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
Copyright
‘Not too hard, Jade,’ she said.
‘You need it quite hard,’ I told her, ‘but don’t worry. It’ll be good. Trust me, you don’t know the meaning of hot until you’ve been given a proper spanking. I’m going to warm you, and make you come, and when I’ve finished I’m going to make you get down on your knees and lick my pussy. While you’re licking you can think about how bad you’ve been, and how hot your bum is as a result.’
‘I haven’t been bad!’ she wailed.
‘No?’ I demanded. ‘Wanking off cab drivers to get out of paying your fare? Letting other girls pick you up in bars? You’re a dirty, smutty little bitch, aren’t you, Zoe?’
‘Yes,’ she sobbed.
‘And you deserve to be punished?’
‘I’m not –’
‘Yes, you do, and you know it, so if you can’t take your spanking like a big girl you’ve got to have the gag. Now open up!’
She wasn’t coming over to ask me the time. I was smiling and blushing before she even reached me, not sure where to look. ‘I saw you,’ she said ‘being made to kiss that girl’s boots. Nice.’
‘She was . . . punishing me,’ I stammered, ‘for spilling beer on her boots.’
She gave a grunt. Her voice was deep, masculine, but the rich, hormonal scent of her body was anything but. I could feel myself melting. ‘Would you like me to lick your boots? I asked. ‘I’d like you to lick something else. Come on.’ She led me to her jeep, genuine old-style army, with a cover over the back. ‘Like it?’ she said. ‘Well I’m a real sergeant, if that makes it better for you. Now get licking.’
Jade is usually a confident young lesbian, very aware of what she wants, and what she doesn’t, Unfortunately her taste for being bullied can very easily get out of hand, and when she decides to compete with her filthy uncle Rupert in collecting the uniforms of sex partners, they quickly do. What starts out as a playful if provocative hobby leads to her finding herself obliged to accomodate men as well as women, and ending up in a seriously sticky mess - literally.
THE INDIGNITIES OF ISABELLE
(writing as Cruella)
PENNY IN HARNESS
A TASTE OF AMBER
BAD PENNY
BRAT
IN FOR A PENNY
PLAYTHING
TIGHT WHITE COTTON
TIE AND TEASE
PENNY PIECES
TEMPER TANTRUMS
REGIME
DIRTY LAUNDRY
Why not visit Penny’s website at
www.pennybirch.com
SAMANTHA PICKED UP the scissors. She thanked the barmaid, smiling, and took a pull from her drink. My wrists tensed against my bonds automatically. I felt my tummy muscles jump. She met my eyes, held up the scissors, opened them and snapped the blades shut with a click.
‘Not my bra, Sam, please!’ I begged.
‘Your bra, Jade. I want you bare.’
‘That’s not fair, Sam! I have to have them specially made, you know I do! This one was forty quid! Sam, no! Sam! Bitch!’
She’d done it. As I’d spoken the blade had slid up under my armpit, beneath the material of my bra strap. She’d cut. I’d heard the material part and felt the tension go. It was done, my right boob hanging heavy in her ruined cup, my flesh spilling out around the lace.
‘Bitch,’ I repeated.
‘That’s not a very clever thing to say, is it, Jade?’ Samantha answered. ‘Not when you’re tied to a cross. Now let’s have them out, right out.’
I just hung my head, unable to answer as she set to work, cutting off the remainder of my bra. The left side went. My boobs lolled forwards, more out than in. One shoulder strap went. The cup went slack, held up only because the lacy material was sticking to my skin. The second went and it fell, exposing me.
Samantha pulled the wrecked bra away. I was showing, topless in the flickering candlelight, red and orange shapes dancing across my flesh, my tight nipples rich brown, then crimson. They felt huge, really blatant, great fat balls of flesh sticking out, with everyone staring at them. Well, they are huge, I suppose.
My breathing was deep, my skin prickly with sweat. I could feel the wet in my knickers, and the hot, heady smells of the orange and cinnamon incense, mixed with my own excitement. My wrists hurt a little, my ankles too, the thick rope taut against my flesh. It didn’t matter. It was all part of what she was doing to me.
‘Aren’t they just the fattest?’ she said, and reached out, taking one of my breasts in her hand. ‘I do adore a little, fat, baby dyke.’
I moaned as she lifted my boob, her thumb brushing across the erect nipple. She was smiling, her eyes full of excitement, and bright with reflected candle flame. Her thumb came back, teasing my nipple. She pinched it, hard, and I cried out.
‘Panties,’ she said firmly, and dropped my boob. ‘I want to see if your cunt’s as fat as your tits.’
All I could manage was a weak sob. I looked down, watching as she pulled out the side of my knickers. The scissors went under, snip, to the other side, snip, and it was done. My ruined panties were twitched away and I was naked. Someone in the audience giggled. Another remarked on how hairy my pussy mound was. I looked up.
They were looking at me, twelve women, each with her eyes fixed on my naked body. Samantha was gloating, well pleased with herself. She was aroused, on tying me up, on ruining my clothes, on exposing me. So were the others, butch and femme alike, the couples cuddled close together, the singles pleased, maybe jealous.
Samantha returned the scissors to the bar, bending across to pass them to the barmaid. The motion pulled her top tight to her back, her trousers to her bottom, showing her sleek, tight muscles. She was so neat, almost masculine, her bare midriff sleek and firm, her buns small and pert, stretching out the leather into twin balls of shiny black. I wanted to kiss it, down on my knees, with my own big, wobbling, girly posterior stuck out, bare.
She bought another Pils, paid, but went on speaking, leaned close to the barmaid. I saw her point, up, and my stomach knotted in real fear. The barmaid smiled, stood up, on tiptoe, reaching for one of the long, scarlet ostrich plumes. I was shaking my head even before Sam turned back, babbling out pleas, my body quivering. She just grinned when she saw the state I was in, took a sip from her bottle and stepped close.
‘No!’ I screamed, but too late, as the feather was drawn across the flesh of my tummy, to make my muscles knot and twitch.
‘What a baby!’ one of the butch girls remarked, and laughed.
It was the last thing I heard at all clearly. Sam was merciless. She drew the feather over my tummy again, and back, across my boobs, right on the nipples, tickling crazily. I just lost control. I was writhing in my bonds, babbling for her to stop, giggling stupidly, squirming, my muscles jumping. She didn’t stop, doing my tummy, my boobs, my armpits, my thighs, until I was screaming for mercy and the audience were hooting with laughter.
My legs were wide on the cross, the tuck of my bum vulnerable. That’s the worst bit, just where my cheeks come together, over my bottom hole. I was helpless. I couldn’t cover it, and I knew she wouldn’t let me off. She didn’t. For a moment she paused, just enough to let me get my breath back, holding the awful feather up to my face. She ducked down, and in it went, between my legs, onto the sensitive skin on my inner thighs, higher, towards my pussy, towards my bum-cheeks, touching, pulled slowly forwards, tickling an inch from the little dirty hole between them. I screamed, out loud. Every muscle in my body knotted, hard, my thighs, my bottom, my tummy. My boobs were wobbling, my whole chest jerking to my desperate, uncontrollable panting, my tummy jumping, my pussy twitching.
It just happened. I couldn’t help it. I can’t when I’m tickled, and Sam might have realised. My bladder burst, full across her chest, an explosion of pee that I had absolutely no way at all of holding back. I heard her angry yell, and the barmaid’s, gasps of shock or delight from the watching girls, a giggle.
The tickling stopped immediately. My pee didn’t, gushing over the floor and over Sam, who’d jerked back, but not far enough. I let it all go, shaking and sobbing as my bladder emptied. Sam stood up, mouth open in disgust, skinny top plastered to her breasts, the feather trailed from her hand, limp and wet. She was dripping pee, the fabric of her top stuck tight to her little braless breasts, showing their outline perfectly, and the small, hard nipples at the tip of each. It was on her jeans too, drips running down the perfect black leather, and a little had gone in her face. Worse, she’d dropped her bottle when my stream had hit her, and it had spilled on her boots. I’d peed on them too.
All I could do was stare at the mounting anger in her face, still with pee trickling down my leg. The barmaid was looking too, at the big puddle under the cross, which was rapidly soaking into the carpet. She vanished out into the main room, the music stopped. The owner appeared, looking like thunder.
‘Out,’ she ordered, jerking her thumb towards the door.
I wasn’t too happy about being barred from Whispers. After all, it was Sam’s fault I’d wet myself, not mine. I’d told her how ticklish I was, especially near my bumhole. Anyway, if they didn’t want rude things happening in their bar, they shouldn’t have set up the back room for us to play in.
None of my arguments worked, and nobody stuck up for me, so I ended up being pushed out onto the street, in jeans, boots and top, but with no underwear. Not that anyone seemed to mind, in Soho, or even really notice, but it was a long way back to Turnpike Lane. I got stared at, most of the way, with a couple of boys leering at me and nudging each other on the tube.
It’s all very well for girls like Sam to go around with no bra, but with boobs like mine it’s no good. I just look rude, which is fine if I’m in the mood, and a pain if I’m not. As it was, I didn’t know what I felt. I was really pissed off about being treated so unfairly, but it had been good being put on the cross. Having my bra and panties cut off had got to me, but I couldn’t afford it, and Sam hadn’t even asked. She’d tickled me too, which I hate, but I knew that if she’d taken me all the way the climax would have been something else. So I didn’t know if I wanted sex or not. Either way, I certainly didn’t want a couple of teenage boys mauling my boobs while I jerked their little cocks off, so when one finally plucked up the courage to make a pass I just ignored him.
There wasn’t really enough time anyway, not even for a decent frig. Sam had been after me since we’d left work, and it had taken her quite a while to talk me onto the cross. She’d only known I was into other girls because we’d been in Whispers at the same time, and I usually try to keep my sex life out of the workplace. Not that I care what other people think, especially when I’m in a new office every few weeks, but it can be a hassle.
I was supposed to be at Uncle Rupert’s by eight, and it was nearly seven when I got back to the flat. Not that he’d mind, but his company was just what I needed to cheer me up, and I hadn’t seen him in a long while. Rupert is cool, very cool for a forty-year-old man, laid back and decadent and about the most open-minded person I know. If it hadn’t been for him I would never have had the courage to come out, and the more fun I had, the more grateful I felt. I could talk to him, and I knew that we’d soon be laughing over what had happened at Whispers. He’d make me describe it in detail too, and when I’d gone he’d go upstairs for a sneaky wank over the thought of Samantha dripping with pee. Unlike me, she never goes with men, and she’d have hated it, which was a good revenge, if a bit abstract.
By the time I got to Highgate it was eight-thirty. Uncle Rupert didn’t say anything, but then he never wore a watch, so he may just not have noticed. He had a bottle of champagne open and two glasses in his hand as he opened the door to me. I joined him in the little walled garden behind his house, which had been one of my favourite places since childhood.
It’s no more than fifty yards from a busy street, but it has to be one of the quietest and most private places in London. The walls are high, and topped with clematis and Russian vine, while the house is at the end of a row and overlooks the valley. Nobody can see into the end part at all, except from the windows of his house. It had always seemed to be magical, a secret place of my own, a sanctuary, somewhere I knew I was always welcome and where I could find absolute peace. I had the key to the house, and spent a lot of time there when Rupert was away, alone, often naked, but I never brought lovers there. It was too special.
He poured champagne and climbed into his hammock, leaving one lanky leg hanging over the side. I settled into a chair, drank, and felt my stress start to slip away as the cool wine ran down my throat.
‘How was India?’ I asked.
‘Hot,’ he answered. ‘Dry, dusty, crowded.’
‘You got your coffee contracts?’
‘Yes. My hosts were ever so hospitable. And I had the sweetest little whore in Meerut.’
‘You have no morals at all.’
‘To the contrary, I am morality itself. What I gave her will feed her and her family for a month, while if she didn’t enjoy what we did then she is the most remarkable actress.’
‘Tell me about her then. I know you’re dying to.’
‘Absolutely. She was dark, for a start, that lovely dusky tone you sometimes get with Indian girls, yet deeper than most. Huge eyes, fine face, tiny waist, broad hips, heavy, spankable bottom, titties like melons. It took a bit of persuasion to get her across my knee, but once her bum was warm she loved it, giggling and shaking it to make me carry on . . .’
‘You spanked her?’
‘Naturally.’
‘Pervert.’
‘It would have been a crime not to spank her. Some girls cry out for it.’
‘No, what you mean is that some girls have figures you can’t resist. That’s your fault, not theirs.’
‘I disagree. Any girl with a truly glorious bottom is sure to understand that men will want to smack it, just as any girl is sure to learn where men want to put their cocks.’
‘It’s not the same thing. It’s just your dirty mind.’
‘This coming from a girl who enjoys being tied and whipped in lesbian clubs?’
‘Yeah, well . . . Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about that. I’ve been barred from Whispers.’
‘That was your favourite, wasn’t it? With the back room you were telling me about?’
‘That’s the one. This girl, Samantha, Sam, who works at the place where I’m temping, she put me on a cross. I was in bra and panties, but she cut those off, then tickled me. I wet myself, all over her.’
‘Magnificent. Tell me. Omit no detail.’
I did. He lay there listening, his eyes shut, his mouth set in a contented smile. Occasionally he would take a sip of champagne, but he never said a word, or touched himself, although I could see the bulge growing in his trousers. When I finished he was thoroughly pleased with himself, and with me. We went in, and I was left to myself as he busied himself in the kitchen.
There has always been an understanding between us, a mutual respect. I knew he might well want to come after listening to my story, just as he never came out into the garden if I was sunbathing nude when he came home. So I went upstairs to his library, leaving him the space to do it if he needed to.
I’d visited often enough, while he’d been in India, but I hadn’t been into the library. It had changed, and in a way it was impossible not to notice. The shelves were the same, with their ranks of books on every subject and in every type of binding, from an early Bible in iron clasps and blackened leather to his garish collection of pornographic art, with every cover showing girls in lewd positions. So were the two well-stuffed armchairs, with their studded green leather upholstery and highly polished wood.
What was different, and out of place, were two mannequins. Both were female, and dressed in uniforms – one an air hostess, one a waitress. I was immediately fascinated, and went to take a closer look, wondering what Rupert was up to. They were immaculate, complete too, while a quick peak revealed that they even had underwear. They also had legends, on little stands which had been hidden when I first walked in, a photograph and some text. Both showed the same uniform that was on the mannequin beside it, but being worn, or rather half worn.
I was open-mouthed with delight, and a little shocked too. The air hostess was bad enough, with a pretty Indian girl taken against a bank of brilliant pink flowers, beside a stone bench, with her skirt twitched up and her panties held down to show her bare bum. She looked shy yet pleased with herself, both excited and embarrassed, feelings very familiar to me.
The waitress was worse. The photo had been taken in some anonymous hotel room, and must have been done automatically, because it showed a pretty if slightly tarty blonde in the uniform, bent across my uncle’s knee. Her little pink skirt was up, her panties were down and there was a definite red flush to her bottom. She was getting a spanking and, from the pained look on her face, a hard one.
I just stared. I knew he liked girls’ bottoms and spanked them if he could, but to actually see evidence of it was something else, especially with the uniforms there. It was genuine as well, because in both cases I could pick out little marks that left no doubt that the uniform in the photo was the same one as worn by the mannequin. He’d always enjoyed his stories, and I knew that in his room there was a drawer of girls’ panties donated by various girlfriends across the years, or just stolen. This was different.
Naturally I had to ask. As soon as a decent interval had elapsed I went downstairs, finding him chopping shallots, a glass of red wine by his side. If he had wanked himself off there was no evidence of it, not even a tissue in the bin, which he usually left, just to show that my story had done its job. Feeling ever so slightly put out, I asked him about the uniforms.
‘Ah ha, so you have seen my collection,’ he said. ‘If two items warrant the title of a collection.’
‘A collection?’
‘Just that. The start of one anyway.’
‘So who are the girls? Are you collecting female uniforms? What happened? Did you pinch their clothes?’
‘Please, Jade, dear, a question at a time! To answer the simplest question first, yes, I am collecting female uniforms, or rather I intend to do so. I think I need four or five to really call it a collection . . .’
‘But what happened?’ I interrupted.
‘Patience.’ He laughed. ‘I will tell you over dinner.’
‘Now.’
‘Very well, since you insist, but don’t interrupt. You saw the two, the waitress and the Air Delhi stewardess?’
‘Yes.’
‘The waitress was the first. It was some years ago, in a motel outside Boston. It started normally enough, with the girl, Sally, fascinated by my accent and manners, which is a not uncommon occurrence in the States. She was half my age, so naturally I was flattered, and did my best to talk her into bed. Not that it was difficult. She was as keen as I, and kept saying she’d heard the English were kinky, and asking if it was true. Well, no girl teases me like that and gets away with it, so I took her back to my room and spanked her bottom for her, bare, over the knee, in the best English style.’
‘I saw the photo. She doesn’t look too happy about it.’
‘She wasn’t. There was a bit of a misunderstanding there, you see. She thought I’d want it done to me, and was a bit shocked when I put her over for fifty hard ones on the bare. She really howled, as it goes, but I didn’t see why I should stop, not when she’d wanted to do the same to me. Anyway, she was fine once her bum was warm, and I let her use a hairbrush on me, just to even things up. After that we had a fine time.’
‘I bet you did!’
‘Without doubt. I particularly remember her riding me, with her back towards me and her reddened bottom stuck out. A fine view. Anyway, she had come over to my room after leaving work, with her ordinary clothes in a bag. In the morning we woke late, and she was in a rush, and forgot her uniform. I suppose she must have realised and come back quickly enough, but by then I was gone, with the uniform – her bra and panties too.’
‘You stole them! You bastard!’
‘Mea culpa. I couldn’t resist it. You know I like my trophies, and I had asked if I could keep her knickers. She had a spare pair, a bra too, and – well, I decided to take the lot.’
‘Poor girl! I mean, you spank her bottom for her when she’s not expecting it and, if that isn’t bad enough, you pinch her clothes!’
‘You make it sound as if I left her naked in the street! All part of the rough and tumble of life, my dear, nothing more.’
I gave him a disapproving tut and poured myself a glass of the red wine. Not that I approved of what he’d done, but it was impossible not to feel a thrill. It had been naughty, like going without panties – like having sex with other girls for that matter. Just listening had left me flushed, and I could feel the prickling sensation across my chest and face. Rupert saw, and chuckled.
He began to cook, all the while smiling to himself in a self-satisfied way. I sipped wine, waiting impatiently for him to tell me about the other girl, and knowing that if I tried to hurry him it would only make him tease me. He didn’t even start when we were seated at the table, each with a plate of the complicated pasta dish he’d been making in front of us. We ate and drank, one bottle, then another, and it was when he had that open and our glasses full that he began.
‘It was after my air hostess that I decided to start collecting,’ he began. ‘That was last week, somewhere called Jammu, right up towards the mountains. The aircraft was stranded overnight, so the crew had to stay over. I imagine they had some sort of accommodation arranged, but by then I’d already persuaded my little Induma to accept my hospitality. Her name, Induma, means moon, and does she have one, so round, so feminine. But you saw?’
‘I saw the photo, yes, with her holding her knickers down to show off her bum. It’s really smutty, the sort of rude photo the boys used to show round at school.’
‘And why not? A pushed out, bare female bottom speaks directly to the male libido. But you agree she has a beautiful bottom?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘Undoubtedly, and she knew it. It was by a combination of flattery and bribery that I talked her into taking her knickers down. In a secluded spot in the hotel garden, by the way. She let me have a feel too, and I’d have had her there if she’d let me. Spanked then fucked, bent over that stone bench in the picture.’
‘Lecherous old goat! How old was she?’
‘It’s very impolite to ask a lady’s age.’
‘Oh, right, but it’s fine to pull down her knickers and spank her on the bare bottom?’
‘Naturally. True ladies seldom resent a spanking. It is in the female nature.’
‘Uncle Rupert! I thought you were a liberal, not a chauvinist pig!’
‘I am a liberal. That doesn’t alter the fact that to receive a spanking is very much part of a woman’s nature. But I know your views. Let us not argue the point. Induma did not share them in any case, taking the attitude that she should do her best to please her man, and that if that included having her delectable bottom spanked, then she was prepared to accept it.’
‘So she wasn’t actually into spanking?’
‘Patience, patience, let me explain. After taking the photo in the garden, I steered her politely but firmly to my room. There I explained that I intended to spank her as a prelude to sex. She was nervous, and giggled a lot, but she accepted it, including keeping her uniform on for the performance.’
‘I didn’t know you had a uniform fetish.’
‘I don’t, and I hate that word. A sexual fetish is something that has become inextricably linked with sex, an object or practice without which pleasure is impossible. That is a sorry state to get into, very sorry indeed. I like uniforms, yes, they enhance a woman’s body, and add a nice touch when undressing her, a rude touch, as if to cock a snook at whatever authority the uniform represents. This is an important element of my desire to collect, but I shall come back to that later.’
‘Yes. Tell me what you did to poor Induma, you dirty old goat.’
‘What did I do to her? I indulged myself, to the full, that’s what I did. I sat myself in a convenient chair, and took her down across my knee, with that divine little peach stuck high and her thighs well parted. I then prepared her. First, I undid the buttons at the front of her uniform dress and pulled out her breasts, which I often think is good for a woman being spanked.’
‘Why?’
‘To take away her modesty, as if you didn’t know. Bare breasts are important for a punished woman, if less so than a bare bottom. Never, ever, let a girl keep her knickers up during a spanking, let alone anything else. Covering allows her to retain a measure of pride that no amount of beating will erase, even with a cane or tawse. No, pull them down, and let her know her fanny is on show to the world.’
‘You really are terrible!’
‘Induma didn’t seem to think so. She was quite happy with it, giggling as I pulled her titties out and had a good feel of each, even when I tugged up her uniform skirt and pulled down her panties. No, it was the actual spanking she couldn’t handle.’
‘No?’
‘No. Well, you see, I hadn’t been entirely honest with her, and what with her English, or rather lack of it . . . She expected her body exposed, yes, and to be fondled, maybe to have her buttocks patted. I don’t think she actually expected it to hurt.’
‘But you did it anyway, didn’t you?’
‘I did, I’m afraid, quite hard. She liked it at first, with me stroking her bum and playing pat-a-cake on her bottom-cheeks. That had her giggling, and I suppose she thought that was all there was to it. She was even sticking her bum up, and when I saw those glorious dusky cheeks pull apart and got my first whiff of her sex, well, I just couldn’t hold back. I took her around her waist, which was tiny, and cocked up my knee, making her bottom come fully open. I could see her fanny-lips like that, brown and smooth, the sweetest little purse, her bottom hole too. She had a pretty bottom hole, the same milky coffee as her skin, not even a tone darker, but quite fleshy, like a pursed mouth.’
‘You didn’t bugger her, did you?’
‘Patience, Jade, patience. So there she was, her long black hair spread out over the floor, her glorious titties hanging out of her dress, her silk panties halfway down her legs, her divine bottom stuck up in the nude. So I spanked her properly.’
‘And she didn’t expect it? Did she cry?’
‘Oh, yes. She absolutely howled. She was in tears almost from the first smack, as soon as she realised that I wasn’t going to stop. I do spank hard, it’s the best way, and, of course, I couldn’t stop, because I had to get her over the pain barrier. Not that she understood that, of course, and I could hardly explain. So I just let her howl, and I think it was as much frustration as pain. That’s often the way, when they really make a fuss. She certainly did, kicking like anything, until her knickers fell off. That let her get her legs wider apart, and I could really smell her sex, which was as wet as anything. I was ready for her too, with my cock rock hard against her tummy. She must have been able to feel it, and she knew full well where it was going.’
‘You can be such a bastard.’
‘No. It was for her own good. Partially at any rate. It took about five minutes of hard spanking to get her ready, but by then she’d stopped blubbering and was breathing really deeply. Her legs were cocked wide open, and she was sticking her bottom up again, and mumbling in her language. I gave her another fifty for luck, mainly on her sweet spot, to see if I could make her come. She didn’t, but she scrambled onto the bed quickly enough when I let her go.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Why, I fucked her, of course. From the rear first, so that I could stroke her little smacked cheeks while I was up her, and tickle her bumhole.’
‘That would have sent me through the roof!’
‘She liked it. It seemed to get her really urgent. She wanted to touch too, to feel her smacked cheeks, as if she couldn’t quite believe what had been done to her, or how good it felt.’
‘I know the feeling.’
‘She kept doing that, all the while as I put her through her paces, except when she was on her back, of course, then she’d feel her titties. She never said a word, all the time, not in English anyway, just doing as she was told, one position after another, and sucking my cock in between. Before long she’d started to get eager, adopting her own poses, and dirty too, rubbing at herself while I fucked her, with one finger on her bottom hole. That was her favourite, lying on her side with one leg cocked up, so that I could get into her and she could touch herself front and back. She came like that, and she made nearly as much noise as she had during the spanking. By then she had a finger up her bottom, deep in. I’d nearly come when she did, but I didn’t want to risk her getting pregnant, so I’d held back. After I saw that her finger was up her bum I just couldn’t hold back any longer.’
‘You came up her pussy?’
‘No. That’s when I buggered her.’
‘You utter bastard. Tell me.’
‘She pulled her finger out when she’d come. I withdrew and she rolled over onto her front, sticking her bottom up. She was looking back, smiling, with that perfect coffee-brown moon lifted to me, the cheeks flushed dark from her spanking, her bottom hole moist and a little open, the ring still pulsing a little from her orgasm. I think she wanted me to put my cock back up, and it was tempting, with her fanny puffy and wet with juice, the hole so open that I could see up her. I think I would have, only she reached back to take hold of her smacked cheeks, clutching them and pulling them apart. That made her bottom hole stretch, and, well, I couldn’t resist it. So I got on her, and put my cock between her cheeks, to her anus. She gasped when she felt where it was going, and said something, but I don’t know what.’
‘Probably calling you a dirty bastard.’
‘Maybe. Anyway, she took it well enough, just grunting a little and making these odd little mewing noises as I pushed the head of my cock in up her hole. She was tight, but pretty moist where juice had run down from her fanny, so I got up easily enough, right in. I could feel my pubic hair between her bottom-cheeks and my balls were lying on her fanny. She was moaning by then, and had a hand under her tummy to frig with. I took my time, holding her by her tits and just keeping my erection firm up her bottom, until she started to come. I felt her ring go tight, and with that I really jammed it in, clutching her to me as I buggered her, with her hole clamping on my cock, until I did it up her, while she was still coming.’
‘That’s enough. I need the garden.’
I just ran. It was too much for me, the whole thing, what Sam had done to me, then Rupert with his dirty stories. I needed to masturbate, and I needed to do it in my special place. He chuckled as I fled the room, knowing perfectly well where I was going, and what I was going to do. Not that he was any better, as the last thing I heard as I went was the sound of his zip being pulled down.
My head was spinning with wine, or maybe I’d have thought twice about what I did. As it was, I just needed my clothes off, to feel the cool night air on my body. I stripped then and there, on the back step, naked, peeling off my top and bra, pushing down my jeans and taking my panties with them. Of course I had to sit my bare bum down on the rough concrete to get my boots off, but that just added to my delicious feelings of exposure.
Stark naked, I ran down the garden to the hammock. I climbed in, settling the rug beneath me, but with my bum against the rope so that I could feel the mesh pulled tight into my flesh. My thighs came wide, one over each side, and I was spread, my sex agape to the night, wide and wet. Wet was right, soaking, so that I managed to slide three fingers straight in. They went to my mouth, so that I could taste myself while I did it, then back.
I began to rub, flicking at my clitty and one nipple as the rude thoughts ran through my head – of exposure and punishment. I thought of having my bra ruined so that Sam could show how big my boobs were to the girls in the bar. I thought of the girls Rupert had held down across his knee, shivering in their humiliation, their bottoms bare, their bottoms spanked. Not just spanked either, but spanked and then fucked, spanked and then buggered in the case of the poor stewardess.
Men are so filthy, so crude, putting their cocks up girls’ bottom holes, where the shit comes out, and they just don’t care, so long as it’s hot and tight and feels good on their gross cocks. Rupert had buggered Induma, spanked her and then buggered her, with his cock up her bottom hole, in her rectum, in her dirt box. He wasn’t even ashamed of it. He was proud. He was pleased with himself, pleased that he’d seduced some hapless girl into sex, spanked her until she cried, fucked her until she was too high to hold herself back, then buggered her.
That was too much for me, just the thought of a man’s penis going up a girl’s bottom hole. Cocks are ugly, really gross, and what men want us to do with them is just so filthy. Not fucking, so much, but sucking, in our mouths, till they spunk and force us to swallow their disgusting sperm. Worse, up our bums, deep up our nice, clean little holes, in and out, until we’re not clean any more, until I’m not clean any more.
Not clean no, anything but, slimy and sweaty and dirty, soiled, with a big, fat cock stuck up my dirt box and a fat, hairy belly slapping at my bottom. It would happen one day, I just knew it. Some bastard wouldn’t accept my preference for girls. They’d push, teasing me into experimenting, into taking their ugly great cock in my hand, in my mouth, up my pussy, and at last, up my bottom hole, and that’s where they’d come.
Which was what I had done, crying out my ecstasy softly to the night, naked, wet with sweat, my body shaking with reaction to my filthy fantasy.
Not that I was ever, ever going to admit to getting off over fantasies of being buggered by men, much less let it happen. That was private, from everybody.
After I’d come I went back indoors, feeling rather embarrassed, and he explained about his uniform collection. The morning after sleeping with Induma, he had tried to explain that he wanted her panties as a trophy. She hadn’t really understood, partly because they were something she only wore with her European-style hostess uniform anyway. Instead she had thought he had wanted the whole uniform, a misunderstanding that had sparked the idea in Uncle Rupert’s head. She had been reluctant to give it up, not surprisingly, but in the end had sold it to him and pretended she’d been robbed when she got back to the aeroplane.
So Rupert had his uniform and, by the time he’d returned to the UK, he had the whole thing worked out. It was typically obsessive, and typically male, with rules and everything, just as if he’d been collecting rare pieces of china or old paintings. The most important one was that the uniform had to be genuine. It had to represent some form of institution or business for which the woman worked, or belonged to, or had done. Theatrical wear, or buying something and dressing a girlfriend up in it, definitely did not count. There had to be a photograph too, of the woman wearing the uniform, and at the least in a cheeky pose, preferably an actively rude one. If necessary he could pay for the uniform, but the women weren’t allowed to know what was going on. It had to include her underwear too.
I wasn’t at all sure if I approved. After all, it seemed pretty mean to go around pinching clothes from hard-working professional women. He was also seducing them under false pretences, which I didn’t feel happy about either. Not that I was all that worried, because I couldn’t actually see him being very successful. He had the front for it, and I could see him offering a pretty traffic warden or nurse fifty quid to flash her bum and a hundred for her uniform. That wouldn’t have been in the spirit of the game, though, and I knew how important that was to him. When I explained my reservations he just laughed, telling me that my generation were far too soft.
That was it, and our conversation drifted onto other topics. By then I was feeling mellow, and pleased that our relationship was as open as ever. That’s important to me, because he had helped me come to terms with my own sexuality, and I would hate to lose any of the intimacy that had built up between us. Not that we have sex or anything like that, but he knows me better than my parents, and I sometimes think he understands me better than I do myself.
I never even met him until I was nineteen, fresh out of school and away from home for the first time, at art. college in London. Naturally I’d been given his address, as the only person even vaguely related to me in the city, but not without some hesitation. He wasn’t even a proper uncle, just the son of my mum’s step-brother, which I suppose made him a cousin of sorts. What he did have was a serious streak of rebellion, moving to London as soon as he was old enough at the end of the seventies, as bass guitarist in a punk band. The band had flopped, arriving too late, as he explained, but probably just crap. Since then he’d done well, becoming head buyer for a major coffee concern, and very cultivated, but I’d never heard his name mentioned without a hint of disapproval, even despair.
Not surprisingly, I’d been fascinated, and had arranged to visit him almost as soon as I’d got off the train. We’d got on well from the start, with his laid-back lifestyle and total lack of respect for anything that smacked of authority was just what I wanted to emulate. He had supported me when I’d decided to give up college, after two failed relationships with boyfriends, and when I finally decided that I preferred girls. He’d even stood next to me while I phoned my mum to tell her I was a lesbian.
That had been a year previously, and by then I’d had a spare key to his house, which I could use as long as I respected his wishes and privacy. I was good about his wishes, as I had no intention of sharing my secret place with anyone else. I wasn’t so good about his privacy, investigating his library and his bedroom, and shocking myself quite badly.
It had been hard to take at first, not so much his obsession with the naked female form, but his clear, uninhibited delight in girls’ bottoms, and in spanking them. Perhaps, fortunately, I’d had my first CP scene a few days before my discovery. I’d been very drunk at a club, one where fetishists hung out, and leather dykes, which made me feel it was a cool place to be. After watching a girl whipped, I’d let two big, butch dykes talk me into trying it. They’d been careful, warming me until I was nearly coming, and only really laying in when I was actually at climax. Afterwards I’d been taken into the toilet to lick them, one at a time, but I was used to that by then. What did surprise me was the state of my bottom the next morning, with long, dark bruises across both cheeks. I’d had no idea they’d done it so hard.
So it wasn’t so shocking to learn that my kind Uncle Rupert was a secret spanker. I knew that girls could like it, and it seemed reasonable to assume that the girls in his pictures were either into it, or being well paid. I’d swallowed it anyway, because by the time I’d been browsing his huge collection for an hour I was too turned on to care. I’d masturbated, right there on his library floor, with my jeans and panties around my knees and my top and bra pulled up.
Having done it once, I couldn’t hold myself back. Just knowing that the collection was there was too much for me, just the same way I used to be unable to resist climbing up to the cupboard Mum kept the sweets in. It became a compulsion, and I’d do it at every opportunity. The thing was, unlike ordinary dirty pictures, each spanking picture seemed to tell a story. One or another could always be guaranteed to trigger a fantasy, with me as the victim.
Eventually Rupert noticed – or, rather, eventually he felt he had to say something, because he probably noticed fairly soon after I’d started. He spoke to me about it, very casually, one day when I was visiting for tea. I was hideously embarrassed, guilty too, and upset, because I felt I’d betrayed him. I would have run from the house, but he quickly made it plain that the only reason he hadn’t wanted me to know was because he felt sure I’d be down on him for it.
We talked for hours that night, until the birds had begun to sing. When I finally went up to his spare room for some sleep, I found an album of spanking pictures laid discreetly by the bed, underneath the latest Metropolitan. I read it, and masturbated over a wonderful fantasy about being spanked in a girls’ dormitory, in front of all the others. He knew, I’m sure.
It never occurred to me for a moment not to trust him and, sure enough, he never tried anything on, or even asked to watch. Over the next few months it became a regular occurrence, not always happening, but as often as not. Meanwhile, my sex life grew wilder, with my reputation for enjoying punishment spreading rapidly among those who liked to dish it out, until the day I got myself thrown out of Whispers.
AFTER A COUPLE of months I’d put Uncle Rupert’s uniform collection to the back of my mind. The two mannequins were still there, but he’d failed to add any more to the collection. I’d had other things to think about as well, like how to carry on enjoying my sex life without being able to go to my favourite baby dyke bar. Everyone seemed to know about my accident too, which was well embarrassing. I got teased mercilessly whenever I went out to clubs, and made to do it on the toilet while some of the butch girls watched.
I’d moved on to a new job, and I didn’t see Sam again until I went to a festival out near Farnborough. It wasn’t really a gay thing, but there was a dyke band playing, and I’d been given a spanking by the drummer once, so I went. It was good, in a huge field, with everyone drunk or high or just really chilled out. I knew lots of people, and was wandering through the crowds, just chatting and kissing and knocking back bottles of Bud.
Sam was with a group of friends, all dressed much the same: polished boots, tight leather trousers, skinny tops or leather bras, along with plenty of body jewellery. I could just have ignored them, but there’s a self-destructive impulse in me – or, rather, a self-chastising impulse. So I threw myself to the wolves.
‘Hi, Sam,’ I managed, trying not to sound too cheeky.
They turned to look at me, all five of them, all taller than me, all cool and poised and dominant.
‘This, girls,’ Sam announced, ‘is the one who pissed herself when I had her on a cross. Say hi to the girls, Jade.’
‘Hi,’ I said, smiling weakly as Sam’s arm came around my shoulder.
‘All I did was tickle her,’ Sam went on, ‘and she lost it. Such a baby. I was going to use a tawse across her fat thighs, maybe her boobies. What would you have done then, Jade, shit yourself?’
I went scarlet as they answered her with laughter. My tummy was starting to knot, and I felt terribly helpless with Sam’s arm around my shoulders, far too helpless to try to pull away.
‘She pissed on your boots, didn’t you say?’ one of them asked, the tallest, a girl with cropped hair dyed almost white.
‘That and spilled beer on them,’ Sam answered her.
‘She spilled beer on your boots?’ the blonde demanded. ‘What did you do about it?’
‘Nothing,’ Sam answered. ‘She got thrown out of Whispers –’