by Penny Birch
The pistol sounded and the cart lurched forward, Ginny making a desperate lunge to get ahead of the pack. I smacked the reins hard on her back, yelling at her to move so that we didn’t get caught up. The cart to our left bumped against ours, once, twice, forcing Ginny to correct. Vicky was already ahead of us and, unless Ginny managed to pull out, we would be forced to give way or drive into the fence. I yelled, reaching out to shove against their cart. The man merely gave a cold look in return, his pony-boy now pressed close to Ginny, the shafts touching. We had perhaps six inches advantage, no more.
‘Give way!’ I yelled.
He ignored me, instead pulling his left hand rein to steer his pony-boy into us. I corrected Ginny to the left, only to have him move further in, determined to cut us off.
‘Right!’ I screamed, pulling on the rein.
As Ginny turned, their cart struck ours hard, as I knew it would. The man’s look of cold, aloof dominance changed abruptly to dismay as their lighter cart bounced up, tipped, hung on one wheel for an instant, and then toppled over.
Ginny sprang past as the men’s cart rolled, the pony-boy going down suddenly on to his knees. There was a crash and a curse behind us but I paid no attention, instead focusing on Todd and Vicky, now a good ten yards clear of us.
‘Good girl!’ I called out to Ginny.
We had cleared the pack and were approaching the end of the straight. Other than Vicky, only the tall black pony-boy and another all-girl team were ahead of us. Rathwell’s team was on our inside and some dozen yards back, acting as a block to the group of drivers behind. I had been half expecting to be pulled up for fouling, but either what I’d done was considered fair or nobody had noticed that it had been deliberate.
The corner was the next obstacle, a tight turn that would favour smaller, more compact carts. Also low-slung ones, I realised, as the all-girl team in front of us tried to take it too fast and toppled over, the pony-girl staying upright but the driver spilling out. I leant into the curve as Ginny hit it, the cart swaying but staying upright. We had taken it tight, leaving us level with the pony-boy for an instant before he again pulled away down the return straight. Looking to the side I saw the team we had tangled with pulling their cart off to the side. One wheel was almost at right angles to the other, clearly showing that they were no longer in competition. I felt no sympathy, only a slight concern should the two men later choose to make an issue of the crash.
Ginny was trying to follow our plan, but we were slowly losing ground on Vicky. The pony-boy wasn’t, however; instead he was coming within a yard of Todd’s cart as they reached the far end. She gained on the turn, as did we, the pony-boy’s long legs and the consequently long shafts making tight turns impossible. As we made the lap we were comfortably in third, and I allowed myself the luxury of raising my hat to Rathwell as his team passed on the far side of the fence.
We held our position through the next few laps, Ginny gradually losing pace but no more than most others. The third pony-boy was pacing us but some way behind, while a tall red-haired pony-girl and Rathwell’s team were also possible challengers. Ahead, the tall black pony-boy had taken the lead, Vicky and Todd pacing him but making no effort to overtake. We lapped our first tail-ender on the sixth circuit, which seemed to give Ginny new energy.
By the seventh, the stamina of Rathwell’s two-in-hand had started to tell, coming into fourth place behind us. He tried to overtake on the straight of the eighth but our better cornering kept us ahead, only to have the red-haired girl pull parallel to us after taking the next corner dangerously tight.
‘Sprint!’ I called to Ginny, using my whip on her for the first time as we started the ninth lap.
The red-haired girl was inside us, and fast, her long legs matching Ginny’s pace for pace. The corner was coming up fast, too fast; I leant in, our cart touching theirs. For an instant I had the horrible feeling of losing my balance as we went up on one wheel and then the cart slammed back down, bouncing twice but staying upright. The red-haired girl was inside us, with a yard’s lead, then two.
‘Come on!’ I screamed, once more flicking Ginny’s bottom.
On the opposite side I saw that Vicky was running parallel with the pony-boy, desperately trying to get past him. I felt for her even as I screamed for Ginny to run faster. She was tiring, straining to keep our pace but unable to do it. We lost more ground at the corner, rounding it and going into the final lap as Vicky cornered ahead of us. The red-haired girl had the measure of us, and Rathwell was close behind; no more than five yards. The crowds had begun to cheer and clap as we hit the corner with Melody and Harmony almost touching the back of my seat. They pulled out to overtake as we entered the straight, sprinting hard, Rathwell yelling encouragement.
The cheers welled up, mixed with cries of delight and despair. Someone had won, but I didn’t know who, nor did I care. Melody and Harmony were parallel with me, then a bit in front.
‘Got you!’ Rathwell yelled. ‘Go girls!’
I brought my whip down hard on Ginny’s bottom. She leapt on, gaining a foot and then once more falling back. Rathwell was next to Ginny, yelling at the black girls to pull in and tugging at the reins. The corner was coming up, Rathwell’s team moving in ahead of Ginny. They started to turn into the corner, pulling wide.
‘Turn!’ I screamed, wrenching on the left-hand rein.
Ginny slowed fractionally and turned hard around the pillar, far too sharply. The cart went up, my balance going, Ginny tripping as the cart slewed around, crossing the line sideways even as my shoulder hit the concrete. A bright-blue trainer passed inches from my face and I rolled away, covering my face with my hands.
I lay dazed on the ground, looking up at the bright lights that had been strung along the warehouse girders. My hat was off and my wig askew, my shoulder aching where I had landed. Ginny had stayed upright by some miracle and was looking down at me with concern, unable to do more with her wrists fixed to the cart.
‘I’m all right,’ I managed, feeling anything but all right as I propped myself up on one arm. ‘Did we win?’
‘Fourth,’ a voice announced from above and behind.
I looked around to see the line judge, still seated in his elevated chair. I smiled at him, my aches and pains forgotten. Fourth meant we’d beaten Rathwell. My smile dropped a little at the next thought. Fourth meant three strokes of the cane delivered to my bare bottom in front of a sizeable audience.
Coming fourth also meant that we were in the prizes, just. Seven hundred and fifty pounds in cash did a lot to compensate for not having done better, despite Henry’s disapproval of the whole idea of money prizes. Vicky had won as well, having run a brilliant race that made her the toast of the small gathering of Rathwell’s friends who stayed on when the main crowd had cleared. The man she had beaten into second was a professional sportsman and her success was regarded as the high point of what was evidently a long string of victories.
There were about thirty people at Rathwell’s private do, mainly from the group who had actually been involved with the pony-carting. Vicky and Todd were there and had latched on to Henry, Ginny and I after the race. The tall redhead and her female driver were also present but, fortunately, not the male couple I had made crash.
I was awaiting my caning with a mixture of trepidation and resolve. Rathwell could strip my bottom and apply the cane to me, but three strokes were all he had and I was determined to take them with as much dignity as I could manage. Rathwell being Rathwell he hadn’t simply taken me aside, put me over a chair and given me a quick three. Instead he’d announced to everybody that I was due to be caned and set up a whipping stool right in the middle of the warehouse to keep me in mind of what was coming to me.
Vicky and Todd were sympathetic, but I could see in their eyes that they were looking forward to seeing my bare bottom whacked. Ginny and even Henry were little better, commiserating with me but clearly excited. I was quickly learning that one trouble with presenting a dominant image is that
there are plenty of people who’d far rather punish a dominant girl than a submissive girl.
I suppose it makes sense. Having the willing submission of a beautiful, naked girl like Ginny or Vicky is wonderful, but having a fully clad, strong-willed, dominant woman getting shyly down on her knees and reluctantly exposing her bottom for punishment is even better. I’d have loved to have watched one or two of the haughty, dominant women who were there get the same treatment but, unfortunately, it was me who was going to be stripped and beaten for their amusement and not the other way around.
When my time finally came I was trembling hard despite the amount of brandy I had drunk. Rathwell went to stand by the whipping stool and called for quiet, then summoned me by name. As I walked out into the middle of the warehouse every eye was on me. I kept my chin up, walking slowly to stand in front of the whipping stool with my hands folded behind my back, awaiting orders. Rathwell was grinning maliciously and tapping a long, pale-yellow cane against his palm.
‘I’m going to enjoy this,’ he announced. ‘Get over the stool.’
I started to dig under the front of my corset to get at the button of my shorts, but he raised a finger and waggled it as if telling off a naughty dog.
‘Tut, tut, tut,’ he said. ‘My privilege, I think.’
I stopped, instead obeying his first instruction and placing my hips against the padded stool.
‘Come on, Amber,’ he chided. ‘Head down, bottom up, let’s not have any of your hoity-toity little airs. Or will I have to have Melody and Harmony spank you first?’
That was a much more appealing idea than being caned by Rathwell. I hesitated before bending over the stool properly. Maybe it was my hesitation, maybe he would have done it anyway, but it was then that Rathwell decided to push his luck.
‘Come on, girls,’ he called over to the two black girls. ‘I think a spanking from you two would teach her a valuable lesson.’
I made to protest, as this was no part of the bargain, then choked back the words as strong arms encircled my waist. The sensation was just too good, and I could feel my resistance slipping away as they handled me. They both took hold of me, one putting her hands between my legs and groping for the button of my shorts. It popped open and I felt my zip come down, then the shorts were being tugged off my bottom. One of them giggled at the sight of my flowery panties. I was lifted, my feet leaving the floor. Their hands had gripped my panties, preparing to strip my bottom.
‘Take her knickers down on three,’ Rathwell called. ‘One … Two … Three.’
I felt a little tug and my pants were down, my bottom plump and bare in front of everybody. People started clapping and jeering and I found myself blushing furiously even as the girls started to spank me. They did it thoroughly and methodically, taking a cheek each and making sure not an inch of my poor wriggling bottom or thighs was spared. I tried to remain passive and dignified, but the slaps stung and I had soon started to kick and squeal as my bottom warmed and reddened. They stopped as suddenly as they had started, only to take one throbbing bum-cheek each and pull them apart, displaying every detail of my fanny and anus to the people sitting behind me.
This raised more jeers from the crowd, the girls moving back to leave me limp over the whipping stool. I was sobbing with humiliation, my dignity forgotten as Rathwell approached with the cane.
‘Not so high and mighty now, are we?’ he asked.
I didn’t reply, my head swimming with the feeling in my bottom and the knowledge that I’d been spanked in public. He raised the cane and brought it down hard, making me yelp and sending a line of fire across my behind.
‘One!’ the crowd called, their voices raised in delight at my beating.
The second came quickly, even harder than the first.
‘Two!’ the crowd yelled happily.
I was whimpering and panting as I waited for the third. He was in no hurry, walking around me, stroking the smarting lines on my bottom, tracing a line down between my cheeks, burrowing between them, touching my anus, then my fanny.
‘Bastard!’ I managed, but it was a fairly pathetic effort and we both knew it.
He laughed, moved back, and suddenly brought the cane hard around in an arc, landing it plumb across the fattest part of my bottom.
‘Three!’ the crowd called even as I kicked and yelled.
I lay over the horse, feeling the familiar ecstasy of having been skilfully beaten and humiliated. Rathwell moved in front of me, pulling his fly down to produce a skinny pink cock. For all my revulsion for him I found I had to do it, and my mouth was opening automatically as he took me by the hair. I gaped wider, making no resistance as he fed me his penis, rubbing it in my mouth until my lips closed around his shaft and I began to suck.
The crowd was silent, watching in awe as I all too willingly sucked Morris Rathwell’s cock. It stiffened fast, swelling as I licked and sucked at it. I was intensely aware of my naked bottom, especially the hot cane lines. Rathwell had bared it and whipped me; he had had me spanked by two pony-girls while the crowd jeered and catcalled at the state I was in. Now I was sucking on his hard little prick, tasting his cock as he held me by the hair and fucked my mouth. He jerked into me and suddenly my mouth was full of salty, slimy come. It dribbled down my chin and smeared on my cheeks and nose as he pulled out and wiped it on my face.
All I could do was groan in submissive bliss, sticking my tongue out to show everyone my mouthful. I heard one or two exclamations, presumably at the sheer filthiness of what I was doing. Then hands were helping me off the stool, guiding me down on to the floor. It was one of the black girls, taking me by the hair as her master had done, indicating the dense mat of black curls in between her legs as I sank into a kneeling position.
‘This is Melody, girl, and you’re going to take me all the way,’ she said.
She moved forward and pushed my face into her, sighing as my tongue found her clitty. I couldn’t see anything, but I knew it was Harmony when fingers touched me between the legs, one finding my anus, another my vagina. I squeaked as a finger was inserted roughly into my bottom-hole, only to have my face pushed back into Melody’s fanny.
Harmony started to finger me, quite rough so that I could hear the wet noises of her fingers moving in my vagina. That wasn’t all, and I realised that she was playing with herself as she worked her fingers in my two holes. It was more than I could resist not to put my fingers to my own fanny, masturbating shamelessly without a care for who saw or what they thought. I was near orgasm when Melody came in my face, then coming as Harmony’s fingers started to really work inside me as she too began to come. I screamed, felt the muscles of both vagina and anus clamp on to Harmony’s intruding fingers, grabbed Melody around her bottom so that I could pull her back against my face, and hit a long, drawn-out peak that left me weak-kneed and gasping on the warehouse floor. I was vaguely aware of clapping as I sank down on my side, then another arm was around me – Ginny’s.
Six
I spent most of the week after Morris Rathwell’s event either sulking in my room or wandering around the farm thinking. The pony-cart race and its aftermath had taught me something about myself that I wasn’t really sure I wanted to learn. When I’d first been spanked by Henry I had become so excited that by the end of the day and my third punishment I would have even let him try and put his cock up my bottom. I was attracted to Henry, though. Not physically, but by his combination of openness and maturity. He was big and powerful, too, which added a delicious feeling of genuine physical helplessness to the experience of being put across his knee. Physically I hadn’t even been attracted by the pony-boy who’d come second in the race, and I certainly wasn’t attracted by Morris Rathwell. I didn’t like him either, but it was that very fact that had made having to submit to his will such a turn on. Even the spanking from Melody and Harmony had been under his orders and, after he’d used the cane on me, I’d been quite unable to resist taking his cock in my mouth. The uncomfortable fact is that not only does be
ing spanked make me want to do as I’m told, but I also enjoy it more if I feel I’m being taken advantage of.
The only good thing about it was that Rathwell hadn’t realised the extent to which I’d been willing. By the end of it he could have taken my virginity and I’d have been as willing and eager as I undoubtedly was in his imagination. I knew how he imagined me because he’d told me afterwards. Being an egotistical bastard, he saw me as desperately attracted to him but too proud to admit it. He was sure that I’d always relished the thought of sex with him and that the humiliating part had been to service his pony-girls. That simply wasn’t true. I’d have gladly played with the girls at any time, but once I’d been caned I’d have sucked any cock offered to me, and the more repulsive its owner the more I’d have enjoyed it. Unfortunately the eagerness of my response to punishment made it hard to refute his boasts.
The whole thing left me seething with humiliation and the desire for revenge. If Rathwell had caned me briefly and without fuss, honour would have been satisfied. After all, when I’d made the bet my assumption had been that three or four quick cane strokes would be no big deal. He’d taken advantage of me but, of course, what I’d really misjudged was my own ability to keep cool. I’d always thought of myself as cool and poised, but now I knew that once I submit, I go to jelly, and that was really mortifying.
Ginny had gone back home on the Monday after the pony-carting meet. This also depressed me. It wasn’t until the middle of August that I was really back to my old self. Henry had been completely cool about doing without his evening suck for two weeks, and I made up for it anyway by being his maid and pony-girl for the entire weekend a fortnight after Rathwell’s race. He put me in nipple clamps – metal things like miniature book presses – which was exciting, and finished off on Sunday by putting a candle in my bottom-hole and having me kneel on the table while he ate by its light. He then caned me and let me suck him. I took ages over it to make up for lost opportunities, licking and stroking until he finally took me by the hair and brought himself off in my face.
