A Taste Of Amber

by Penny Birch

  It was a masterpiece, and the effort Henry had expended on his obsession amazed me. I knew that he was fanatical about detail and not doing things by half, but his creation was none the less astonishing. It also looked completely innocent to anyone who didn’t know what was going on, like myself before that day. I had assumed that the shapes of the woods and the way the fields were laid out was just the way things had once been, with small, irregular fields in place of big, orderly ones. Possibly it had started like that, as many of the trees were fully grown and must have pre-dated Henry by hundreds of years. Most were younger and clearly planted on purpose.

  Another thing revealed by the pictures was why certain trees were commoner than others. The two spinneys – one circular, one rectangular – were mixed birch and hazel, both trees which I had just learnt provided ideal switches for girl’s bottoms. Nothing seemed innocent any more and, as I explored, I began to realise just how naïve I was. Trees set on their own had once been used as hitching posts or to tie girls to for whippings. Henry’s collection of ornamental grasses such as bamboo and pampas had once provided canes, green and pliable for the bottoms of losing competitors. The stile that separated garden from fields had once served as a whipping block. The heavy iron rings set in the stable walls had once tethered naked, excited women.

  Had it been anyone other than Henry who had created this monument to perverse sex, I think I would have been terrified. As it was he had been the perfect gentleman to me and I couldn’t imagine him ever behaving otherwise. The pictures also showed that, whatever had happened, however many girls had been punished, however many stripped and humiliated, all of it had been done with their full consent.

  By the time I had finished exploring I had made up my mind. My curiosity was just too strong. I was going to have to ask Henry about it.

  How to go about it was a very different matter. When I got back indoors he was taking tea and had a place already set for me. I joined him and sat sipping tea and wondering how best to broach the subject. From what I had seen he hadn’t done anything for at least ten years, which made my task harder. The idea of bringing the subject up and finding that he was now against it horrified me. There was also the problem that he might find my interest intrusive or resent my having inspected his albums.

  These considerations stopped me from saying anything over tea and, afterwards, he retired to his study to work, leaving me at a loose end. I went out again, my mind full of strange images as I walked out across the big field and into the woods. I still wanted to play with myself again, and even went so far as to choose a sheltered bit of wood where I could pull my top up and play with my nipples. It was really too cold, though, and for some reason I didn’t feel quite safe, so I ended up returning to the house feeling thoroughly frustrated.

  I went to my room, but found that Brenda – who was Henry’s maid and general housekeeper – was hoovering outside. As she had a habit of popping in to talk to me without warning, that scotched my plan of stripping and treating myself to a leisurely hour of really wanton masturbation. Instead I contented myself with writing to Ginny and Susan describing my discoveries of the morning. This turned me on even more and, by the time Brenda came in to tell me that dinner was ready, I was absolutely bursting.

  As always, dinner was a complex and formal affair. Brenda had gone home and Henry had cooked. He was a good cook, providing all sorts of delicacies of which I had never heard. This was all very well, but it meant that he was forever going back and forth to and from the kitchen and it was impossible to pin him down to a conversation long enough for me to get the subject round to pony-carting.

  Finally we finished and retired to the drawing room. Henry poured himself a large glass of Armagnac, did the same for me, and then sprawled himself in his favourite armchair. He looked thoroughly content, the picture of a man without a care in the world, also homely and safe. I had drunk the best part of a bottle of wine and was feeling bold, even reasoning to myself that there was no way he could be anything but delighted by my interest in his sex life.

  He moved his legs into a more comfortable position, giving me an unintentional view of the bulge in the front of his trousers. It looked impressively large although, as I had never seen a man’s cock in the flesh, it was hard to make comparisons. He turned towards me and I looked away, hoping that he wouldn’t notice my blush.

  ‘Horrible day,’ he said evenly. ‘One would hardly think that it was July. I hope you found something to do with yourself?’

  That made me blush again, thinking of how I had played with myself on the floor of his library and fantasised over him spanking me. If he noticed he gave no sign, merely throwing me a questioning look.

  ‘I was reading in the library,’ I said and then decided to take the plunge. ‘Henry, do you know someone called Mr Rathwell: Morris Rathwell I think it is?’

  ‘Yes, dreadful man,’ Henry replied, giving no sign that there was anything odd about my question. ‘He’s one of Charles’s clients, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ I answered, with a lump rising into my throat. Charles was my father although, even at eighteen, I never called him by his first name. The way Henry used it so casually made him seem dreadfully senior. My resolve faltered. Fortunately his next question gave me an opening that it was hard to back out of.

  ‘I bought a field from him,’ Henry was saying. ‘Twenty years ago it must be, but we never did get on. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I …’ I began, almost chickened out, and then took the plunge. ‘I saw some photos of him in the library.’

  I stopped. Henry was looking at me in surprise. It didn’t seem likely that his library contained any other photos of Mr Rathwell, so he had to know what I’d been up to.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I stammered hastily, suddenly wondering what I’d done. ‘I didn’t mean to pry, I just …’

  ‘No, no, please,’ he interrupted. ‘I don’t mind at all. As long as you don’t, that is?’

  The tone of his question registered surprise, disbelief even, and I suddenly realised that his attitude was anything but what I had expected. He didn’t see me as a nosy child who’d been interfering with his personal things; he saw me as a well-mannered young woman who should have been both shocked and defensive on discovering that he had once made a practice of treating women like horses.

  For a long moment neither of us spoke. Then Henry started to laugh and I couldn’t help but join in. Finally he stopped and took a good-sized gulp of his brandy, shaking his head as he turned to me.

  ‘Well, you do surprise me,’ he said. ‘There was I worrying whether I should hide certain things from Charles’s sweet little daughter, and all the time you’ve been reading them. You don’t even seem shocked.’

  ‘I was a little,’ I admitted, ‘but it all looked really good fun, and then I worked out how you’d arranged the grounds for your pony-carting events. I couldn’t resist asking about it.’

  ‘I’m delighted you take such an enlightened attitude,’ he answered. ‘Might I even dare ask if the idea of being a pony-girl appealed to you?’

  ‘More a driver,’ I said, noting a new, and wicked glint in his eye and then a slight flicker of disappointment as I stated my preference. ‘I’d be prepared to give it a try, though. I don’t believe in doing things to other people that you’re not prepared to have done to yourself.’

  ‘A fine philosophy,’ he said, brightening immediately, ‘but not one that is shared by the regrettable Morris Rathwell. I do hope you’re not thinking of joining his pony-girl club?’

  ‘Does he still do it then?’

  ‘I believe so, but if you want to play, I recommend getting a group of your own friends together. Rathwell is not really quite the thing.’

  ‘Why? I mean, I know he’s a creep, but that’s just because of the way he behaves to me.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ Henry sighed. ‘He is crass, coarse and mercenary. He lacks style and imagination and, frankly, does not deserve to be part of such a wonderful sexual
diversion. Let me explain and perhaps you’ll understand better. Here, have some more Armagnac.’

  I held out my glass and let him fill it, then sat back, eagerly awaiting what he was going to tell me. I’d done it and was feeling thoroughly pleased with myself. What’s more, Henry’s attitude to unusual sex seemed no different from his attitude to everything else, which was somehow reassuring.

  ‘It began in the late sixties,’ Henry started, ‘when I met a girl called Jean. You probably saw pictures of her in my albums. Before she met me she’d been with this fellow in Carlisle, and his great thing was to ride her around with her wearing a bridle. It was pretty makeshift by all accounts, but she’d developed a taste for it and so when they broke up and she came up to London, she wanted a partner who’d treat her the same way. We met at a party and ended up in bed. I was a bit surprised when she wanted to be mounted and taken from behind with a strap held between her teeth, but I’ve never been one to turn down a bit of fun, so I went along with it. You don’t mind me describing things like that in detail do you?’

  ‘The more detail the better,’ I assured him. Actually I had been picturing him taking the freckled blonde girl whose photos I’d seen from the rear while she held a leather strap between her teeth. It made an enticing picture.

  ‘We got on well and moved in together a few weeks later,’ he continued. ‘The fantasy developed slowly over the next year. I made a proper bridle for her, and a girth strap with a saddle of sorts. I was a heavy chap, even then, but she could take my weight.’

  ‘Did you spank her?’ I asked, slightly surprised at myself despite the ease with which the question had come out.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he answered. ‘I’ve always felt it perfectly normal for a healthy young man to want to smack his girlfriend’s bottom. Unfortunately not all girls agree. Jean was quite keen, though, especially if it was done as part of her pony fantasy. I bought a riding whip for the purpose and often used to give her a few strokes to jolly her along before I mounted her.

  ‘Anyway, when Jean and I had been together a year or so I inherited the farm from my uncle Ralph and we moved in. Things went well, and both of us were keen to see if we could find other partners to take our fantasy a step further. We advertised discreetly and, after several failures, managed to get a small group together. We used to meet here or at another farm called Rushdean.’

  ‘I saw the album,’ I said, remembering the name from the first book I had looked at.

  ‘Ah yes. August seventy-two,’ Henry said wistfully. ‘That was a good meet. Maybe the best. There were eight couples and, at the end, we lined up six of the pony-girls and switched the lot of them. You must have seen the pictures?’

  ‘I did,’ I answered.

  ‘And you liked them, I take it?’

  ‘It really excited me,’ I admitted. ‘Did you do the caning?’

  ‘Some,’ he answered. ‘Each of us gave each girl one stroke. Ah, six beautiful bottoms all in a row. So pretty; especially when they’d been whacked. Not a sight I’m likely to see again, I fear.’ He paused, sipping his Armagnac thoughtfully as he remembered the scene.

  I was wishing I had been there, although it had happened before I was born. The thought was making me excited and, from the way the bulge in his trousers had expanded, I could see that he wasn’t exactly indifferent either.

  ‘So,’ he went on, ‘we continued, with three or four meets a year of varying size and success. It was a proper little club by then and I started to lay out the grounds to create an ideal venue for our meets. By seventy-five things were really at their peak, in terms of numbers anyway. Really we should have stayed small, because with more people it was impossible to make sure everyone knew each other well enough to really let ourselves go. Morris Rathwell joined about that time, and soon proved one of our most enthusiastic members. He was the first one who hired a girl as his pony instead of bringing a genuinely interested girlfriend. We’d never let single men in before but, after that, the club decided to let anyone in who could bring a willing girl. That spoilt it for me, as it meant huge meets at which half the girls were only there for the money. The number of people who turned up at the farm was beginning to attract attention as well, so I finally put a stop to them using it.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ I put in, feeling that I ought to say something sympathetic as Henry obviously felt strongly about what had happened.

  ‘Very true, my dear,’ he sighed, ‘especially as it was the cause of Jean and I splitting up. We’d been together twelve years and I was pretty upset. For some reason she blamed me for the way everything had got out of hand, and perhaps we’d both changed over the years. Anyway, we parted company in eighty-two and I stopped going to meets. By then Rathwell had taken over and was running them in warehouses which his property company had temporary charge of. He’d introduced betting, spectators and an entry fee; big prizes, too, in place of our pretty rosettes. More than half the girls were professionals as well, so it wasn’t really my thing anyway. I suppose I could have found another pony-girl if I’d tried, but after Jean I didn’t really feel like it and so I just drifted away. I’ve been to Rathwell’s as a guest once or twice since – just to try and recapture the spirit – but it’s really not the same.’

  ‘Maybe it could be again,’ I suggested, sorry that the end of the story had left Henry rather morose.

  ‘I fear I am too old and fat,’ he answered. ‘Yet, and I say this without the slightest intention of pressuring you, should you wish to so indulge yourself I would be more than happy to lend advice and the experienced hand of a mature pony master.’

  He looked at me, hopeful but not at all demanding, and very different from the greedy, lecherous looks I remembered from Morris Rathwell. With his combination of pathos, gentility and the offer of indulging myself in such an exciting sexual fantasy, he had me unable to resist.

  ‘I’d love to,’ I answered. ‘Maybe I could bring a friend up and you could help us train?’

  ‘You have no idea of the effect that offer has on a poor old man,’ he answered, drawing his breath in and expelling it. ‘Were I less of a gentleman I might be forced to make a suggestion I might later regret.’

  Well, that was one way of putting it. It was hardly surprising that he was excited, and I could see that his cock was stiff in his trousers. I also knew he wouldn’t push me into anything I didn’t want to do. With the wine, the brandy and my earlier frustration, I was just about ready to play.

  ‘You never know, I might accept,’ I said quietly.

  ‘You mustn’t tease,’ he replied, but his tone was very different from his actual words.

  He moved, making a quick movement to adjust his cock inside his trousers as he did so.

  ‘Maybe I could help you with that,’ I said, borrowing the line Ginny had used on her farm labourer boyfriend. I know she’d have said it confidently, though, while my own voice sounded small and urgent.

  ‘Would you really?’ he answered, moving so that he was turned fully towards me.

  I nodded, a tiny, nervous gesture, but enough to convey my willingness. My fingers were shaking as he started to unbutton his fly, my eyes riveted to his crotch. I’d never even seen a man’s cock before and now I was going to help him come. I didn’t even really know what to do, but didn’t want to admit my innocence and could only think of Ginny’s vivid and joyful descriptions of what she’d done with her various lovers.

  I slid off my chair on to my knees, still watching as he undid the last button and started to open his fly. The bulge inside his pants looked enormous; a great hump underneath the material. I swallowed and moved forward as he pulled the front of his pants forward, revealing first a thick brush of hair and then his penis. There was a heavy roll of flesh around the neck, exposing the brighter pink of the sensitive-looking head. The shaft was-solid and covered in veins under the dark-pink skin – a sight at once obscene and delicious. It also looked huge; far too big to fit inside a girl’s vagina. Of course that’s ridiculous
, as it was nothing like the size of a baby’s head, but this was my first time and it was actually quite scary.

  He pushed his pants further down, pulling his balls out, then taking hold of his cock and rolling the fleshy foreskin fully off the head. I moved a little closer, not sure if his action was a specific invitation. Maybe he wanted me to take it in my mouth, in which case I was willing. Anything as long as he didn’t expect to fill my vagina, or worse, my anus, which I was sure wouldn’t be able to accommodate him.

  I smiled at him and licked my lips, pulling my top up as much to postpone the moment when I had to take his cock as to show him my tits.

  ‘Beautiful,’ he breathed, starting to pull harder and faster at his cock.

  It was now fully erect, standing up over his balls like a great pillar, incredibly male and absolutely terrifying. The foreskin had stretched back, leaving the head swollen and glossy with the pressure. His hand was wrapped around the shaft, his fingers not quite meeting his thumb, moving slowly up and down and squeezing with each stroke. I found myself stroking my nipples, each little bump of sensitive flesh nudging my fingers in turn and producing a sharp prickle of pleasure. He slid forward on the chair and opened his legs, pushing his cock out to me in a clear invitation.

  Still uncertain about touching it or taking it in my mouth, I edged forward on my knees and wrapped my breasts around it. As my soft flesh enfolded his rock-solid erection I found myself against a man’s penis for the first time. It felt great, hard and urgent between my boobs, as he began to push it in and out between them.

  ‘Oh, Amber, you are lovely,’ he breathed as I squeezed my breasts together more firmly.

  The head of his cock was nudging my neck with each push, while my face was pressed against his waistcoat, his great belly soft and fleshy beneath it. I’d done it, I’d let his cock touch my flesh; an act that broke down my final reserve. I felt deliciously dirty, wanting to do something even ruder. All of a sudden I badly needed it in my mouth. I rocked back on to my heels, looking directly at the erection I had promised to indulge.