although even in that moment of pure bliss I didn’t know why it was her I wanted.
I MADE MY phone call and Amber picked me up, well away from the wood and the police station. On the way back to her house we swapped stories and I found that things had gone much as I had anticipated. They had lost me completely in the wood, my panic-stricken dash throwing them off so that the pincer movement had closed on nothing. Shortly after that the sirens had started and eventually they had put two and two together and very sensibly kept out of it. When questioned they had simply stated that they were guests on the estate enjoying a walk after riding earlier, all of which could be proved. That was that, to my great relief.
Experiences that are erotic, or have erotic undertones, but which are not actively sexual tend to make me a little obsessive and determined to explore the full sexual potential of the situation. The fox-hunt left me wanting to expand on a number of experiences, including the sense of helpless panic during the chase, the embarrassment and exposure of the medical examination, and the feeling of sexual impropriety that the sergeant’s attitude to my story had provoked. All three relied to a greater or lesser extent on me relinquishing control, which always makes fantasy fulfilment difficult. After all, if I create a fantasy I must, by definition, remain to some extent in control of it. Nor would I risk any situation where my partner or partners did not understand my needs and limits, or something might really be done to me against my will. For a female submissive there can be a fine line between perfect ecstasy and utter disaster, and I need time to find a way to get as close as possible to that line, safely.
One other thing has stuck in my mind from that day, as more of an irritation than a need. This was Beth. Not only had I come over her, but the more I thought about the things she had said to me the more I felt I needed to argue with her. Basically she had been unable to see me as anything other than a victim, and it had never so much as occurred to her that I might have been a willing participant in an erotic game. She had used the phrase ‘remember you’re a woman’ several times, obviously intending to comfort me. There had been other remarks, too, all of which indicated a mindset so different from my own that it was impossible not to be fascinated.
Fascinated and antagonistic, not in the sense of wanting to hurt her, but because I found it impossible not to take her attitude personally. I knew it was petty, but I felt put upon by her automatic assumption that I thought and behaved exactly as she did. At the least I wanted to make her understand that I could enjoy things she found dreadful. At best I wanted her to learn to enjoy them herself.
Even so I’d have put her out of my mind quickly enough had it not been for her looks. With her delicate face, chubby little breasts and rounded bottom it was impossible not to find her appealing. Sometimes when I develop a minor crush on an unreachable or unsuitable girl, or a man for that matter, a couple of good orgasms are enough to clear my head. This didn’t work with Beth, especially as I knew that although she was undoubtedly unsuitable for me, she wasn’t unreachable.
I had her jumper, which had a name tag in it, like the ones we had to have sewn to our clothes at school. She was Elizabeth Diez-Joyce, a name that explained the subtle olive tone of her skin and that could hardly be difficult to find in a telephone directory. She’d had no car and been pretty familiar with the bit of country we’d been in, so the chances were she lived in Berkshire and wouldn’t be too hard to find. It wasn’t hard at all. E. Diez-Joyce lived in Streatley.
Amber had to be told, and she gave me exactly what I deserved. We were in her kitchen at the time, both feeling pleasantly mellow after a light lunch and a shared bottle of Riesling. She doesn’t mind me playing with other girls, so long as it’s not behind her back, so I jokingly mentioned that I was taken with the idea of getting into Beth’s panties.