New Erotica 6

by Various

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  About the Book

  Also by Nexus Collections

  Title Page

  The Point by Penny Birch

  About the Author

  Also by Penny Birch

  Intimate Instruction by Arabella Knight

  About the Author

  Also by Arabella Knight

  Pet Training in the Private House by Esme Ombreux

  About the Author

  Also by Esme Ombreux

  Drawn to Discipline by Tara Black

  About the Author

  Beast by Wendy Swanscombe

  About the Author

  Caged! by Yolanda Celbridge

  About the Author

  Also by Yolanda Celbridge

  Whip Hand by G. C. Scott

  About the Author

  Also by G. C. Scott

  Angel by Lindsay Gordon

  About the Author

  Also by Lindsay Gordon

  The Last Straw by Christina Shelly

  About the Author

  Also by Christina Shelly

  Slave Acts by Jennifer Jane Pope

  About the Author

  Also by Jennifer Jane Pope

  Slave-Mines of Tormunil by Aran Ashe

  About the Author

  Also by Aran Ashe

  Dolls by Aishling Morgan

  About the Author

  Also by Aishling Morgan

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Plunged into new tortures and humiliations gleefully devised by their inventive Master, Herr Abraham Barengelt, three sisters, Anna, Beth and Gwen wait bound and helpless for the fruits of his extreme imagination to ripen.

  Innocent Angie Stark takes the fall for her arrogant boyfriend’s stock fraud, and finds herself entombed in Wrigley Scrubs, an experimental white-colour prison. Wrigley is a modern-day do-the-girls hall, ruled with a firm hand by the governor, Miss Horsfall, and complete with tight uniforms and ferocious cat-spats.

  When Jessica moves from the city she fears that she might find life in the suburbs rather dull. But the local shop is owned by the forbiddingly attractive Mrs Morgan, and it stocks a surprisingly wide range of collars, leads and whips. And, at the Health and Exercise Club Jessica is drawn to Matt, a young man on the staff who, as her personal coach, sets her a strenuous and strict exercise regime.

  These are just three of the ten tales features in the sixth volume of the very best of erotic writing from Nexus. Also included are two brand new, previously unpublished stories from Penny Birch and Aishling Morgan, ones that you won’t find printed elsewhere. Altogether, that’s twelve servings of domination and submission. Whatever aspects of pain and pleasure are encountered, these tales explore every facet of the wide world of perverse eroticism, with a compelling power.

  Also by Nexus Collections:

  EROTICON 1

  EROTICON 2

  EROTICON 3

  EROTICON 4

  NEW EROTICA 1

  NEW EROTICA 2

  NEW EROTICA 3

  NEW EROTICA 4

  NEW EROTICA 5

  SATURNALIA

  THE POINT

  Penny Birch

  About the Author

  Penny Birch is currently the most prolific author on the Nexus list, and probably the most filthy-dirty too. Her stories are largely autobiographical, based on her own activities, and those of her game friends, in over ten years on the fetish scene. She’s a founder member of the Birch, Bottoms and Lovitt Pony Club, a worthy institution which serves the needs of lovers of human equestrianism. Regular readers of fetish fiction will know that her books are realistic and extremely horny missives from the furthest reaches of human sexual behaviour.

  The Point is a brand new story from Penny, one that you won’t find in any of her previously published books.

  Also by Penny Birch

  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

  UNIFORM DOLL

  I EXPECTED THE dinner party to be a disaster from the start, or at best dull. Marjorie Burgess was one of those women whose principal interest lay in arranging other peoples lives for them. She worked in the administration block at the university, something in management, a big, raw-boned woman, matronly, kind in a slightly sharp fashion, bottle blonde, perhaps fifty although unlikely to admit it. I’d met her on my first day, while trying to sort out the endless bureaucratic niceties my position as senior lecturer seemed to bring with it. At the time I’d have been grateful for any help at all, and accepted hers. She had bustled through the process with remarkable efficiency, complaining in a constant undertone, but refusing to stop until I was finished.

  Since then we had met occasionally, at first casually, then socially at the Christmas party. I also met her husband, a whiskery, cheerful man, considerably older than her, who’d been something quite senior in the military, but was now retired. As I am never good in new social situations, and was still finding my feet in the department, I readily accepted the invitation to join their table. Before the evening was through I’d been invited to dinner in the New Year, which I could hardly refuse.

  For some reason best known to herself, she considered it her duty to try to pair off her unmarried acquaintances, which I was sure was what she had in mind for me. I was also sure her choice for me would be some dull but well-meaning man, somebody she considered a ‘safe choice’ as she put it. I was wrong. It was worse.

  Possibly she had detected something of my submissive nature, but if so, she had entirely got the wrong end of the stick. Aside from the two of them and myself, three people had been invited to dinner. There was one other female, Ivy, a mousy-haired woman smaller even than me, and so shy she barely seemed able to bring herself to speak. She was quite clearly intended to partner Angus, a big, loose-limbed Scot, with red hair and a speech impediment.

  That left me with the other man, Graeme, tall, dark, square jawed, absolutely confident, and utterly condescending. Physically, he had considerable appeal, and I could see that he would be able to handle me very easily indeed. Characterwise, it was a very different story. Within ten minutes of meeting he had clearly decided that he was going to bed with me later, and that I would be grateful for it.

  With Ivy and Angus already staring at each other in a sort of dumb adoration, and both host and hostess constantly moving between kitchen and dining room, I was left with little choice but to talk to him. The only sensible thing to do seemed to be to hit the drink and pray for oblivion. With luck he’d attempt to take advantage of me and I’d be sick down his front.

  Whatever else was wrong, Edward Burgess’ choice of drink could not be faulted. He’d opened Champagne as we’d arrived, two bottles of vintage Pol Roger. Neither Ivy nor Graeme drank, and Angus only moderately. I was already feeling slightly tipsy by the time we sat down, me between Graeme and Edward Burgess, opposite Angus. The meal started with a soup that contained more than a little sherry, along with hock, then went on to pigeons individually roasted in little pots, washed down with Burgundy. Haggis followed, served with a tot of malt whisky and a Rioja, which left my head spinning and my stomach a little round ball beneath my dress. The conversation had not improved, but I had discovered one interesting thing. Edward Burgess had been a Colonel in the army.

  There was a scandal, about the time I was born, involving a Colonel who made a habit of inviting girls to crew on his yacht, and then span
king them for their errors. A newspaper had exposed him, labelling him a pervert, and he had sued. His argument had been, that while he had indeed spanked the girls, he was not a pervert, as ‘any red-blooded Englishman was bound to want to spank a young girl’s bare bottom’. It was a wonderful phrase, enough to make me wet just reading it, and it had stuck in my head. Ever since then, the rank of Colonel had held a peculiar fascination for me.

  It was easy to see Edward Burgess as a spanker too. He had the right sort of hands, big, rather heavy, with long fingers, good for spanking, and good for getting into little crevices once I was properly contrite and pliable. There was also his moustache, which was big, bristly and, frankly, offensive. Being spanked by a man with a really offensive moustache always adds a certain, special something to the sense of humiliation that comes with being punished and then molested by my persecutor. Sadly it was unlikely to happen, and I had to content myself with fantasy.

  Ivy and Angus failed to put much into the conversation. Graeme more than made up for it. He never stopped, and he had an opinion on every possibly subject, even those he evidently knew nothing whatever about, including women. Marjorie had been doing her best to steer the conversation onto relationships and marriage all evening, and as she had become increasingly drunk her efforts had become increasingly open. She had finally succeeded, although perhaps not quite in the way she had anticipated. Graeme was holding forth on changing views on female sexuality.

  ‘… nothing ever really changes, of course,’ he was saying, ‘whatever the feminists might want us to believe. What every woman wants is a stable, monogamous relationship with a man who can provide for her and her children. It’s simple biology – the survival of the fittest, the selfish gene. Sex is irrelevant, simply a tool to ensnare a suitable husband, then for reproduction. Of course they say they need it, to egg us boys along.’

  ‘You’re right, of course, dear,’ Marjorie put in. ‘I think far too much attention is paid to sex nowadays, especially by the media. And naturally a stable relationship is what every sensible woman wants. Don’t you think so, girls?’

  Ivy made an odd little noise in her throat. She was blushing. Angus was looking concerned and protective.

  I should have followed Ivy’s example. I didn’t.

  ‘Leaving the relationship issue aside for a moment,’ I said, ‘I can easily demonstrate that Graeme’s argument is specious … well, ludicrous frankly. Ethology is not a particularly exact science, so I won’t attempt to explain the current position on the relationship between human behaviour and evolution. It wouldn’t be necessary anyway. Just consider the physiological evidence. The clitoris has no function save the provision of sexual pleasure. QED.’

  ‘A vestigial penis,’ Graeme answered.

  ‘Oh for goodness sake, at least get the appropriate GCSE before you start pontificating on human biology. A vestigial organ is one in which the primary function has become redundant, generally leading to evolutionary degeneration. If the clitoris is a vestigial penis it would imply that our female ancestors had penes, which is plainly absurd.’

  He didn’t answer. Angus was the colour of a beetroot, and Ivy little better. Marjorie was looking worried. The Colonel was smiling.

  ‘Shall we have dessert?’ Marjorie said hastily.

  She made for the kitchen, leaving absolute silence, until Graeme spoke again.

  ‘It’s all very well using long words and clever arguments, but the fact remains that women have no real need for sex, not in the way men do. They only use it as a tool, to get what they want. No woman ever has sex simply because she enjoys it.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ I answered.

  ‘It is true,’ he insisted. ‘Can you prove otherwise?’

  ‘What, by having sex with you, I suppose?’

  He laughed.

  ‘Right into my trap!’ he went on, and laughed again, unnecessarily loud. ‘You have just proved my point, Penny. You see, you know that I cannot possibly do anything other than decline that invitation …’

  ‘It was not an invitation!’ I exclaimed. Again he laughed, and continued.

  ‘A challenge then, if you prefer, a challenge to me to escalate, and one you knew I couldn’t not possibly accept, not within the bounds of social acceptability anyway. Therefore you say it, calling my bluff in the sure knowledge of success. Now, if you had thought there was the slightest chance of my raising the stakes, you would never have dared to say what you did.’

  ‘Why not? I could still have turned you down.’

  ‘Not without losing the argument, you couldn’t.’

  ‘No. Has it ever occurred to you that my not wanting sex with you might simply be something to do with you, and nothing to do with my enjoyment of sex?’

  ‘No, no. You don’t understand. I’m not saying you wouldn’t enjoy it. In fact I know you would. I’m saying you have no real need for it and so would not do it without some gain other than the simple pleasure of the act.’

  ‘Then fair enough, you have trapped me, because whatever I was to do now, you could argue that I did it to prove a point, thus providing my ulterior motive.’

  He just laughed. I bit down my anger, determined not to allow myself to be goaded any further. Our argument had already soured the atmosphere. He seemed oblivious, and wouldn’t let it lie.

  ‘She knows I’m right,’ he said to the Colonel.

  I held my peace, with difficulty. At that Marjorie Burgess returned from the kitchen, bearing a tray with six elaborate looking cream puddings on it, along with a bottle of deep-orange wine. I asked what it was, in an effort to change the topic of conversation.

  ‘It’s called cranachan,’ she explained. ‘It’s a Scottish dish. Cream, honey, raspberries, and liqueur whisky, on a bed of oatmeal.’

  ‘Delicious, and Tokaji, a favourite of mine.’

  ‘It’s an ‘eighty-four,’ the Colonel commented, ‘five puttonyos …’

  ‘You missed the end of our little discussion, Marjorie,’ Graeme interrupted him. ‘I absolutely trounced Penny. Didn’t I, Penny?’

  ‘No,’ I answered. ‘You did not. You simply manoeuvred me into a situation from which I could not prove my point. That does not mean you are right.’

  He laughed again, that same irritating bray.

  ‘Quite the little spitfire, isn’t she?’ he said. ‘Still, whatever she may say, she knows I’m right.’

  ‘Are you trying to goad me into some sort of sex act?’ I demanded.

  ‘There you go again with your little dares,’ he answered me. ‘It doesn’t work, Penny.’

  I took a spoonful of cranachan. I was boiling inside, absolutely furious, and humiliated too, although not in a sexual way. Sober, I would have stayed quiet, but with more than a bottle of wine inside me, not to mention the whisky and sherry, my feelings got the better of me.

  ‘I can prove it,’ I said. ‘I can prove it by giving pleasure to another woman, by bringing her to orgasm. She would have nothing to gain but pleasure.’

  I shouldn’t have said it. I knew I shouldn’t have the moment the words were out of my mouth. Every one of them froze, looking at me as if I’d just suggested bestiality or cannibalism, Ivy in particular. I realised she thought I was propositioning her.

  ‘Look, I …’ I began, but she just ran.

  Angus followed, knocking his bowl of cranachan over as he went, to spill out onto the table opposite me. I had to say something, and followed. Marjorie was ahead of me, after a dishcloth, and Ivy simply grabbed her coat and left, so all I got was a dirty look from Angus and the door more or less slammed in my face.

  I stood in the hallway, swaying slightly. I was cross with myself, but furious with Graeme. Not that I wanted to face him, as I could just imagine the sort of self-righteous and condescending stance he would take. What I did want was water, and, rather than return to the dining room, I went into the kitchen. Marjorie Burgess was there, at the sink, soaking a cranachan smeared dishcloth in water. She turned to me, a glare of absolute f
ury.

  ‘You have absolutely ruined my dinner party!’ she snapped. ‘How could you say such things?’

  ‘Me?’ I demanded. ‘What about that bastard Graeme?’

  ‘How dare you!’ she yelled. ‘Graeme is my nephew!’

  She just snatched at me, grabbed me by the hair and wrenched me forwards. It took me completely by surprise, and she was a lot bigger than me. So I went, screaming in shock as I sprawled across the sink, banging my head on the tap. It hurt, and it was still running a trickle, right down my neck. The knock left me dazed for a second, by which time she had taken my arm and twisted it violently up into the small of my back. I realised I was going to be spanked even as I felt her hand touch the back of one thigh, groping for the hem of my dress. I squealed in outrage, twisting my body in an effort to get free, but succeeded only in snagging my dress on the tap, turning it full on, and spilling one breast out.

  Water exploded over my head even as my dress was jerked high, right up to my waist, putting the lacy black panties I’d chosen on show to her, and for all I knew, the men too. I screamed in protest, getting a mouthful from the water running down around my head. She’d dropped the dishcloth, and my bare breast had gone in it, slimy with cranachan, a disgusting feeling, which was pushed right out of my head as her hand locked in the waistband of my panties.

  ‘You’re coming bare, young lady,’ she snapped, and pulled.

  They were down. My bum was bare, showing to the world, pink and naked and quivering, complete with smack marks from my last punishment. I went wild, kicking and screaming and cursing, but only succeeded in showing off my pussy and bumhole as my panties were tugged firmly down. She left them there, indifferent to my tantrums, around my thighs, inverted, to frame my bare bottom in rucked up dress, suspender straps and lowered panties. She set to work, slapping me hard, just as I heard her husband’s voice raised in surprise.

  ‘Marjorie!?’

  ‘Hey!’ Graeme put in, and went quiet.

  She didn’t answer. I did, with a fresh scream and a desperate lunge to the side as her hand came down hard on my bottom for the second swat.