by Penny Birch
When I finally managed to regain control of myself they took down my knickers. Melody did it, taking hold of the sides and tugging them down as if it was totally unimportant whether they stayed up or not. That was too much for me, just the awful, casual way my bum had been stripped. I thought of how I looked, hanging there in my white dress, tails turned high and silly knickers pulled down, little bare bottom showing and marked with six red welts from the cane. At that I began to blubber openly, sobbing hard and choking on the lump in my throat as I waited for the punishment to go on.
‘Don’t be such a baby!’ Melody called.
‘She knows how to stop it,’ Rathwell answered.
They beat me like that, crying and snivelling in my bonds with my bottom dancing to the cuts in a border of white frills. I’d soon become dizzy with pain and reaction, hanging limp in the ropes and jerking to the cane-strokes as they came in. My face was wet with tears, my nose running and dribble coming from the edges of my mouth. I know I farted several times, each one bringing a new stab of shame and a chuckle from Rathwell.
I lost count after twelve strokes, but I know I took forty-one when they finally decided that if I took any more I’d start to bleed, they told me. My whole bottom was burning, an overwhelming, throbbing pain that had gone straight to my sex, leaving pussy juice wet between my thighs and in my knickers. They photographed me like that, and promised to send a print, but I was too far gone to care.
The rope was loosened, allowing me to collapse on the bed, utterly limp and gasping for breath. Rathwell turned me over on to my back and pulled my ankles up, leaving my pussy open to his cock, only not open, but blocked by my artificial cherry. I felt his cock touch my flesh, bumping on my clit to make me sigh and tense my legs. The pressure came against my cherry, a stab of pain as the skin broke and a popping noise. The blood dribbled down between my bumcheeks, warm and wet and sticky from my burst cherry, trickling down over my bum and on to my dress.
It was Rathwell’s cock sliding up my pussy as he pushed, but I was thinking of the Reverend Allen, rolling me up in my confirmation dress, my panties around my thighs, my pussy spread and entered, my virginity taken as my blood soiled my dress to mark me as fucked.
He let go of my ankles, leaving my legs kicked high and resting on his shoulders. My bodice was torn open; my little boobs popped out of my trainer bra, all the while with his cock moving in my pussy, fucking me with slow, easy strokes to keep himself hard inside me.
I’d have masturbated if my hands hadn’t been tied above my head, put my fingers to my pussy and rubbed off in front of them, coming in a welter of shame and the overwhelming feeling of being used so cruelly and so casually. It was impossible. All I could do was lie there and let him enjoy my body, humping away as he felt my boobs and the others watched. Harmony holding the rope to make sure I stayed under control.
He can’t have taken more than a few minutes in my pussy, but it seemed like an eternity. Then he was out and I was being rolled over for the climax of the evening and my final degradation, buggery. My legs were taken and pushed up underneath me, forcing me to raise my bum and stick it out over the edge of the bed. The rope was pulled and twisted off on the door handle, stretching my arms out in front of me to leave my face and breasts pressed to the bed cover. My knees were pushed apart, spreading my thighs until the lowered knickerbockers were stretched taut between them. The dress had fallen as I turned, but he lifted it again, exposing my bare, beaten bum, the wet, bloody hole of my pussy and my tight, pink anus.
I know how I look bent like that, and I could imagine the spick pink skin of my shaved sex and bottom crease, my purple, well-beaten bottom in a froth of lace and my gaping, recently fucked pussy. My crease was wet with juice and blood, into which his cock slid as he laid it between my cheeks.
For a while he stayed like that, rubbing gently between my bumcheeks, his balls slapping my pussy to make my clit twinge in response. His knuckles touched me, down between my cheeks and he began to slide his knob down my crease, rubbing it in the slick flesh. It touched my hole, and he groaned in pleasure at the sight before pushing again.
I couldn’t hold back a grunt as my anal ring stretched, gave and filled with cock. The head had popped in, leaving my sphincter to close on the neck before he began to slowly, rhythmically force his way up my back passage. With each push he pulled back, taking me a bit at a time, just as a girl’s anal virginity should be taken, or indeed how any considerate person would bugger a girl. His hands were on my bum, spreading the cheeks to let him watch his cock go in and pressing down on my cane bruises. I made a fuss, whining and groaning as he filled my rectum with hard cock-meat and letting out a long, defeated moan as his balls nudged my pussy and his front touched my beaten buttocks.
He began to bugger me, slowly, easing his erection in and out to make my ring evert and push in, over and over until I was moaning, then panting with the breathless ecstasy of it, utterly surrendered and thoroughly enjoying the prick up my bum. Had I been able I would have masturbated, treating myself, and him, to the feel of my ring pulsing on his cock as I came and with luck sucking his sperm into my guts. Tied, I could do nothing, only take it and suffer the twinges of near climactic bliss each time the hair of his balls touched my clit.
I thought he would come up my bottom, enjoying the view and the warm, sticky embrace of my back passage. The last few, hard shoves always hurt a little, although it can be perfect if I’m coming too, and I was expecting them, then perhaps to be made to beg for my own orgasm. He was still the Reverend Allen in my mind, buggering me in my little confirmation dress, and I wanted to finish off that way, coming over the consummate humiliation of the experience.
When he started to pull his cock from my bumhole I was surprised, but as Harmony began to pull back on the rope I knew he had one, final degradation for me. My arms were pulled back, over my head as far as they would go, forcing me to lift my body. My boobs came off the bed to swing free of my trainer bra at the same moment his cock popped out of my anus. I felt the wet, sticky sensation of fluid running down over my bumhole as it closed with a lewd bubbling sound and my head was up.
Quick paces took him around the bed, holding his erection out. I was going to take it in my mouth, the cock that had just been up my bottom, and I couldn’t stop myself. The girls were watching, eyes wide in breathless pleasure as I opened my mouth. He pushed his penis forward, not forcing me but making me take the decision myself. I tried to hold back, but my sense of dignity was completely gone and with a last, miserable whimper I lowered my mouth on to his erection and began to suck it.
I could taste myself, rich and female against the male taste of his penis. Kneeling, whipped and buggered with my anus and pussy dribbling goo, I sucked, revelling in his cock and the pain in my bottom, even in my arms. A hand found my pussy, firm, skilled fingers entering the hole and starting on my clit. My hair was taken, hard, controlling my head as he began to fuck my mouth.
They held me like that, masturbating me as I sucked cock. I was in an ecstasy of submission, grateful for every detail of my ordeal, but in my mind I wasn’t there but back at school. I was in the headmistress’s study, tied up, beaten into submission and then buggered by Reverend Allen, made to suck his dirty cock while the nurse took pity and masturbated my hairless pussy from behind.
I heard a grunt and the cock in my mouth was pushed deep, jamming into my windpipe. It jerked and hot sperm hit the back of my throat. Then I was coming myself, sucking his penis with desperate, depraved need, my back arching and every muscle in my body locking. More sperm erupted in my mouth, right down my throat and suddenly I was gagging, choking on spunk as I came. He pulled back but too late, leaving me coughing and spluttering, my chest heaving uncontrollably as I fought for breath with my orgasm still burning in my head. Bubbles of sperm were coming out of my nose, more from my mouth, spraying out to spatter him with the filthy mess. My senses went black, but the last thought in my head before it all slipped away was that the bas
tard hadn’t broken me.
Eight
MY BOTTOM WAS purple. I was walking bow-legged, too, but at the end of the day I found it impossible to regret what I’d done or even to resent Rathwell. It had just been so intense and, after all, I had given my consent and they had looked after me when it was all over.
I’d needed it, too, and that is why nobody without the sort of skill and experience the Rathwells have should ever get into anything so heavy. When I’d come around I’d been on the bed, propped up as Harmony tended to me. I’d heard the worry in Rathwell’s voice and Harmony telling him it wasn’t as bad as it looked, and then I’d opened my eyes.
The evening had finished with sipping Cognac and talking as perfect equals as we discussed the situation with Metropolitan. It would have been the most innocent of scenes, except that I was face down on the rug with my bottom bare to spare the bruises. Rathwell had already had Harmony type a letter for me, vouching that he had known me for years, that I was a professional woman with no links to the media and that I genuinely liked to be spanked. The last was fairly self-evident, with forty-one welts decorating my bottom. As Rathwell laughingly pointed out, if I was happy about that then he’d have to believe me.
I slept with Melody in the smaller bed, and managed to summon up the energy to give her a lick as she had missed out on her share earlier. As I drifted towards sleep I was wondering why I had been so sensitive and I found out when I started my period in the morning, two days earlier than expected. This removed the embarrassing possibility of having to show off for Mintower while I was still menstruating. Rathwell, being Rathwell, joked that if I’d known he would have let me delay the mock virginity taking until morning.
With the letter and Rathwell’s assurance of further support if necessary, I felt pretty confident and drove back in a happy mood, although seated on two folded towels to spare my bum. It’s one of the standard threats to a girl about to be punished, that she won’t be able to sit down for a week, and I rather felt that way. I saw Wendy that evening and showed her, to her horrified delight. As she wasn’t really used to much more than hand spankings, she viewed heavy punishment with a mixture of terror and anticipation, to which the state of my bottom added a fresh dimension.
She agreed to come with me to see Mintower, which I felt was wise as I’d never met the man in my life. Not that I really expected to be imprisoned as a sex slave, but moral support is always a good thing. We joked about that as we drove down the following weekend, elaborating the fantasy as we went on. First it was spending a life of drudgery and beatings while wearing revealing and humiliating maids’ uniforms. Escape would have been too easy, so we devised a complex system of runners and chains that allowed us to go wherever necessary and to be put in proper bondage at will. We decided we would sleep chained in the cellar and do our work either nude or dressed to show us off sexually. There would have to be someone to keep us in order, and we decided on a gigantic, fat cook who’d do things like stick us upside down in refuse bins while he beat us with a spoon. That was Wendy’s suggestion, messy fantasies being very much her thing, with the spanking aspect thrown in for my benefit.
Mintower’s place was in Wales, a few miles out of Wrexham, and our dirty conversation kept us amused until we arrived. By the last few miles I would have been more than happy for a cuddle in a lay-by, but the opportunity never came. I was ready for Mintower though, if only because he couldn’t possibly be the sort of sadistic monster we had been imagining on the drive.
The house was big, but not the sort of grand country seat I had expected. A drive led between gate-posts of red brick to a typical Victorian villa in a grove of dark firs, private and a little gloomy on a wet spring morning, but entirely devoid of the air of gothic menace Wendy and I had been imagining.
He was more the sort of thing we’d been thinking of, a huge, shambling man who must have been impressive in his youth but had gone to seed. Nor was he alone, but with a tall young woman with dyed blonde hair and improbably shaped breasts. I assumed her to be his daughter, but was not entirely surprised when she was introduced to us as his wife, Cheryl. He was welcoming, effusive even, while she sat at the far end of the living room wearing expressions varying from a cold sneer to a sulky pout. This made it hard to relax, but we accepted drinks and sat down.
‘So,’ Mintower remarked as he lowered himself into an armchair, ‘you’re the girl who claims to like her bottom smacked?’
‘That’s right,’ I answered, trying not to blush in response to the dirty look his wife was giving me. ‘I have a letter from Morris Rathwell here. I believe he rang you?’
‘Yes,’ Mintower answered, taking the letter. ‘Still, I’m dubious. Can you prove what you say?’
I had been ready for that, and prepared to have to show him my bottom. I’d even worn a dress over loose French knickers, both to make it easier and to spare my bruises. What I hadn’t been ready for was the presence of his wife, who sat there scowling with her arms folded across her stomach as I stood up and turned my back to Mintower.
A good many men, and women, have pulled down my panties, and this wasn’t the first time I’d had to take them down myself in front of a stranger. The difference was that it had always been done for people who were thoroughly looking forward to what I was going to show them. Certainly he fell into that category. Cheryl didn’t, and I found the blood rushing to my face as I turned the back of my dress up and tucked it into my waistband. My knickers followed, pushed down with an embarrassed motion to leave my bare, bruised bum showing to the room. A week had reduced the overall blotchy purple colour to a mixture of bruise shades and sets of tramlines where the cane had landed. Cheryl gasped; Mintower gave an unreadable grunt. Nobody said anything so I stayed there with my bum showing, feeling thoroughly sorry for myself.
‘So what do you think, my dear?’ Mintower asked after what seemed an age.
‘I think it’s perverted,’ Cheryl answered in a sulky tone.
‘No doubt it’s genuine, though,’ Mintower said, ignoring her. ‘So how did that happen?’
‘A boyfriend caned me last weekend,’ I said as I’d promised not to mention Rathwell’s direct involvement.
‘And you really enjoyed that?’
I nodded, unable to answer for the lump that was rising in my throat and sure that if I had to stand there with my knickers down any longer I would burst into tears. Mintower went silent, sipping his drink and looking at my bottom as if sure enough inspection would reveal some inner truth.
‘Convincing enough, if a little convenient,’ he eventually remarked. ‘OK, you can cover up.’
Two quick motions had my knickers up and my dress back in position, leaving me to sit down, still blushing but relieved. Mintower reached for a book from the shelf behind him and as he took it down I glimpsed the cover, a line drawing of a tearful girl bending for the cane. I recognised it as a thing about lifestyle domination, entirely unrealistic.
‘Let’s see,’ Mintower said, flicking the pages to a bookmark. ‘OK, so your boyfriend is your master, right? You serve him at all times, do everything he says, get beaten when you’re lazy, insolent or whatever, and that gets you off?’
‘No,’ I answered, ‘that’s a fantasy view of things. Nobody actually lives like that and the few cases I’ve heard of have all been with the woman in the dominant role. Even then they never last long: it’s just fantasy. So is that book.’
‘Then how does it work?’
‘By consent. I do play games like that sometimes, pretending to be a maid or something, but more often we just use spanking as a bit of foreplay. It’s not even all that hard, normally, and most of the pleasure comes from within my own head. I like being spanked, but in many ways I like being prepared for spanking even more.’
‘And it’s not because you’ll get kicked out if you don’t let your boyfriend do it?’
‘Absolutely not. I do it because I enjoy it, when I like and with whoever I like.’
‘There we are,
Cheryl dear, it’s not just whores who do it. She’s an intelligent girl.’
Cheryl sniffed and made a tiny change in the defensive posture in which she was sitting. I’d been blushing throughout my little speech, but I’d imagined he’d ask questions to make sure I could give confident answers and had been prepared.
‘What about you, Wendy?’ Mintower went on.
‘My feelings are similar to Penny’s,’ Wendy answered. ‘It’s really quite a common female fantasy, and quite genuine.’
‘OK, so what if Cheryl was to get your little tush bare and give you a good smacking? Would you like that?’
‘You don’t seem very keen on it,’ Wendy answered, deliberately addressing Cheryl.
‘Cheryl used to table-dance,’ Mintower went on as she shook her head in embarrassment. ‘She reckons sex is basically something men pay women for, in one way or another, romance excepted. I know different, but then she’s nineteen and thinks she knows the way the world works. I did, too, at that age. So, you’ve convinced MacRae you’re genuine, which says a lot in my book. I’m nearly convinced, but I want to see one of you get a smacking and like it. Given the state of Penny’s arse, how about you taking it, Wendy?’
‘I would,’ Wendy answered. ‘I often do. Not now, though . . . I mean, it just doesn’t feel right. You’re obviously not comfortable with it, Cheryl. I do like it, and I might even let Penny do it to me with you watching, but I can’t enjoy it in front of someone who thinks it’s perverted.’
Mintower said nothing, but reached into his jacket, pulling out a sheaf of twenty-pound notes. After counting five on to the table he looked up at us, his eyes moving between Wendy and I.
