cover missing

Contents

About the Book

About the Author

Also by Penny Birch

Title Page

A Perfect Example – Penny Birch

Sweet Charity – Ginny Linslade

Justice 1950 – Anna Vale

Orsino – Susan Wren

Cindy – Morris Rathwell

Mucky III – Vicky Belstone

Puppy Days – Helen Dale

Monday March 6

Thursday March 9

Saturday May 20

Sunday June 25

Monday July 24

Saturday August 5

Friday August 11

Monday August 14

Thursday August 17

Sunday August 20

Saturday August 26

Thursday August 31

Sunday September 3

Sunday September 10

Fille Farci à la Mode d’Epineuil – Percy Ottershaw

Getting in Trouble – Linda White

The Story of the Ice Princess – Henry Gresham

Sulky – Susan James

The Malice of Satyrs – Poppaea

An Extract from the Memoirs of Colonel Bufton BiS (Devizes)

Copyright

In for a Penny

A Nexus Classic

Penny Birch

In for a Penny is a collection of thirteen short stories, the first from me, the rest told by characters from my books, Penny in Harness, A Taste of Amber, Bad Penny and Brat. Anybody who has read my stories before will know that these are going to be pretty naughty; anybody who hasn’t either has a treat in store or a big shock coming . . .

Also by Penny Birch

A TASTE OF AMBER

BAD PENNY

BARE BEHIND

BRAT

DIRTY LAUNDRY

FIT TO BE TIED

IN DISGRACE

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 DOLLS

WHEN SHE WAS BAD

TIE AND TEASE

WHAT HAPPENS TO BAD GIRLS

BRUSH STROKES

THE INDIGNITIES OF ISABELLE

THE INDISCRETIONS OF ISABELLE

THE INDECENCIES OF ISABELLE

(Writing as Cruella)

Why not visit Penny’s website at

www.pennybirch.com

A Perfect Example – Penny Birch

WHEN I WAS at school, I had been nicknamed Little Miss Smarty Pants, and that was by the teachers. I was the girl who always had her head in a book, the one who was no good at games and never went out with boys. The teachers always complimented me, but with some I had a definite feeling of resentment. Looking back, I suppose they were simply uncomfortable with a pupil more intelligent than themselves. Only one was actually spiteful, and that was Miss Gower. She taught English Literature and always liked to have a little coterie of worshipful girls around her. When I joined the sixth form, she had done her best to persuade me to join her A level group, and had taken it as a personal insult when I chose to study sciences.

Given our past relationship, I was more than a little surprised to receive a letter from her inviting me to speak to the sixth form on careers in academia. Of course, to her, I was no longer Little Miss Smarty Pants: I was Dr Penny Birch BSc MSc PhD and the ideal old girl to inspire the current crop of senior girls to success in their careers. She was now Headmistress, and the tone of her letter was unctuous, to say the least. I was, she wrote, ‘a perfect example of what a pupil might seek to achieve’.

I chose to accept, mainly because I hoped I might actually inspire some of the girls – even the boys – but also because it amused me to think of what the extraordinarily prim and proper Miss Gower would have thought if she had known what I was really like. At school, she’d been known to go into fits of moral indignation at girls and boys having a quick cuddle. If she’d known about my penchant for being spanked – let alone the pony-girl play, the watersports and the lesbian sex – she would have been nailing crosses to the front gates to keep me out, not inviting me in.

An even more obsequious letter of thanks arrived in response to my acceptance. I drove down the day before and stayed with my mother, intent on arriving early so that I could have a look round the school first. Lessons were in progress when I arrived and, rather than announce myself and be shown around formally, I decided to indulge in a bit of nostalgia and visit the places that had been special to me.

There were one or two new buildings and other smaller alterations, but essentially nothing had changed in the thirteen years since I’d left. The main building of red Victorian brick seemed identical, the playing fields had not changed one bit and the grounds were exactly as I remembered. I even managed to find the clump of rhododendrons beneath which my cousin Kate had lost her virginity. I smiled at the memory of how excited she’d been when she told me, and of her pride because she’d managed to seduce the junior groundsman. Not that it had been hard. Kate was gorgeous and he must have thought all his Christmases had come at once.

Gary Pugh had been his name, although we used to call him Ug. He was a big, swarthy lad who always went around with his shirt off. I’d thought he looked like an ape, with his hairy arms and his bulging muscles, but I find there’s something sexy about the Neanderthal look. I had fancied him, if only from afar. Kate had been more practical, as always. At the time the head groundsman had been on the verge of retirement and did no work at all. Ug had ruled the place, buying cigarettes and beer for pupils – pornographic magazines for the boys, too, according to rumour. Possibly even cannabis, although I’d been far too good and shy to get involved with such things. I remembered that his centre of operations had been a red-brick hut. It was shaded by big old yew trees and well away from other buildings, and so had been ideal for his dubious behaviour.

That was where I turned my footsteps, feeling more nostalgic than ever. Gary himself would have been sacked years ago – nobody gets away with the sort of thing he’d done for too long. Still, I wanted to see, and there would be nobody about for a good hour and a half. I remembered the hut as a gloomy, rather sinister place where things happened that I dared not have anything to do with. It hadn’t changed. In fact, if anything, the atmosphere was more intense than I remembered. The yews seemed to hang further down, the windows were more algae-encrusted and the huge heap of old leaves by the door smelt mustier than ever.

I stood there for a long moment with all the old memories flooding back. It had been a place of mystery to me, a place where daring things happened, where forbidden pleasures were indulged. I tried to tell myself not to be ridiculous and that some of the things I’d been up to since leaving would have shocked Ug himself. It didn’t work, and I found myself taking a step towards the door with my stomach trembling as if I was once more an innocent school-girl.

All I wanted to do was look inside. Nobody appeared to be about and, even if the current groundsman appeared, I could easily explain who I was and make a joke of my interest in the hut. Telling myself to grow up, I stepped boldly forward and rapped on the door. Nothing happened – to my vast relief – but when I turned the handle it gave and the door came open with a low creak.

I had always pictured the inside as a sort of den of iniquity, with stacks of beer and cigarette cartons waiting to be sold on to the girls and boys, Ug sitting there counting his ill-gotten gains and perhaps a dirty magazine open on a table. Of course, it wasn’t like that at all, but just a dusty old hut with pale sunlight slanting in through green and heavily cobwebbed windows, tools, flowerpots and other gardening paraphernalia and – of course – no Ug. My initial flush of disappointment was replaced by wry cynicism for my own over-active imagination and then by a mischievous feeling. Of course nothing was visible; staff might have looked into the hut at any time. Ug had been careful. He’d have had hiding places, maybe hiding places that still existed . . .

I began to look around, feeling wonderfully naughty and occasionally glancing out of the window to make sure nobody was approaching. Not that I expected to find anything, but it was such fun to search. Logically, any hiding place had to be sufficiently accessible for goods to be hidden and retrieved fast, yet obscure enough to avoid casual detection.

Being careful not to soil my dress, I started my search. Standing on the table allowed me to see in under the eaves but revealed nothing. The highest shelves had nothing interesting on them, either, while the chimney angle held only a pair of yellowing cigarette packets. It was as I climbed down that I spotted another possibility. In one corner, a huge earthenware flowerpot had been turned upside down on an old plastic sack. There was also a sack on top of it, and on that a small motor – filthy with oil and rotting grass.

It was probably innocent, but there was no harm in checking. I felt both excited and rather childish as I carefully lifted the sack with the motor on it, and then tilted back the flowerpot. I knew what I’d found the instant I saw the slim sheaves of paper and a flash of skintone. Nobody keeps their collection of motorsports magazines so carefully hidden.

Porn magazines aren’t really my thing. Not because I object to seeing girls posing nude, but because they all seem to be aimed at half-witted Jack-the-lad types. This was different, and I recognised the style immediately. These were no ordinary dirty magazines, full of coarse observations on smiling girls in cheap lingerie. They were spanking magazines.

My hands were trembling as I took the top one. The cover showed a girl – a ripe, young girl with full thighs and a plump peach of a bottom. You could tell that because all she had on was a pair of tight navy-blue knickers – knickers that were both far too small for her and half down over the crease of her bottom. She had her back to the camera but was peeping over her shoulder, as if at the reader. Her eyes showed alarm and trepidation, as well they might – on the table at her side lay a long, wicked school cane.

The other magazines were similar, each cover featuring a girl or girls in embarrassing postures and various states of exposure. Some were in knickers or shorts, some had their bottoms bare, a few had little skirts on, but every single one of them was quite clearly going to be getting her bottom whacked. Reasoning that it would be easiest to conceal if I heard anyone coming, I took the top one and carefully replaced the flowerpot.

Opening my selection I found more pictures of the girl from the cover – standing with her panties down at the front and her head hung in shame, kneeling in an armchair with her lovely plump bottom bare, ruefully clutching a bum-cheek across which a fat, grey-haired old man had just planted a long, red cane welt. There were others, too: a slim blonde on an exercise bike, a lovely full-bottomed woman in a traffic warden’s outfit and a pretty dark-haired girl in her gymslip. In each case, the sequence of photos followed a predictable – but delightful – order. The first few would show the girl fully dressed, in attitudes of contrition or defiance. Then would come her exposure, sometimes of just her bottom, sometimes of her whole body, but always concentrating on her bottom. Next would be her punishment, with her bent into various rude and humiliating positions while she was beaten. Finally there were the corner shots, with the girls still bare-bottomed, but well-whacked and looking thoroughly sorry for themselves.

The pictures had their effect on me, but what I really wanted was a story. With trembling fingers, I flicked quickly through, hoping to find something that combined discipline with rudeness. The first was the gym discipline one, with a hard-faced young man making a girl strip to do exercises in the nude and then caning her. The second was about a girl shop assistant getting caught with her fingers in the till and being offered the choice of the sack or a spanking. It’s the oldest plot of all, but I like it, and after another quick check out of the hut window I began to read.

It was presented as a reader’s letter. That seemed unlikely, but I didn’t care. First there was the description of the girl, Julie, a naïve young woman described as ‘embarrassed over the size of her ample breasts and chubby buttocks’. That got to me. I may be petite, and my breasts are far from ample, but I’ve always felt my bottom to be disproportionately plump. Next came the description of the man, Mr Hodge. He was supposed to be the owner of a jewellers and ‘short and squat, with a roll of fat above his tight collar and only a ruff of greying hair remaining on his head’. It was typical – the foul old man giving an intimate punishment to a pretty young girl – but I confess it brought home my sense of erotic humiliation. The story then went on to the theft and the actual spanking. I found myself speed-reading, eager to get to the place where the poor girl had her knickers pulled down before my nerve failed me.

For me, that is always the highlight of a spanking story, the moment when the girl has to endure the lowering of her panties in preparation for her punishment. This was a good one –

‘Nonsense, Julie, of course your pants must come down. Do you really think a man of my age cares to see the bare bottom of a little snip of a girl like you? Good heavens, don’t you think I’ve seen girls’ bottoms bare before?’

‘Yes, Mr Hodge, but not mine!’

‘I’m sure you’re no different from any other. Come on now, if you’re going to be missish, I shall have to give you double, and it will be on the bare, believe me.’

‘Mr Hodge! Please!’

‘Come now, Julie, pop them down.’

‘No! I won’t! Not on the skin! It’s . . . it’s indecent!’

‘Indecent? For a girl like you to have her pants taken down when she needs a spanking? By a man of my seniority? Nonsense: it’s right and proper!’

‘I shan’t!’

‘Oh, yes, you shall. Now, down they come!’

– and down they came, but only after Mr Hodge had pulled the frantically kicking Julie down over his knee. It described how she felt while her knickers were peeled down and how the filthy old bastard had a good feel and then told her that her pussy showed from the rear. Then she got her spanking.

I had just got to the point where he had decided that his hand wasn’t having the proper effect and that he ought to be using a shoe, when I thought I heard a noise outside and quickly put the magazine under a flowerpot. I glanced out of the window and there was nothing, but it really brought home to me the appalling risk I was taking.

Yet I was shaking hard, and badly needed to masturbate. It was a hot day and I’d chosen a loose but smart dress, stay-up stockings and lightweight cotton undies. All I needed to do was slip a hand up my dress and down my knickers . . .

I didn’t dare, not there, not in a hut where a groundsman read spanking magazines! God, he probably masturbated over them himself, sitting in the very chair I’d been in, his cock hard in his hand over the thought of Julie getting her spanking or the picture of the traffic warden having her panties pulled down. No, he was a man: he’d want to do it over the rudest picture, the big colour centre spread of the cover girl with her knickers around one ankle, her bottom lifted and her pussy and bumhole showing . . .

God, I needed it badly, but it was just too risky. Yet there was no sign of anybody, only birdsong and the distant sound of a mower. A mower meant a groundsman, and while he was using the mower, he couldn’t be in his hut. What if there were two of them? No, there was only one chair, only one mug in the ancient china sink. As long as I could hear the mower, I was safe. Unless . . .

Unless a hundred things, but maybe if I was quick, maybe if I just rubbed myself through my panties. I didn’t dare. I should wait until I got back to my mother’s. No, I’d never be able to concentrate properly. I needed it now, anyway, and I needed to think about being spanked. To be spanked, just like Julie in the story. To be put over the dirty old bastard’s knee and spanked and spanked and spanked; spanked until the tears ran down my face, spanked until I howled.

I was going to do it. My hand was up my dress. My finger was burrowing into the damp cotton of my knickers over my pussy, then going under the gusset. I found the wet, sensitive flesh between my lips, began to rub . . .

It was no good. I had to have my story. Quickly, I lifted the big flowerpot and pulled the magazine out from beneath it. Turning the pages with frantic haste, I found my place, the argument where Mr Hodge was trying to persuade the unfortunate Julie to pull down her own knickers in front of him.

I started a little earlier, at the interview where she chose to accept a spanking as punishment. The mower was still going in the distance, so I spread the magazine out on the table. I pulled my dress up and sat myself down back to front on the chair and slid a hand down the front of my panties. My bum was sticking out over the edge of the chair, which felt nice. It was the same position that the cover girl ended up sitting in, with her whipped bottom stuck out bare while her uncle and aunt took tea.

With my middle finger moving over my cit in my favourite little circular motions, I began to masturbate. My pussy was really soaking, and I soon began to feel the first stirrings of an orgasm. With my pelvic muscles clenching gently and my breathing rate growing, I let it build, twice going back to the story so that I could climax at the point I found rudest of all, when he told her that her bottom and pussy looked overweight.

As my climax approached, I focused hard on the story, forming the words of shame and ecstasy on my lips as I read –

‘You see, Julie, one way or the other, they come down, and now you’ll be getting double for your mulish behaviour.’

Julie gave a broken sob and then she felt Mr Hodge’s hand in the waistband of her precious panties. Down they came, unhurriedly and without ceremony, as if the exposure of her bottom was really quite unimportant. Then they were around her thighs and she discovered the true meaning of shame.

‘There we are,’ Mr Hodge chortled, ‘all bare. That really wasn’t so bad, was it? Really, the fuss you girls make over your bodies, as if it could possibly matter that you’re seen out of your pants!’

He had begun to feel her bottom, stroking and squeezing the cheeks as if testing the quality of a pair of ripe pumpkins.

‘Please, Mr Hodge, if I must be punished, get it over with!’ Julie pleaded.

‘All in good time,’ he replied. ‘You really should lose a little weight, you know. It’s just puppy-fat, I suppose, but your bottom is simply enormous and even your cunt mound looks fat. Oh, yes, I can see that, don’t think I can’t.’

That was too much. I was going to come. I shut my eyes, thinking of the unspeakable humiliation of being held over a short, squat old man’s lap and told that my bottom and pussy were too fat. Then, having been so thoroughly humiliated, I’d be spanked . . . spanked . . . spanked . . .

I was saying it out loud as my orgasm built like a bubble in my head, then suddenly somebody spoke from directly behind me.

‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

I jumped so hard that I bit my tongue. If it hadn’t been for that, I think I’d have just run. As it was, I instinctively clutched at my mouth and found myself looking at a bulky man of about forty, now heavily bearded, but still with his hirsute chest and arms quite bare. It was Ug.

‘Like a spanking, do you?’ he asked, leering meaningfully at me.

Well, I could hardly deny it. He’d caught me masturbating over a spanking magazine and I’d been mumbling the word ‘spanked’ over and over when he’d come in. I could feel my face flushing as my embarrassment set in, but he took no notice.

‘How about it, then?’ he continued. ‘I’ll do it better than that old git, I can promise you.’

It took a moment to register what he was saying. He was offering me a spanking and the ‘old git’ was the supposed uncle in the photo on the page opposite my story. It showed him ordering the girl to take off her blouse, and she had two large, round breasts already on display.

I could have got up and walked away. I could have screamed the place down and accused him of assault. I could have kicked him in the balls. I didn’t. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt about sexual encounters, it’s that when a chance comes, don’t pass it by. This was Ug, the man who’d taken Kate’s virginity. I hadn’t lost mine for a further five years, and all because I’d been so timid.

‘Yes, I would,’ I answered, my jaw trembling hard, ‘but you stop when I say.’

‘Suits me,’ he said and sat down on a pile of manure sacks.

He was grinning from ear to ear and eyeing me up and down, clearly impressed, which increased my confidence. Then he patted his lap in a gesture whose meaning was heart-stoppingly familiar to me. I went forward, bending my body over his legs until my fingers were touching the ground and my bottom was the highest part of my body.

‘You’re Katie James’ little sister, aren’t you?’ he asked as he began to fondle my bottom through my dress.

‘Cousin,’ I answered.

‘Wendy, isn’t it, or Jenny?’ he said, tracing a line up the crease of my bottom with one thick finger.

‘Penny,’ I corrected him, and swallowed the lump of tension in my throat.

‘Oh, yes, that’s right,’ he went on. ‘Who’d have thought it, Little Miss Smarty Pants a spanky girl?’

I was past replying, because he had started to pull up my dress and I could feel the material gliding slowly up the backs of my thighs, over the tops of my stay-ups and on to my bottom. Then it was tucked up under my belt and I was showing my panties, a little green pair in light cotton.

He kept talking and began to stroke my bottom through my knickers, asking what I was doing at the school and even what Kate was up to. He didn’t seem too worried about having me bent over and willing for a spanking. Perhaps he just wanted to take his time, but it really added to my excitement as I waited for the supreme moment of indignity.

It came soon enough. He had a good feel of my bum, stroking my panty seat, weighing my cheeks in his hand, tickling the crease and even going down between my legs to feel over my pussy. I was soaking, and he gave a knowing chuckle when he found out, then prodded me as if to imply that my vagina would be easy to penetrate.

‘Hot little bitch, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘Well, I suppose we’d better have these down, then.’

He just reached up and jerked them down, but I almost came. One moment, I was covered, if only by my panties; the next, my bum was bare. I gasped at the sensation of exposure and he chuckled, a really dirty sound. With a couple of quick tugs, he pulled my knickers down around my knees and then laid a big, rough hand on the softness of my bottom.

I was whimpering and really shaking. I like being spanked, I really do, but that doesn’t mean it’s not humiliating and it certainly doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt! Ug had been a strapping lad in his twenties; now he was a great brute.

Doubtless sensing my fear, he laughed and then caught me by the arm, twisting it up into the small of my back and locking my wrist in one massive hand. Now I was helpless, bare-bottomed over his knee and about to be spanked . . .

The first smack caught me hard across the crest of my bum and I yelped. It was really hard, not like the skilful stinging slaps that girlfriends give me, but a solid wallop that sent a shock right up my spine to my jaw. It left my bottom smarting terribly, but at my protest he just laughed and gave me another, even harder. As the pain hit me, I wondered how I could ever have been so stupid as to volunteer for a spanking from such a gross beast. I’ve been spanked by big men before. I’ve even been beaten with an oar, but this was worse!

After about five swats, I just lost control completely, kicking and squealing and wiggling my bottom about in a desperate response to my self-imposed punishment. Ug just laughed and carried on with my spanking, occasionally commenting on what a lewd display I was making of myself.

That was what turned it around for me. He used such crude words to describe my body as he beat me – ‘cunt’, ‘fuck-hole’, ‘arse-slit’ and even ‘chocolate starfish’ for my bum-hole. Certainly my endorphins were beginning to run, but on a conscious level it was his filthy language that got to me. Suddenly, I was once more desperately in need of my interrupted orgasm. I threw my knees across his nearer leg, stretching my panties taut against his shin and bringing my pussy into rude and intimate contact with the rough tweed of his trousers.

‘Here, you’ll get cunt-slime all over my trousers, you little bitch,’ he protested as I started to rub myself on his leg.

He gave me a really hard swat, making my bum-cheeks bounce and slamming my pussy against his leg. His trousers were covered in oil and grass clippings anyway, so I didn’t see it mattered to him if I rubbed myself off on them. It mattered more to me, but I was too far gone to care.

‘Keep talking; tell me what you see,’ I begged, ‘and spank faster.’

‘Dirty bitch,’ he answered, but made no move to stop me rubbing.

He cocked his knee up suddenly, jamming his thigh hard into my pussy. Then the tempo of the slaps on my bottom changed, coming faster and lower, slapping the sweet spot where my bum-cheeks join my thighs. My clit was touching the coarse tweed of his trousers and rubbing with each smack on my bum. It was ecstasy and I knew I’d soon be coming. Then he started to talk.

‘You love this, don’t you? You love a good spanking. You love to have your pants down and your slit open. You love to show it all off, your little hairy cunt and your juicy fuck-hole. I can see it all, Penny, when my hand isn’t in the way, ’cause I’m spanking your bare arse, that is. You’ve got a wet cunt, really sopping. Get your arse up higher, you little tart. Make the cheeks spread. Show us your dirty little ring. Yeah, that’s right, you squeak like you hate it, but you keep rubbing your cunt on me, don’t you? Yeah, up and down, up and down, smack, smack, smack. Oh, you want to see yourself, girl; every time your arse-slit opens, I can see your starfish . . .’

That was too much for me. On the word ‘starfish’, I started to come. I’d been holding back, but I could hold no more. Bucking my pelvis frantically, I got the full friction of his trousers on my clit. Every muscle in my body seemed to lock at once; my back arched and I screamed aloud. A smack caught me, squashing my bottom and giving me a new apex of pleasure. I kicked my legs and my downed panties strained between my knees as another smack and a third peak caught me, then a fourth and last and it was all dying quickly away.

‘Stop! Ow! I’ve come,’ I yelped as another smack landed on my cheeks.

He stopped and I slumped down. I felt limp, exhausted, thoroughly chastened, and happy in the way that only a really good spanking can make me. I was bare-bottomed over his lap with my reddened buttocks thrust high, my knees cocked wide, my panties stretched taut between them, my pussy and bumhole on plain show – a ridiculous, utterly shameful posture for me to be in and oh, so nice.

He tightened his grip on my arm and once more began to explore my bottom. Maybe he expected me to try and get up because I’d come, but I’m not that selfish. Even without my arm twisted up, I’d have been totally compliant. I knew he’d want something out of me anyway, and I was happy to let it happen.

My bottom was burning: a hot, throbbing pain. He was soothing me by hand, stroking my sore cheeks and kneading gently, surprisingly gently, considering what a brute he’d been during my spanking. I lifted my bottom and gave a soft purr, pleased by the way he was handling me. He responded by sliding his hand between my thighs and cupping my pussy.

I had expected him to want his own pleasure and was surprised when he started to masturbate me. Not that I was going to stop him, and I relaxed as he put a big, callused finger along the length of my pussy-groove and began to rub at me. Before long, I felt a thumb inserted into my vagina and he began to fuck me with it and rub my clit at the same time. Soon, I was breathing hard and lifting my bum to his touch, then grunting and rubbing myself on him to get the contact with my clit just right. I came again, a long, drawn-out orgasm: not as intense as the first, but still lovely. He kept rubbing until I’d completely finished and then pulled his thumb out of my pussy with a sticky pop. I slumped down again, smiling happily to myself and quite off my guard.

‘I do like a souvenir,’ he said cheerfully and, with a sudden motion, he had whipped my panties down from knee-level and off.

‘Hey, come on,’ I protested, as I climbed off his lap. I’ve got to give a talk to the sixth form in half an hour.’

‘Then you can do it knickerless.’ He laughed and stuffed the little scrap of green cotton into his trouser pocket. ‘It’ll do you good; keep you in mind of Gary.’

‘My bum will do that,’ I answered. ‘That was hard. It really smarts.’

‘Liked it, though, didn’t you?’ he laughed. ‘Now, how about a nice suck of my cock before you hurry off?’

‘I . . . Only if you give me my panties back,’ I answered.

I’d been spanked, well spanked, and I always like to give sex to someone who has spanked me, often oral sex. Sucking him was no problem, but I did want my panties back.

‘Fair enough,’ he answered. ‘Go down between my legs, then. You can swallow and all. I don’t like mess in my hut.’

He drew down his zip and flopped his penis into his hand. It was fat, a dull brownish pink, and already half turgid with blood. I knelt obediently – using a plastic sack to keep my knees clean – and took it into my mouth. It tasted intensely male and slightly of oil, as if he’d been using household lubricant to masturbate with. He probably had, but I was too turned on to make an issue of it and began to suck. His cock swelled quickly and, when it was fully hard, I put my fingers around the base of the shaft and began to masturbate him into my mouth. He was soon grunting with pleasure and calling me dirty names, which I knew meant he wouldn’t take long to come. Sure enough, barely before I’d got into the rhythm of things, his erection jerked and my mouth was filled with slimy, salty male come. I gulped it down, no more wanting mess on my dress than he did on the floor.

Time was pressing and Miss Gower would be wondering what had happened to me, so I adjusted myself as best I could and asked Gary if there was anything about me that looked unusual.

‘Only your red backside,’ he laughed.

‘Thanks,’ I answered, ignoring his remark. ‘Look, I’ve got to go, so can I have my knickers, please?’

“Fraid not,’ he answered.

‘You promised!’ I retorted. ‘I gave you your suck, didn’t I?’

‘And very nice it was, too,’ he said. ‘But I want a souvenir of this afternoon, and your panties are what I’ll have.’

‘Please!’ I said. ‘I can’t go knickerless!’

‘Don’t see why not,’ he stated flatly. ‘I don’t suppose you were exactly planning on showing the sixth formers your panties anyway, were you?’

‘No, of course not, but . . .’

‘Come on, Penny. I know you girls. You’ll have three dozen pairs at home, all just as pretty. These are mine, now, so you’d best put up with it.’

‘You’re a bastard!’ I snapped, but it was pointless. I couldn’t get my knickers off him by force, so that was that. I’d be spending the rest of the day bare under my skirt.

I left, feeling thoroughly humiliated and intensely self-conscious. The worst of it was that being forced to go knickerless under a dress is just the sort of fantasy I like, and I knew that, by the time I got back to my mother’s house and fresh clothes, I would be thoroughly turned on. That night, I’d masturbate over what Ug had done to me. I knew I’d do it, and that was the most humiliating thing of all.

Miss Gower greeted me in her study and I made some feeble excuse for being late. She suggested going straight to the hall, and chattered merrily all the way, talking about the school and asking politely ignorant questions about my work. I answered evasively, all the while thinking of my poor bare bottom and the way that bastard Pugh had pinched my panties.

I felt more self-conscious than ever as I walked down the length of the school hall. Externally I was immaculate, the very image of a successful young professional woman. Underneath, I had no knickers and a red bum.

I would have been nervous anyway, but having no panties on made it so much worse. Some three hundred sixth formers were looking at me: some intense, some rebellious, some just bored. I have lectured to larger audiences, I’ve delivered papers to hostile symposia, but nothing had prepared me for this. I’d expected it to be easy, a simple speech to an audience of sixth formers. It was anything but and, as the last of my confidence ebbed away, I found myself once more Little Miss Smarty Pants, going up to collect my Scholar’s Ribbon with every single person in the audience hoping I’d fall flat on my face.

I wish I had. Instead I put my heel in one of the ventilator grates, just as Miss Gower ushered me towards the stage steps. I went over, hard: not on my face, but on to my knees. I tried to save myself, but it was a mistake. My bag caught my dress, pulling it up and leaving me kneeling on the steps with my bottom high and my dress over my back.

There were no knickers to cover my modesty, no tights, nothing. I was showing the full, naked moon of my bottom to all three hundred of them. Moreover, it was thrust more or less directly at Miss Gower’s face. I didn’t need a mirror to know what it looked like. My pussy would be well juiced and open from the spanking and his intrusive digit, all pink and wet and wide in her nest of black hair. My bumhole would be showing, a wrinkled knot of pinkish-brown flesh in the depths of a rather hairy crease. Worst of all, my bottom cheeks would not be their normal pale flesh tone, but a deep flushed pink, the colour of spanked bottom flesh, freshly spanked.

. . . oh, well, it could have been worse. No, on second thoughts, it probably couldn’t have been.

Unlike me, Ginny Scott is one of those lucky few who never seem to worry. This must be partly because she is pretty and blonde with a figure that might have been taken from a naughty cartoon but, more importantly – I think – she was simply born with a playful personality. She takes an uncomplicated delight in life and particularly in sex, without any of the guilt and uncertainty that hinder so many of us. In Penny in Harness, I described how she helped introduce me to the delights of pony-girl play, but her story takes place long before that, when she was Ginny Linslade and living on her parents’ farm in Wiltshire . . .

Sweet Charity – Ginny Linslade

THERE WAS A new man working in the High Forty who Arthur said was taller than Matthew. They’re my brothers; Matthew’s nice, but Arthur’s a bit grumpy sometimes. Anyway, I like tall men, so I had to see this guy; and who knew, maybe he’d be worth luring into the long grass for a cuddle.

I knew I was supposed to be helping with the silly cheese-making project, so I threw on a skimpy blue summer dress over my knickers and escaped out the front. It was a lovely day, hot but with a breeze blowing from the downs so that I could smell the scent of hay. I felt great, and I knew I looked good. The blue dress complemented my golden hair, for a start, but that wouldn’t be what the men were looking at. The dress was quite old, and I’d had a lot less boob when it had been new. Now they filled out the little pleated front until it looked fit to burst. The material was really tight, squashing them out and making me feel really conscious of them. As I had no bra, my nipples showed through underneath, and I know what that does to men.

Another good thing about the breeze was that, up on the downs, it would probably be strong enough to make my skirt blow up to flash my knickers. I love it when men see my knickers and think I’m all embarrassed about showing them, and it’s a sure way of getting attention. I’d chosen a pale blue pair to match my dress, skimpy enough to show my bum off properly. I’m afraid I do rather tend to grow out of my clothes and, like my dress, my knickers were tight and made my bottom bulge out rather around the sides. I knew it made my bum look pretty big, but men like girls to have big bums, or at least that’s what they’re always telling me.

I ran most of the way up to the ridge and then walked, ever so demurely, when I reached the lane that leads to the High Forty. He was there, and he was gorgeous. I suppose he must have been about six foot four, and he was working with his shirt off so that all the big, golden-brown muscles of his chest showed. Matthew was there, too. He knows what a little flirt I am and doesn’t mind but, after greeting me with a knowing grin, he warned me not to break up their work.

The rest of the morning was really frustrating but also really exciting. Knowing that it was best not to cheek Matthew, I chose to wait until their lunch break. The top end of the field made a lovely place to sunbathe, so I lay down and spent my time giving my man a tease-show that there was no way he was going to resist.

First it was my legs, with my dress rucked up to show their full length as I lay on my front. An ‘accidental’ movement left the bit of my knickers showing where they tuck under my bottom, and I stayed like that until I was sure he’d had a good stare. After a while, I rolled over and pulled my dress even higher, right up until it was tucked up under my boobs. I closed my eyes and lay back, feeling incredibly horny. The sun felt hot on my body and I could feel the tight material of the little blue knickers that were all that shielded my pussy from his gaze. My boobs felt huge – they are pretty huge, I suppose, embarrassingly so sometimes: but not now, not when the man of my dreams was eyeing them and wondering how they’d feel in his hands. I began to think of how he would hold them, weighing them in his hands as if he couldn’t believe how big they were, stroking my nipples until they were all hard and tingly, sucking them until I was melting in his arms . . .

It was too much; I had to do it. With what was supposed to look like an impatient shrug, I pulled my dress up over my head and lay back down. I was topless, with only my knickers to hide me and my nipples stiffening in the light breeze. It felt so good, and if he’d just come over, ripped my knickers off and mounted me, I’d not have put up the smallest fight. My eyes were closed but I knew he’d be looking at me. I mean, what else could he do?

Of course, it worked two ways, because his body was well worth looking at, too. After a while, I rolled back over to give him a view of my bum and sneaked a look. He was working on the bales, looking so good. He had really tight jeans on and I could see the shape of his bum and the outline of what looked like a really good-sized cock and balls. Come lunchtime, I was going to have that cock out, in my hand, in my mouth, up my pussy . . .

By the time lunch came, I was really in a sweat. Finally, Matthew brought the baler to a halt and signalled a break. I stood up and put my dress on slowly, making sure my man got plenty of chance to watch. Matthew was dishing out beers as I walked over to them, and I took one, then smiled and asked who the new man was.

It was dreadful. He was introduced to me as Luke, but in reply he addressed Matthew and referred to me as ‘baby sister’, as if I was a little girl! Then he asked if I’d just come up, as if he could possibly have missed me sunbathing! Finally, he wandered off to talk to the man who’d come with the dray!

I was so cross, I stamped my foot, which made Matthew laugh.

‘I wouldn’t get your hopes up, Tartlet,’ he chuckled. ‘Luke’s as gay as they come.’

‘Gay?’ I answered.

‘Gay,’ Matthew assured me.

Well, it made sense. I mean, if a man ignores me sunbathing topless, he more or less has to be gay. I was so cross – with Luke for not being what I wanted, with Matthew for not telling me earlier, but most of all with myself for looking a right little idiot! It just wasn’t fair, anyway. I mean, I’d never met a gay field-hand before, never. Now I had, and it just had to be the best-looking guy we’d ever hired!

I stormed off, red in the face and close to tears. Matthew laughed and then called after me with real sympathy in his voice, but I carried on. By the time I got to the lane, I felt a bit calmer but had realised that there was another problem. I was urgently, desperately horny. My pussy was soaking and my nipples were so stiff that they hurt. I could feel a flush right across my chest and even the motion of my hair against the nape of my neck was maddening. If things had gone right, Luke and I might have already been kissing – more, even. Maybe he’d be stroking my breasts through my dress. Maybe he’d have let a hand stray down my knickers. Maybe I’d have been holding his big, stiff cock . . .

It was agony; I had to have a man. In fact, I was so horny that when Barry – Toby Burrel’s big black retriever – came past, I had a really dirty thought. I mean a really, really dirty thought. Barry had these big balls, all covered with sleek black hair, and a cock at least as big as some men’s. For one dreadfully shameful moment, I wondered whether he would mount me if I knelt down and showed him my bare bum; then I realised exactly what I was thinking of doing and felt my cheeks suffuse with the hot blood of a really burning blush.

Anyway, a moment later, Toby himself appeared and probably saved me from doing the most disgraceful act of my life. Still, I’d given myself a shock and so decided that the best thing to do was go and play with myself. A good rub at my pussy always makes me feel better when I get too horny, at least for a while.

The sensible place to go was Haddows Wood, which started only a little further along the lane. It’s our land and there was no work going on in it, so I knew I could get the privacy I’d need. Not that I really wanted privacy. What I wanted was for half a dozen big, strong lads to come and take turns with me down in the grass. When I play with myself outdoors, I often imagine what a man would do if he caught me. I like to think he’d fuck me on the spot, and that’s always a nice thing to think about while I play with myself.

I tried that this time. There’s a deep gully in Haddows Wood, and at one point a big beecb has fallen across it, making the perfect little place for me to be naughty. I stripped – not just partly, to let me get to my pussy and boobs, but completely, so that I could feel the fresh, tingly air all over my naked body. After walking up and down a bit, to enjoy the feeling of being in the nude, I sat with my bare bum against the lovely smooth bark of the beech trunk.

With one arm holding my boobs up and the flat of my hand pressed to my pussy, I started to play. It felt nice, really open and sexy, naked, playing with myself in the big beech wood with the breeze rustling the leaves overhead and the air warm and scented with earth and things. As I closed my eyes, I started to rub, bumping my fingers back and forth over my bud. I imagined a man catching me as I was: getting himself all hard over the sight of me and then grabbing me and pulling me down among the leaves. He’d throw my legs high and stuff his big, hard cock right into me, pumping and grunting as he enjoyed me, then pulling out and telling me he couldn’t do it because I was a girl . . . He had turned to Luke in my mind, spoiling my dirty thoughts and leaving me just short of my climax.