A Taste Of Amber

by Penny Birch

  Only when Ginny was admiring her pink bottom in the mirror did I remember that in the heat of our passion I had completely forgotten to whip her. So far I wasn’t making a very good pony-mistress, not only getting carried away much too easily but forgetting to administer promised punishments. According to Henry, really dedicated mistresses never exposed their bodies and never allowed themselves to show true intimacy in public. He had also admitted that he considered this attitude pedantic, and I agreed with him. To have spanked Ginny, then caned her and just carried on pony-carting, would have been a waste. I’d needed an orgasm, and it seemed logical to me that a genuine mistress would take her pleasure how she liked and in front of whom she liked. That sounded good anyway, although the truth was that I’d been feeling incredibly sexy – not to mention dirty – and had been unable to resist going with my desires.

  Henry had thanked us politely and retired to his room, presumably to sleep. Whatever mischief he had been planning in the woods was obviously off and so I made tea and we went out to drink it on the lawn. When we had finished and were relaxing on the warm grass I asked her if she wanted to continue anyway and she readily agreed.

  She was stark naked, while I had thrown only an oversized T-shirt over my head, so it was the work of a moment to put her back in harness. We drove off at a leisurely pace, now doing it more as something friendly and intimate rather than specifically erotic. The day was still warm, but less bright, making the idea of being naked particularly satisfying. Feeling thoroughly relaxed and safe, I stopped the cart halfway up the big field and peeled my top off, throwing it over the back seat before driving on. It felt great pony-carting completely nude, the fact that it was technically against the etiquette of the thing only adding to the fun.

  We drove to the top of the big field and along the hedge, then into the woods at the end. Most of this was old woodland with great beeches meeting over our heads. The woodland smells, dappled light and cool air all helped to create a soothing atmosphere. A little, sensible part of my brain was telling me that to an outsider we would look pretty strange. The sight of a naked girl harnessed to a cart and driven by another, equally naked, girl through an English beech wood might well be considered odd, even surreal. To us at that moment it seemed completely natural, a pleasant way for two intimate friends to spend the afternoon. True, there was an erotic element to it, and I certainly hoped that we’d look arousing to any but the most priggish of people, but we were content to keep that aspect of it as a pleasant undertone.

  I knew it was roughly half past four and so drove towards the place Henry had told me to be simply for curiosity’s sake. It was the part of the track most distant from the house, and formed a sort of hairpin shape in an arm of the wood. The tip of the wood was cut off by a railway cutting, although the trains ran well below the level of the wood and so could see nothing. I knew about the railway, and had guessed that Henry’s plan might involve it in some way. I wanted to try and work out how, and so stopped Ginny by the copper beech and had her kneel while I stole carefully through the wood towards the cutting.

  A track led from the tip of the double back to the edge of the wood, then turned to run parallel with the tracks to a field. I supposed that he might have suggested driving Ginny along it so that she would come out in view of the railway at the exact moment a train passed. The passengers would have had a fine view of her in the nude, not to mention me driving her, but would have been unable to do anything about it. It would have been the perfect piece of exhibitionism, but would also have required precise timing.

  I reached the point where the track turned and I could see the railway. It emerged from a tunnel a couple of hundred yards to my right, passed my vantage point and then levelled out on to flatter ground. Once the cart had been turned down towards the field it would have been impossible to hide.

  I turned back, wondering if I should simply make Ginny drive out to a point where she would be seen and wait until a train passed. The sense of anticipation as she waited to be displayed would be superb, and just the sort of thing she liked. Then however many people happened to be in the train would get a good view of her breasts and fanny as she stood harnessed to the cart, making an obviously deliberate display of herself. It was too good to resist but, as I approached the cart, I heard the sound of an engine coming towards us along the track. My first thought was that it was Henry playing the fool, then I glimpsed red through the trees. Henry’s Land Rover was a typical dull blue-grey, but his estate manager’s four-by-four was red.

  There was no time to put my T-shirt back on, nor to undo Ginny’s wrist-cuffs. One thing Henry had impressed on me was that the estate workers must know nothing about what we got up to. Of course it was possible that it was actually Henry, but there was no way I was hanging around to find out. Ginny was already on her feet, and I grabbed her reins and pulled her along the track I had just come down. There was no choice, as one side of the hairpin was visible from the other. We just managed to get out of sight in time and froze behind a huge beech, waiting for the car to pass. Only then did I discover that my T-shirt had fallen off the back of the cart.

  Ginny was giggling but I was near panic, which got worse when the car’s engine died and we heard the door slam. It had parked at the apex of the hairpin, which could only mean that the manager was going to come down the track we were on. The idea of being caught in the nude was bad enough, but my real concern was for Henry. I was sure it couldn’t be him, as we had left him snoring in his room and, in any case, it was hard to see how he could have got hold of the estate manager’s four-by-four.

  I ran towards the railway, pulling Ginny after me. We came out of the wood and were faced with a stark option. There was no cover at all down the track, but a dilapidated wooden fence was all that separated us from the railway cutting. I started on the buckles that held Ginny’s wrists, praying that we hadn’t been heard and that the manager wouldn’t walk too fast. One came open, then the other, and she was free.

  ‘Lift it over!’ I hissed, taking one end of the cart.

  We hauled the cart over the fence and dragged it behind a stand of broom that hid us from the track. Unfortunately it left us in clear view of the railway, the short tussocks of grass on the cutting slope making it impossible to hide. Ginny just kept giggling, but I was in a serious frenzy, crouched low behind the broom bush but painfully aware that I was making a fine display of my bottom should a train pass. It was a local line and hardly busy, but I had a horrible suspicion that Henry hadn’t picked on half past four at random.

  I was right. Even as I peered cautiously out from behind the bush the tracks started to sing and I heard the sound of a train approaching. I crouched down as far as I could and hid my face, thinking of the eyes of the passengers staring at my bare bottom. Ginny was laughing and I peeped between my fingers to find her standing up, waving her hands at the train and showing everything. Turning to look, I saw the last two carriages rush past, several faces staring open mouthed through the windows. I was blushing furiously and thinking of how public exposure was very different from showing off to Henry and Ginny when a voice called out above the noise of the train. My humiliation was complete. Not only had I been seen naked by a good fifty people, but we were about to be caught by the farm manager.

  My face must have been the colour of a beetroot as I looked up, only to find not the manager, but Henry beaming down at us from the fence. Ginny was in fits of laughter, and it didn’t take much to realise that I’d been set up.

  ‘We didn’t feel that it was right for you to get away with it completely,’ Henry announced as he climbed over the fence. ‘So Ginny and I worked out a little game for you while you were out of the room after lunch.’

  ‘You two …’I started, then trailed off wondering why Henry was holding not only my top but a coil of rope.

  ‘Er, Henry,’ I began, only to have Ginny grab my arms and pull them tight behind my back.

  Well I suppose I deserved it. I’d been playing mistress
all day and even bossed Henry around quite a bit. What I’d forgotten was that while Ginny might delight in being my pony-girl and being spanked by me, her fantasies did not revolve around being my sexual plaything. They must have decided quite early on that I needed a lesson, and now I was going to get it.

  I was laughing and struggling half-heartedly as they dragged me to the fence and pushed me down over it. My T-shirt was used to tie my hands behind my back and the rope used to bind my waist to the top rail. Henry had brought ankle-cuffs, which he attached to me and then to two fence posts. Lastly I had the bridle put on and a pair of my own panties stuffed in my mouth to shut me up. The position left my legs wide open and meant that the next train would get not just a view of my bare bottom but everything, fanny and all. This was utterly humiliating and was all I could think about while Ginny gave me a brief lecture on not being so bossy and then proceeded to take the riding whip to my bottom.

  She gave me a good whipping, ten for spanking her so hard, ten for making her lick my bumhole and ten for the fun of it. Each stroke bit into my bottom and would have had me squeaking if I hadn’t been so well gagged. Henry watched me beaten with an air of immense satisfaction that added to my humiliation, while Ginny laughed at the sight I made with my bottom stuck up as she whipped it. Thirty strokes left me whimpering and sobbing over the fence and feeling thoroughly contrite for having been rough with her. She stopped, glancing at Henry and then sinking to her knees behind me.

  ‘Ten minutes,’ Henry said as Ginny’s lips kissed my smarting bottom.

  ‘Tell me when it’s five,’ Ginny replied.

  Her kisses moved around my bottom, covering my hot, welted cheeks, working slowly down the line where they meet and then going to my fanny. I sighed as she buried her face in me, her tongue working on my clit. Henry came forward and took my bare breasts in his hands, working on the nipples to help me come. Not surprisingly, it didn’t take long. The sudden comedown from being Ginny’s mistress to hiding from the supposed farm manager had left me feeling vulnerable. Being tied and whipped with the chance of being seen by people in a train had intensified the feeling and turned it into an erotic one. Having my breasts molested while Ginny licked me really put the cap on it, and had me wriggling and biting on my mouthful of damp panties and leather in no time at all.

  I started to come and Ginny put her hands on my bottom, exploring the burning cheeks even as my orgasm hit me. Being upside down the blood had gone to my head and I nearly passed out at the point of climax. For all my excitement I felt extremely sorry for myself and thoroughly punished – a strange mixture of feelings but a very nice one.

  ‘A bit less high and mighty in future, Miss Amber,’ I heard Ginny say as my climax faded, ‘or you’ll get more of the same.’

  Five

  That first day more or less set the scene for the days that followed. Ginny was more than willing to play, but made a point of maintaining a balance between us. This meant that, while it was nearly always her between the shafts of the pony-cart, as often as not I was the one who ended up with a sore bottom or on my knees with my face buried between her thighs.

  With Brenda’s daily appearance in the house it was impractical to try the course out except in the evenings, and we got most of our practice in among the woods and copses where there was no chance of us being caught. We also went to bed together but Ginny always left before we went to sleep. This was a shame, as I felt that I wanted to share a bed with her and wake up with her in my arms. It wasn’t until the Friday night that I had the chance to do so.

  The weekend was spent training more seriously and, by Sunday evening, we had managed to clock a time of fifty-two seconds, which even Henry had to admit was enough to make us contenders for Mr Rathwell’s event. The actual race was now only a few days away, and the rest of the week was spent in mounting excitement.

  We repainted the cart in Henry’s crimson and black colours, replaced the wheels, trained in the woods each day and put Ginny on a red-meat diet. As I had promised I would, I had re-designed the harness and made two customised sets for Ginny and myself. I had used a soft leather – supple but thick – making eight-inch-deep waist-belts that hugged our midriffs and attached to the shafts of the cart at either side. Straps rose from back and front, crossing between our breasts. These placed the load on our shoulders, making control easier. The new wrist-cuffs were thicker and more elaborate, the bridles a simple set of four straps, the bits and metal cheek-rings. Smaller rings allowed our hair to be put up. This left mine in little tufts which Henry assured me looked sweet, while the effect gave Ginny a great mane of rich blonde curls tumbling down her back. I had also used nickel-plated steel fittings in place of brass, an innovation which I felt made for a smarter look although Henry felt it was out of keeping with tradition.

  Getting the leather had meant a trip to a leather warehouse in Whitechapel and, while we were in London, Henry had taken us to various shops to get me an outfit that would prevent Mr Rathwell from recognising me. The day before the race I got fully kitted up in front of the mirror. Looking at myself I could hardly believe it was me, and was sure that Mr Rathwell would never connect the wicked, leather-clad mistress I now appeared with the rather cold and haughty daughter of his accountant.

  I had chosen a leather corset that took my waist down to twenty-two inches and laced at the back with scarlet cord. This pushed my breasts up and together, a chemise of soft leather leaving a good slice of each showing. My shorts were of the same leather, hugging my bottom and pulled tight against my fanny. Knee-high boots fastened with a line of straps and sporting four-inch heels set my legs off, while a black wig concealed my distinctive curls. Instead of buying a domino I had opted for a top hat with a veil, effectively concealing my face from all but the closest inspection. Gauntlets completed the ensemble, leaving me looking very kinky, very fierce and very unlike Amber Oakley.

  Just wearing it made me feel really good, and I jumped on Ginny to give her a playful spanking. This ended in a fight on my bed, which I won and took my reward by sitting on Ginny’s face while she nuzzled my fanny through the tight leather. Restraining myself with some difficulty from going further, I let her go and we went downstairs to show off to Henry. He was suitably impressed and gave the opinion that Mr Rathwell would be far too scared of me to dare a close inspection.

  The next morning we rose early and breakfasted well before loading the cart into the back of the Land Rover. Ginny and I helped each other dress, our excitement rising as we transformed ourselves into mistress and pony-girl. Her muscles had firmed up over the time she had been at Henry’s, and she could now pull him up to the ridge without needing a rest at the top. Having done the same myself I knew how hard it was, and felt seriously confident in our ability to win. She also looked delectable in her new harness, full make-up and carefully groomed hair tied with crimson ribbons. It seemed unlikely that any other girl there would be quite so beautiful. Mr Rathwell was bound to be jealous of myself and also Henry – a thought that pleased me immensely.

  Ginny and I put on long coats over our gear and we left Henry’s farm. I’d only been there a little over a month but, as we left the leafy lanes of Hertfordshire and entered the great sprawl of the London suburbs, it felt as if we were entering another world. Not only that, but knowing how we were dressed under our coats and what we were up to made me feel both special and naughty.

  The warehouse in which the meet was being held proved to be a great squat structure of red brick supporting a roof of corrugated plastic. It looked pretty squalid and drew a few disapproving remarks from Henry, as did the process of having to queue, then be checked by security and finally show our tickets at the reception.

  ‘I never thought it would come to this,’ he complained as we entered the main body of the warehouse.

  I understood how he felt, but was determined not to let it dampen my spirits. An oval area had been kept clear in the centre of the warehouse floor, pillars supporting the roof forming a line down
the middle with a plastic fence linking them. Motorway cones delineated what was presumably the track and another plastic fence held back the crowd.

  The crowd was what really had Henry complaining, and I was forced to agree with him. For a start there were a good five males for every woman present. Only a handful of people were dressed in pony-carting outfits, and a good many hadn’t even troubled to smarten themselves up. Even with our coats on Ginny and myself stood out from the crowd, and I found myself immediately feeling less happy. Henry was right, Mr Rathwell had turned what had been an exclusive and elegant erotic sport into a sordid, commercial shambles.

  A hot-dog stand, betting booths, portable lavatories and a make-shift bar all added to the overriding impression of squalor, although the last at least allowed us to get hold of a much-needed drink. Having done this, we started to look round, quickly finding the place in which we wanted to be. An area at the end had been fenced off for competitors, with a pair of heavy-set security guards making sure that the rest of the crowd stayed out. Within the enclosure things were more as I had imagined them to be and, once Henry had managed to get us in and we had started to chat with other genuine enthusiasts, I quickly began to feel at home.

  I also began to feel notably less confident of our ability to win. The first people to approach us were a couple who obviously took the sport very seriously indeed. Ginny and I had taken our coats off and were standing there in all our finery when I saw a girl look over to us, tap her boyfriend on the arm and start towards us. She was a good three inches taller than me and combined power and elegance in a way that I had never before seen. Slim hipped and moderately small breasted, she lacked the opulent beauty of Ginny, but looked far the better runner. Her legs were extraordinarily long and appeared to be pillars of solid muscle, every one showing as she walked. Her jet-black hair was coiled on top of her head in a functional bun and held in place with a bright-yellow clip: otherwise she was stark naked, a simple-looking harness of yellow-and-black rope-work dangling from her hand.