by Penny Birch
Eight
I AWOKE BRUISED, sore and aching, bright spring sunshine flooding down on to the dirty mattress where they’d had me and where I’d slept, stark naked, although I couldn’t remember at what point they’d stripped me. They had at least untied me too, but my wrists and legs were still covered in rope marks, although as they’d only spanked me by hand my bottom was pristine. All this I discovered as I inspected myself in a cracked mirror, before taking stock of my surroundings.
The room I was in was almost completely bare, with no carpet and no other furnishings besides the mattress and mirror, although the floor was littered with the debris of the night before: bottles, cigarette ends, bits of candle including two small, ball-shaped ones which must have been what they put up me, and my pussy pump. I retrieved it, my head still too fuzzy to think properly as I began to search for a bathroom.
It was only a small flat, with five rooms, in one of which Shana and Felicita lay together on another grubby mattress, cuddled into each other’s arms with an empty bottle of vodka on the floor beside them. Nobody else was around, allowing me to wash in peace as the water was fortunately still on, although freezing cold. That woke me up properly and helped to clear my thoughts, although I was still in a muddle over the whole thing, resentful for the way they’d used me, yet grateful too, because every time I thought about it a shiver of excitement ran through me.
I could vaguely remember Buttman Bailey saying he had my bags for me, but I couldn’t find them, or anything else except my bunny costume. I pulled it on, because the air was a little chilly, went to the window and stood staring out over the rooftops of Brooklyn, wondering what to do. I had to get back to Hudson’s apartment, eventually, but my purse, credit cards and phone were in my handbag. Whatever they’d done to me I hadn’t imagined they’d steal my stuff, if only because Melody had been there and while she may be a sadistic bitch she’s also my friend. I couldn’t say the same for either Shana or Felicita, both of whom had used me mercilessly. They were fast asleep and I really didn’t want to wake them, but I seemed to have little choice.
Returning to their room, I gave Felicita’s shoulder a gentle shake. She groaned and snuggled closer to Shana. I shook her again and she opened one bleary eye.
‘Penny?’ she croaked. ‘What do you want? I’m tired.’
‘Do you know where my things are?’ I asked.
‘No,’ she grunted. ‘Go away. Let me sleep.’
‘I need to get my things, Felicita! At least tell me where the Baileys live.’
‘Upper East Side.’
‘Upper East Side? The Upper East Side of what?’
‘The Upper East Side of the Upper East Side, putita. Apartment seventy-one, Lord North Buildings, East One Hundred and Fourth Street. Now fuck off!’
‘In Manhattan?’
‘No, on the fucking moon!’
She said something in Spanish, undoubtedly rude, then put her hand to her head, wincing, and closed her eyes. I stood up, wondering if she’d let me borrow her phone, but it didn’t seem likely she even had one on her. She was still in her Brooklyn Bitches outfit, or at least the skirt, which was rucked up around her waist to leave her full golden bottom sticking out. The temptation to smack her was considerable, but I knew it would only end in trouble, and I didn’t dare wake Shana, so I left them alone and went back into the main room.
One advantage of New York is that you can see the towers of Manhattan from just about anywhere. They were visible from the window, although depressingly far away. Yet there was no choice. I was going to have to walk back, dressed as I was. Still I hesitated, barely able to take in the hideous embarrassment of walking halfway across New York dressed as a sexualised bunny rabbit. For maybe half an hour I just stood there, hoping Hudson and Jemima or even Buttman Bailey would turn up, before plucking my courage up and leaving the flat.
Even as I stepped out of the door the blood was rushing to my face, a rich pink blush that grew stronger with every step as I moved out from the alley and on to a proper street. There were people everywhere, and all of them seemed to be staring at me, but there was nothing whatsoever I could do save put one foot in front of the other and make for the distant towers.
My watch was with the rest of my things, so I had no idea how long I walked, but it seemed like weeks, street after street, every one of which seemed to be crowded. By the time I got to the river I’d heard fifty-six jokes about Jessica Rabbit, had twelve men ask if they could play Bugs Bunny opposite me, and been hooted at by more cars than I could have counted.
I did at least finally get to cross the Brooklyn Bridge, even if it was in a furry pink bunny costume that left every contour of my bottom and breasts on plain show to what seemed to be an improbably large and unreasonably interested gang of spectators. On the opposite shore it was worse, with tourists to add to my woes, and every single one of them with a camera. By the time I reached Hudson Street I’d had my photo taken maybe a thousand times, mostly from behind, and been asked to pose by Americans, British, Japanese, Germans and a group of Australian gay leathermen visiting Greenwich Village. Kunstmann’s wrinkly, somewhat pompous face was one of the most welcome sights I’d ever seen.
‘Let me in, quickly please,’ I demanded.
‘You’ve missed them, I’m afraid,’ he answered, ‘but you’d better come inside.’
‘Missed them?’ I asked, following him through the doors. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Mr Hudson and Miss Jemima,’ he went on. ‘They left first thing.’
‘Left? Where to?’
‘Out of town.’
‘What! But … but what about me? Did they leave a message?’
‘No message.’
‘But … oh, for goodness sake! Never mind, I don’t suppose they’ll be long. Could you let me into the apartment, please?’
‘Come in here, out of the way.’
I followed him into his cubby-hole, a tiny room at the back of the building crowded with cleaning equipment and bric-à-brac. There was a single chair, in front of the monitor for the security cameras, which he sat down on, leaving me standing.
‘I need to get into the apartment,’ I repeated.
He shook his head.
‘Sorry, can’t do that.’
‘But I need to get in. All my things are there. Most of them anyway. Butt … Mr Bailey, a friend of Hudson’s, has got my handbag with my credit cards, so I don’t even have any money.’
‘Sorry. Mr Hudson’s very particular about his apartment.’
‘No, he’s not. Tiffany comes and goes all the time, and she house-sits for him.’
‘That’s Miss Tiffany.’
‘And the other girls.’
‘Only when Miss Tiffany’s with them.’
‘What am I supposed to do then?’
‘Can’t say.’
He’d turned away, looking at the monitor, his face hard but betraying a touch of guilt, or maybe something else. I remembered what Hudson had said about the girls taking turns to suck his cock in order to keep him loyal. Somehow it was hard to see Tiffany and the others doing it, but then again they had let themselves be fucked in front of a crowd of randy men. Either way, it was obvious that was what he wanted from me.
I hesitated, telling myself I should give the dirty old bastard a piece of my mind and walk out, then try and find Buttman Bailey. That meant another walk through the city in my bunny outfit, and I had no idea how far it was, or even if he’d be in. Sometimes it’s better just to suck cock.
‘OK, get it out,’ I said with a sigh.
He chuckled.
‘Knew you were one.’
‘One what?’
‘A slut.’
I didn’t bother to contradict him, already on my knees as he swung his chair around. He flopped out his cock, a fat brown one with a heavy foreskin. I’d already opened my mouth when it occurred to me that he might be lying.
‘Do you promise to let me into the apartment if I do this?’ I asked.
<
I put up with it, reasoning that whatever made him come quickly had to be for the best. Only when he began to try and jam his helmet down my throat did I protest, pulling back as I started to gag, at which he folded both hands around the back of my head and pulled down hard. My eyes popped as my throat filled with fat, rubbery cock, a double spurt of mucus erupted from my nose and he gave a long, contented sigh.
The blood was singing in my ears and I’d begun to slap my hands on his thighs and drum my feet on the floor before he let go. I came up gasping, my mouth agape as I gulped in air, just in time to receive the first jet of his spunk as he came in my face. The second spurt went in my eye and down one cheek, the third into my hair, and I was still retching and struggling not to be sick as he casually wiped his cock on my forehead.
Half-blinded, panting, my face dripping spunk, I rocked back on my heels and looked up at him from my one good eye. He gave a satisfied chuckle and began to put his cock away, at which point the communicator for the door went. I began to look around for something to clean my face with as he spoke to whoever was outside, but he didn’t seem to believe in tissues.
‘You stay here,’ he ordered, getting up. ‘You’re a mess, you are.’
I bit back the angry comment that came to my lips and quickly shut the door behind him as he left. There was an oily rag on one of the shelves, and I used it in an effort to get the worst of the spunk off my face, but only succeeded in plastering it all over myself and adding oily streaks to the filth. I was cursing as the door opened again, to reveal Kunstmann, Buttman Bailey and Bambi.
‘Hi, Penny, we were looking for you,’ Bambi said cheerfully. ‘Oh, you didn’t!’
She burst into giggles, and even her father looked surprised.
‘You’re a glutton for punishment, ain’t you just?’ he said.
‘I had to do it,’ I answered, ‘otherwise he wasn’t going to let me into Hudson’s apartment.’
‘Yeah?’ Buttman replied. ‘No problem if we go up, is there, Sam?’
‘Not at all, Mr Bailey, sir,’ Kunstmann answered. ‘Here’s the key, sir.’
Bambi passed me a tissue and a compact, still giggling as we left his cubby-hole to hurry for the lift. I felt sick, knowing that had I waited just a few minutes more or put up a decent fight I could have avoided sucking Kunstmann off, as well as the inevitable humiliation when the story got around.
‘We guessed you’d be here,’ Bambi was saying, ‘but why didn’t you stick around? We’d only gone to take Maria and Abi May home.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘So what, you walked here? Like that?’
I nodded and she burst into fresh giggles. She had at least got my bags, and seemed to regard the night before as just a piece of fun and me as a new playmate. I couldn’t resent her, she was simply too happy and guileless, or her father, for all that he’d sodomised me while I was bound and helpless. There was no denying the power of the orgasm they’d given me.
The rest of my stuff was in Hudson’s flat, exactly as I’d left it, but there was no note or explanation of their absence. Buttman attempted to call Hudson, but his phone was off. As I made us coffee I became gradually more suspicious of their motives. They knew perfectly well I disapproved of Jemima doing the spanking videos, and could easily have arranged to get rid of me for long enough to get them done. After all, it was Tiffany who’d given me to the Brooklyn Bitches, and she was a close friend of Hudson, while it was perfectly possible that Morris and Melody had been in on it too, maybe all of them.
I was feeling too paranoid to even ask them any questions as we sat down to drink our coffees. Buttman made videos, and while Hudson had said he wasn’t one of the people Jemima would be working for, that might have been a lie. Certainly he couldn’t be relied on to tell me the truth. I’d have to work it out for myself, as soon as possible, so I was growing increasingly agitated as they lingered over their coffees and chatted casually about the game and what we’d done afterwards, treating the way they’d handled me much as if we’d all sat down for a nice cup of tea.
When they finally left I went straight to Hudson’s study. There was every chance Tiffany would turn up, so there was no time to waste. I could remember him writing things in a big blue diary, and quickly found it. The game was marked, but the next two pages were completely blank, while the one after showed just two words ‘Blue Ridge’. It meant nothing to me, except for some cheesy song I vaguely remembered in which it was mentioned as the name of a range of mountains in Virginia.
I went on line, quickly discovered that it was another name for the Appalachians, but the chain ran all the way from New York State to Georgia in the south, which wasn’t very helpful. Adding the word ‘spanking’ to the search, however, was. My top result was a website and video producer in North Carolina, near somewhere called Grassy Creek. It was about six hundred miles south of New York, but it had to be the place. There were no other plausible options.
Presumably they were going to fly down to North Carolina, spend a few days there while I kicked my heels in New York, get Jemima spanked, come back, and that would be that. There’d be nothing I could do about it, except pray that it never got out. I wouldn’t even have a chance to try and persuade her to wear a wig.
A feeling of utter hopelessness was stealing over me as I clicked on the link. It was time to give up and let Jemima take her medicine, because there was absolutely nothing I could do. A picture of a pretty red-haired girl over an older woman’s knee came up on the screen, knickers down, pussy on show, her face turned back and set in an expression of utter misery. The woman doing the spanking was holding a huge wooden paddle with the Greek letters β and ρ painted on it in vivid blue. Beneath the picture was the legend – ‘Blue Ridge Spanking, the Home of the High School Paddle’.
I let out a sigh, imagining how Jemima would look in the same shameful pose as the red-haired girl. To me it would be beautiful, and intensely erotic, a representation completely in tune with my own fantasies save only for the sorority paddle, a thing I’d seldom had used on me and one that belonged to an American rather than an English mindset. To other people, the image would be evidence of perversion, submission to abuse, prostituting one’s body: all things a young woman badly needs to avoid despite the supposed enlightenment of our society.
My lips were pursed in annoyance as I moved deeper into the site, thinking not only about our prudish society but also about Hudson Staebler. It was all very well for him, with his huge bank balance and most of his life behind him. He could afford to indulge his perverse tastes as freely as the law would allow, but for Jemima that simply was not the case. I wasn’t impressed by his assurances of support either, because I’d heard it all before and I believe it’s important for a woman to be able to stand on her own two feet.
The next page was for navigation, with the same picture and some more text in the middle and various buttons around the edges, including thumbnails of the latest spanking sets. One was a free sample design to entice people to become members of the paying part of the site and I clicked on it, expecting a story-style spanking gallery. What I got was rather different, and very alarming.
I’d expected a series of pictures with the girl going from fully dressed and perhaps being scolded or doing something naughty, through the spanking process and ending up standing in the corner with a red bottom, or maybe lying on her bed in tears. They’d taken a different angle, making a sort of case study of the punishment, and while the details were presumably fake the paddling was very definitely real, and must have been agonising.
In the top left-hand corner was a sort of mugshot, showing a soft-eyed blonde girl with freckles and an upturned nose looking distinctly apprehensive. Below the picture was her name, age, a few vital statistics, the state she came from and what she had done, or supposedly done, to earn her punishment: in this case getting poor grades. They then beat her.
A series of pictures recorded the punishment, which was cold, unemotional and severe, not really my thing at all, but certainly effective. They were in a room with a desk, a bookshelf and a couple of chairs, nothing more, presumably a principal’s office. In the first shot the same huge paddle with the Blue Ridge insignia was on the desk. There was a man sitting behind it, bearded and suited, po-faced and stern, the image of an authoritarian I could connect with all too easily, although also seedy in a way I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
The freckle-faced girl then appeared, standing in front of the desk as she was given a scolding, then told to kneel on a hard wooden chair and prepared for her paddling. It was the classic sequence of exposure, which never ceases to thrill me, or to scare, no matter how many times I have it done to me: skirt up, knickers down and bare bottom ready to be smacked. Indeed, it’s the horrible inevitability of the ritual I find so compelling.
In this case she was made to bend at the waist, pushing her bottom out to make her cheeks part and ensure that her pussy and bumhole showed and were captured on camera, stripping away every scrap of her modesty. The bearded man was behind her by then, the paddle in his hand, and the next six pictures showed him using it, swinging it down across her bottom with real force, to leave her cheeks purple with bruising and her face streaked with tears. Two more pictures showed her face, one in reaction to what must have been real pain as the paddle hit her, the other screwed up in misery with long tear-streaks running down her cheeks. Next came her corner time, with her nose pressed into the angle of the wall and her hands on her head, skirt tucked up and knickers around her ankles, left to reflect on her punishment with her red bottom showing to the room.
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