by Penny Birch
I forget who came up with the idea of having a meeting to include our entire group of pony-girl fantasists but, once mentioned it was taken up with enthusiasm.
‘There’s only one place to have it,’ Amber said after all four of us had turned our attention to the idea.
‘That’s Ginny Scott’s old park.’
‘What about Matthew and Michael?’ I queried.
‘Could you face them?’ she answered.
‘I suppose so,’ I answered. ‘I just feel a bit cheated, still. On the other hand, I was going to dump Matthew so that I could be with you, anyway…’
She already knew that, but she still smiled, tenderly at me and then more gloatingly at Anderson and Vicky. It seemed incredibly petty to wreck the idea of a pony-girl meet because of my sense of pride as well.
‘I don’t mind,’ I continued. ‘Let’s do it, or at least ask Ginny if we can.’
‘Oh, there won’t be a problem there,’ Amber answered with absolute certainty. ‘Are you sure you’re OK with it?’
‘Yes,’ I answered firmly, ‘but it would be good if I could perhaps talk to Ginny and perhaps Michael before.’
‘OK, then, look,’ Amber responded. ‘Why don’t you drive over on Monday and talk to Ginny, then see Michael when he comes in from work.’
‘What about Matthew Linslade?’ Vicky asked. ‘Do we invite him, if he hasn’t got a girlfriend who’s willing to play.’
‘We’d better let Michael and Ginny tackle that one,’ Amber replied.
‘Who else?’ Anderson asked.
‘Not Mr Novak,’ I put in. ‘I didn’t mind playing with him when you were controlling things, Amber, but I like to feel admired and he always makes me feel second rate to his pony-boys.’
‘Vanity like that usually earns me an afternoon as a puppy-girl,’ Vicky remarked.
‘He’ll have gone back to Europe anyway,’ Amber put in. ‘I think we should stick to couples, in any case.’
‘Anna and Poppy?’ I suggested.
‘Who?’ Anderson asked.
‘Anna Vale, the thirties fanatic,’ Amber told him, ‘she’s taken up pony-carting with her girlfriend, Poppy; Hazel, as a pony-girl. Poppy’s good enough to eat but Anna’sa bit haughty and a bit too full of her own dominance. Besides, she thinks I’m Penny and Penny’s me.’
‘Eh?’ Anderson queried.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Amber continued. ‘It’s a long story. I only think she should come if she’s prepared to get off her high horse.’
‘I nearly had her,’ I put in.
‘Nearly, but not quite,’ Amber said. ‘Incidentally, talking about puppy-girls, if Penny can face it, we’ve got a brilliant new fantasy to show you.’
I’d do anything for Amber, but I had to insist on half an hour’s rest and another glass of cold beer before letting her make me up into Pinky piggy-girl. They loved the fantasy and I even gave Vicky’s breasts a nuzzle, but we were all too far gone to really make the best of it. We promised them a proper piggy-girl treat another time, and then decided we had better leave in order to be back in time for Mr Novak.
I slept all the way home and would have gone straight to bed, if he hadn’t arrived ten minutes after we did. He was delighted with his order but disappointed when Amber kindly but firmly declined his suggestion of testing some of it. We went to bed as soon as he had left; not even the job of applying cream to each other’s sore bits managed to stir us enough for any more sex.
Thirteen
Driving over to Broadheath the next day, I had time to be alone and just think for the first time in a long while. Looking back on the previous day, I was astonished, not so much by what I’d done as by how easily I’d done it. The thing is, it was proving easy to be relaxed about sex and nudity and all the sort of things that would have had me blushing with guilt and embarrassment before I met Amber. It was being with her that had changed me, not meeting Matthew Linslade — although that had certainly gone some way to help. A moralist would have said that I’d lost my innocence, and doubtless would have preached at length on what a terrible thing that was. Actually, innocence is a pretty useless attribute to possess. The appearance of innocence may be attractive; true innocence is generally just frustrating.
In any case, I’d hardly been innocent beforehand. I’d been spanked before; I’d played with other girls before; I’d been buggered before. Not so much, nor with such intensity of feeling, but I’d still done it and I’d always known exactly what I was doing. No, what I’d lost was my sense of guilt.
I hadn’t lost that delicious naughty feeling of doing something that people don’t approve of either. I’d have still been embarrassed to be caught with my panties down, just as I would have been on the first day I saw Michael and Ginny pony-carting, and I’d still have been turned on by that very feeling. The difference was that now I wouldn’t have had the slightest trace of guilt at wanting to go and masturbate over what I’d seen.
As I passed the King Billy, I was still thinking about that delightful afternoon, and seeing the pub filled me with nostalgia. Suddenly, the idea of an afternoon at Ginny’s house didn’t seem so attractive, even though there was an unspoken agreement that we’d probably go to bed together. Not that I didn’t want Ginny, but I did want the feel of the open air on my bare skin and delicious tingle because you knew you might just get caught.
Instead of continuing to Broadheath, I stopped at the pub and rang ahead, arranging to meet Ginny in the park. I then ordered a snack and a pint of cider and sat down in the same window seat I had occupied the morning I’d met Matthew. A second pint followed and I then set off along the footpath that would eventually take me to the park, the same route I had taken the day I had first seen the girl I was now going to meet. The day was as hot and sultry as it had been over a month before. As I walked my feeling of nostalgia deepened, enhanced by the glorious summer’s day and the pleasantly tipsy feeling in my head.
I never learn. If I hadn’t overdone it on the cider in the first place, nothing would ever have happened. Inevitably, by the time I was walking along the wall that surrounded the park, I was desperate for a pee. Fortunately, it wasn’t such a problem this time, as all I needed to do was nip over the collapsed section of wall and do it at leisure. I hurried on, making for the gap, but as I went a really mischievous idea occurred to me. What if there had been no break in the wall? Would I have made the maize field? Or would I have wet myself?
I wondered if the presence of the army boys in the distance would have put me off going into the maize field. I get nervous in the presence of gangs of rowdy, laddish men at the best of times. Perhaps I’d have wet myself rather than risk them knowing what I was doing. They’d been a good quarter of a mile behind me and would never have known if I’d just let go in my panties and jeans.
I’d have known though; I’d have felt it trickling down my legs, soaking into the material of my panties, making a big wet patch on the seat of my jeans. Then I’d have had the problem of getting back to the car. It would have been blatantly obvious that I’d wet myself and almost impossible not to be seen. When I was, I’d have been filled with embarrassment so acute that I’d probably have cried.
Now that I wasn’t actually faced with the prospect of such utter and public humiliation, the idea was really appealing. Several of my fantasies have involved tears of shame while I’m given a public spanking; generally over a man’s knee while passers-by just glance contemptuously at me being punished. I usually come at the point he decides to take my pants down and my bum gets exposed to a laughing crowd. Camera-wielding tourists, secretaries out for lunch, workmen, tramps: they’d all see my naked bottom turning pink under his slaps as I kicked and squealed over his lap. If I added wetting myself in front of them all to the fantasy, it would be just so much better.
It was a deliciously naughty thought and I found myself tempted to give in to the strain and fill my knickers on the spot. There wouldn’t even be the problem of getting back. I could wash my cl
othes and let them dry in the park. When I got home, I’d tell Amber and she’d spank me for it. So would Ginny, with any luck.
The whole thing was too erotic. I had to do it, but for it to be perfect I knew that I would have to be genuinely unable to help it. I continued to walk, now with an exquisite feeling of expectation at what I was about to do. When I got to the bull’s field I stopped and leant on the fence, admiring the colossal beast as the pressure built between my legs. The gap in the wall was just yards away, invisible behind its screening elderberry bush. To reach it and safety would be the work of an instant, but I was determined not to do it.
I had begun to wriggle, moving my thighs together in an automatic action that went some way to soothing the overwhelming need to pee. I love the sensation of being unable to resist a physical reaction, like the way my back arches and my thighs squeeze at orgasm. This was similar, with my toes wiggling and rubbing together, my legs going up and down in little step-like motions and my bum cheeks squeezing rhythmically. It was going to happen at any second, and there was nothing I could do about it.
A glance up and down the path showed that I was alone. No; a small figure had appeared back along the way I had come. It was now or never; if I wanted to wet my panties, I had to let go. It’s extraordinary how strong the conditioning against this is. My mind was telling me to just do it and enjoy the sensation but, at a less conscious level, something was screaming at me to hang on, no matter what.
At the last second, I chickened out, deciding to go through the gap, only to turn and trip, ending up on my knees in the middle of the path. The momentary lapse of concentration was too much. Even as I landed, I felt an explosive gush and a warm, damp sensation against my pussy. The next instant my knickers were full of hot wet pee. It was running down my thighs and soaking into the taut material across my bottom; it dripped onto the path and made a puddle underneath me. The sense of shame burst like a bubble in my head, mixing with the utter bliss of physical relief.
I stayed kneeling, letting it all run out, savouring every second of the experience. I could hardly believe it; I’d actually done it in my pants, and on a public footpath as well. Amber would put me straight across her knee when I told her. If she’d been there, she’d have probably done it on the spot, maybe with my wet panties stuffed in my mouth to teach me a lesson.
The sensation was not a hundred miles away from orgasm, and I was groaning softly by the time I’d finished. Glancing down the path again, I saw that the approaching walker was still far too distant to have seen anything. I could tell it was a woman, now, and she must have been wondering what I was doing kneeling in the middle of the path. I got up, enjoying the dirty feeling of having wet jeans. It was warm and damp all round my bottom and pussy as well as down the insides of my thighs. My immediate urge was to strip from the waist down, very slowly and imagining I was being watched by someone who would then punish me for my disgusting misbehaviour.
As it was, it was time to get into the safety of the old park. Once there, I could do as I pleased, with no worse a prospect than getting a smacked bottom from Ginny. That was exactly what I wanted, as I composed myself and walked around the elderberry bush, only to find that somebody had repaired the wall.
For a second I just stood there gaping at the barrier, then gathered my wits and continued along the path. I was still safe. The corner of the wall was not too far distant and I could simply skirt it and come in by the main gate. The only difference was that I would now have to walk a mile or so in wet clothes, which just served to add to my humiliation. I set off, walking fast in case whoever was coming up behind me got close enough to see what I had done.
A long way ahead of me, the path disappeared into the shadows of a copse. As I reached the maize field, a group of people emerged from the trees. I increased my pace, still confident that I would never need to pass close enough to them to risk exposure. Only when I reached the corner of the wall did I really begin to feel panic. Well out in the field, a lone man was walking — slowly, nonchalantly almost, and in my direction. He was a long way away, but if I went into the field, he was sure to want to know what I was doing. If I stayed on the path, both the lone walker and the group would pass me. I was caught. I had no choice but to endure the real humiliation of being seen when I had very obviously wet myself.
I turned, reasoning that one was better than many. The woman was closer now and somehow familiar. Red haired, middling in height, she was Catherine King, Matthew Linslade’s girlfriend. It could not have been worse. For all I knew, she had extracted the full story from Matthew and regarded me as a rival and as an absolute slut. Now she was going to see me in wet jeans and of course she’d want to know what I was doing by the old park. I heard brash male laughter from behind me and decided to make a run for it through the maize field.
The fence was square mesh, topped with a double strand of barbed wire, easy enough to get over when you’re not in a total panic. I was in a panic and snagged my jeans getting over. I stopped as I felt the prick of a barb against my inner thigh. With one leg over and the other only just on the ground I was in a really difficult position. I needed to get the barb out, but I also needed both hands to keep the wire pressed down. As I tried to work out what to do, I was only too conscious that I was presenting the men coming up behind me with a fine view of my wet seat. The jeans were tight and showed off my bum. They’d been selected for Ginny’s sake, but were now making a prime display for about a dozen young men.
I’d tried to get away, but it was too late. I couldn’t even sit down and hope they wouldn’t notice. I had to stay put, effectively flaunting my pee-soaked bottom to them. In my fantasy, they’d not just have caught me but laughed at me while I cried tears of shame and frustration. In practice, they’d probably help me and be nearly as embarrassed as I was by the state of my jeans.
In a couple more seconds, the tears would have been real but, by good luck, one of my wriggles managed to free the barb and a moment later I was among the maize and invisible to the path. If they’d noticed, they gave no sign, but walked past my hiding place talking loudly about this and that. It may seem ridiculous, but I was actually a bit put out. If I’d seen, say, Ginny or Poppy caught on a barbed wire fence in a pair of tight wet jeans, I’d have been really turned on. They’d seen me, but they’d just carried on talking about football.
That’s reality for you. In my fantasy, they’d have had a good feel of my bottom and tits, then helped me off the fence and taken me into the maize field for blow jobs all round. As it was, I listened to their voices fade and waited until I was sure Catherine King was past. After a while I began to feel safe and was wondering if I could use the elderberry bush to climb the wall. Being so alone and squatting in my sodden clothes started me feeling naughty again and I began to consider masturbating. The fantasy would be sucking the men’s cocks in the maize field. I’d be squatting, as I was, but I’d have stripped for them and one would have his cock in my mouth while his friends stroked their erections in readiness for my attention. One would be behind me, admiring my parted bottom and wondering if I’d accept his cock in it…
Then someone called my name. I could have jumped out of my skin, especially as the voice was female and could only belong to Catherine King. I froze, but the tone of her voice had been warm and friendly and puzzled: not at all what I’d have expected. She had obviously seen me, so continuing to hide seemed ridiculous. I stood up, but still couldn’t see anything and so pushed my way to the edge of the maize, feeling faintly ridiculous and not a little embarrassed. Catherine King was standing at the point I’d crossed the fence, looking around her.
‘Hi, Catherine,’ I managed, drawing her attention with a wave.
‘Hi,’ she called back. ‘It’s Penny, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I answered.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked, looking concerned.
‘Not really,’ I admitted.
I’ll say this for her, she didn’t ask any stupid questions abou
t why I was standing in a maize field. Indeed, she obviously realised what had happened and was full of concern for me. I was really surprised. I’d previously seen her first shocked and then furious. True, the fury had been directed at Matthew, but I’d imagined it would more or less have included me, by association. Instead she was being really friendly and even seemed slightly in awe of me, which is not something I’m used to.
The explanation came as we helped each other over the wall. Her fury with Matthew had, at heart, been because he had excluded her. She knew nothing about Matthew and I, thinking I was Amber’s girlfriend and a dyed-in-the-wool lesbian. She even apologised for interrupting us, which made me feel rather sneaky, but it seemed best not to say anything.
With some gentle persuasion from Ginny, she’d made up with Matthew and even agreed trying out as his pony-girl. Ginny seemed to have presented me as confident, experienced, sexually aware. Hence Catherine’s awe.
There was more to it than that, as I quickly discovered. When I had asked to meet Ginny at the old park, Catherine had been there and asked if she could meet me. Ginny had agreed but, when they’d arrived and found I was not yet there, she had decided to walk round and check that the wall had been repaired properly. She had recognised me as I tried to climb the fence and wondered what I was doing, then decided that I’d obviously had what she called an ‘embarrassing accident’.
The description rather appealed to me, making me feel at once slightly shy and shamefaced but also mischievous because she didn’t know the truth. In addition to the red hair, she had green eyes, a snub nose and freckles: a really sweet look. Although taller than me, she was hardly large, with nice hips and medium-sized breasts. I could see Amber fancying her, just from the way her bottom moved under her skirt. With any luck, we’d be seeing her naked before too long, and then…
‘So how did you like being a pony-girl?’ I asked as we came to the track.
‘It was great, once I’d got used to it,’ she answered.
