Tie and Tease

by Penny Birch

  Wendy was going to give me a ketchup enema in front of him and there was nothing I could do, only grovel on the filthy floor and let it happen. Her boobs were pressed to my back, slimy with ketchup, slipping against my skin as I wriggled in my pathetic attempts to break free. I felt something up my bum, pressure, then a disgusting spluttering noise as she squeezed. I cried out as my rectum filled with ketchup, swelling and bloating as she emptied as much as she could inside me.

  When she took the nozzle out I could feel the load up my bum and was clenching my ring in a desperate effort not to utterly disgrace myself. The nozzle went up again and she squeezed, putting more up me, then even more. I began to plead for mercy, knowing I could take only so much before I let go, but she kept on, spurting it out inside me, until I could feel the extra weight in my gut.

  She sat up, her full weight on my back. Straining my neck around I saw her reach for another bottle. Joe was beyond protesting, his complaints forgotten, half-stiff penis bobbing in his hand. Wendy touched a mayonnaise bottle, hesitated and took up a mustard one, a full litre of hot, English mustard. I squealed in protest, but it was half-hearted and she knew it. Down it came, the fat barrel of the bottle rubbed between my slimy buttocks, then raised, the nozzle burrowing down between my legs.

  I tried to clench my cheeks. My eyes were screwed up and my fists were balled, but it was no good. As I felt the mustard squeeze out on to my flesh my dirty little mind got the better of me and I relaxed, allowing Wendy to press the bottle down between my thighs and squeeze. I felt it fill my vagina, a sensation so exquisitely disgusting that I could have come over that alone. Next she did my pussy, laying a long worm between my sex lips as I lifted my bum in meek acceptance. It started to burn as she did that, both what was in my vagina and over my vulva. I gasped, quickly starting to pant with the pain even as the nozzle probed my greasy, slimy bumhole. It went in, and I cried aloud as the contents of the mustard bottle were squirted into my rectum with a revolting burbling sound. My pussy was burning, my anus too. It hurt, burning like fire, but I needed to come too badly to make it stop.

  ‘Here, how about a frankfurter stuck up her cunt?’ Joe’s voice sounded, followed by a giggle from Wendy.

  A sound came from behind me, a meaty splat. An instant later I felt something fat and round touch my vagina, like the head of a small cock. It went up, filling me and pushing mustard deep up me until the end bumped on my cervix. Joe laughed and a picture came to me of my pussy with the last few inches of the sausage sticking out and a collar of ketchup and mustard around it. It was an image both obscene and ridiculous, and masturbating in the mess as he watched would add the final touch. I tried to get my hands back, but Wendy wouldn’t let me, clamping her thighs around my body and laughing at my futile efforts.

  ‘Stuff one up her arse,’ Joe growled, his voice hoarse with effort.

  ‘Dirty bastard!’ Wendy answered, but a moment later I felt the rounded tip of a sausage nudge between my bumcheeks.

  I was too slimy to stop it, and too turned on anyway. It went down between my cheeks, pressing to my filthy bumhole and pushing in. All I could do was groan and lift my bottom, submitting to it. My rectum was full, and I could feel the mustard bubbling out of my anus as I relaxed. The sausage pushed in, plugged me, making my ring burn worse than before. Again I tried to reach back to masturbate and again Wendy stopped me. I was beating my fists on the ground in helpless frustration as she fed the sausage up my bottom. My legs were moving too, my thighs sliding in the mess on the floor. I felt it go, every inch, sliding up my straining bumhole as I whimpered and squirmed on the floor, begging to be allowed to come. It was in me, and she had begun to fuck me and bugger me at the same time, sliding the two sausages in and out of my holes. The pain was rising, burning me as the fat tubes of meat worked inside me. I should have been coming, but I couldn’t, and suddenly it was just too much and I was screaming out my stop word over and over.

  Wendy got off immediately; Joe just laughed. I jumped up, dancing on my feet and babbling about hoses and water. Joe was laughing so hard he couldn’t talk, but managed to jerk a thumb at a door to the rear of the shack. I ran for it, not caring if it did lead outside, at that moment I’d have flushed myself in full view of the road, anything to dull the pain.

  It wasn’t that exposed, an area of mud and grass within a fence but open to the sky and the hillside. The hose was obvious, attached to an upright tap. I grabbed it and twisted it on, spraying water between my legs, beautiful, cool, soothing water. I shut my eyes in pure bliss as the burning faded and the sausage in my vagina squeezed slowly out to fall on the muddy ground. I douched myself, feeling the mess inside me fall out in clots as the water ran. That was the feeling that got my head back. My whole underside still stung, but I just had to do it.

  Sitting down, I let my bottom ease into cool mud, squashing it out around my buttocks, back up my bottom-crease and over my pussy. I leaned back, against the fence, parting my thighs wide and rolling up until I could get at my pussy and bum. My bottom was caked with mud and still slimy with sauce as I began to rub myself, exploring my dirty pussy. Wendy appeared, standing in the doorway, just watching me with her mouth open as I took two handfuls of muck and smeared them over my breasts. I blew her a kiss and slid my hands back down.

  One sausage was close and I took it, sliding it back up my pussy and starting to fuck myself with it. The other had gone up my bum, adding to the glorious bloated feeling in my rectum. I let a finger stray down, touching my stinging anus, easing inside as a thick worm of mustard and ketchup came out with an obscene bubbling sound. With one thumb on my clit I began to masturbate towards orgasm.

  My bumhole was greasy with mustard, stinging crazily and gaping wide. Two fingers went in easily, deep, until I could feel the head of the sausage in my rectum. I put a third in, stretching my ring between them as the mustard started to ooze out and the sausage with it. It stung crazily and I screamed, but I was coming, my thumb flicking over and over on my clit. My pussy tightened, squashing the sausage and pulping it inside me. My anus began to pulse, squeezing the sausage out in one long, ecstatic motion as my head went dizzy and my back arched in orgasm. It fell from my buggered hole at the very peak of my climax, followed by a thick spurt of mustard. I jammed my fingers in deep and spread myself, letting the whole filthy, slimy mess ooze out as I rode my orgasm on and on until at last it began to fade and I slumped back, exhausted.

  I sat there for maybe a minute, ignoring Wendy’s questions, indifferent to the cold, filthy mud, numb to the mustard. Finally I found the strength to get up and wash, making a thorough job with the hose. Having the cold water against my burning bum was bliss. Up it, too, when I gave myself a much needed enema, which set Wendy giggling, but having come I had started to worry about being seen. After all, the enclosure was no more than six feet high and overlooked by a fair bit of the hillside, so any lucky farmer might have watched my whole, filthy display.

  Wendy took her turn to wash and we went back in. The inside was a mess, filthy with ketchup, mustard, grease and several squashed sausages. Joe told us to clean it up, naked, and to my surprise Wendy stripped meekly. He stood there gloating as he watched, occasionally reaching out to squeeze a boob or pinch a bottom. By the time we were done he had his cock out again, and insisted we help him come before we could go. We obliged, posed with our arms around one another and our bums stuck out to give him a good, rude view of our pussies and bumholes. It took him a while, and when he did come he wiped his hand on Wendy’s bottom. Far from objecting, she gave her head a rueful shake and sat down on the stool, thighs wide. We watched her masturbate, quite shamelessly, plump ginger pussy spread wide as she rubbed her clit, one chubby boob cradled in a hand with the nipple bobbing under a thumb.

  We left munching our bacon sandwiches. I was washed, tidy and outwardly respectable even if I did have no knickers or bra on. Wendy was another matter, with her jeans filthy with ketchup, particularly across her bottom. There was another car,
a black Jaguar, parked behind ours, but I thought nothing of it. The door opened and as the occupant climbed out I realised who it was – Sir Rhys Mintower.

  He just stood there, smoking a cigar and watching us, until we reached our own car. It seemed more than likely that he knew what we’d been up to, and I could think of nothing to say that would cover the situation. I contented myself with a nod, to which he responded, taking the cigar from his mouth.

  ‘Before I wasn’t sure,’ he said slowly. ‘Now I am. Genuine sluts.’

  Nine

  AMY’S ARTICLE CAME out towards the end of term. It was magnificent, a masterpiece, blending what she wanted to say with the style of the magazine, angrily demanding the right of women to be spanked if they wanted to be, yet never giving an inch to the involuntary surrender of control.

  It started as a vigorous indictment of all forms of physical chastisement, denouncing judicial punishment, especially in schools, as little less barbarous than hanging. Domestic discipline was given the same treatment, set out as an abuse of women by men and totally unacceptable in any form. By the time she got on to spanking as sex play I really thought she had tricked me, extracting my most intimate thoughts by pretending to enjoy her own punishment.

  I was wrong. Only then, when she had every reader, including myself, nodding in thoughtful agreement over her remarks, did she change direction. Leading carefully into the subject, she explained the use of erotic spanking as a cathartic pleasure, much like smoking or eating, only without the respective dangers of cancer or putting on weight. Spanking, she explained, could be given with care and understanding, providing sexual stimulation through endorphin release as foreplay, as long as the partners understood that it created no true inequality. It could also help to conquer one’s fears, erasing them by turning each into a source of pleasure.

  She went on to explain the physical limits that should be set to avoid any chance of damage, and that nobody should ever spank another person without being prepared to take it from her partner in turn. That was the point at which her argument became not merely persuasive, but splendidly cheeky. Men’s ability to be involved at all was cast into doubt, the idea being that they were simply too insensitive to understand the subtleties of a woman’s enjoyment of a smacked bottom. That wasn’t really fair, but it made me laugh because I knew that it derived from Amy’s preference for girls and distrust of men. By the time I finished it I was grinning from ear to ear, as was Amber, who had had her remarks on safety and limits repeated almost verbatim.

  I could just imagine Beth reading it, soaking up Amy’s words with her mouth hanging open. When I said as much to Amber I got turned over her knee and given fifty hard slaps with my skirt turned up, a punishment that I’m sure Amy would have classified more as domestic discipline. It was done to cut off any thoughts I might have had about continuing my relationship with Beth, but only succeeded in giving me a warm bottom and putting me in a still better mood.

  It was impossible not to be happy, for several reasons. First there was the release of tension now that the article was out and my anonymity had been retained. Second was the fact that Amber was up for the weekend and she, Wendy and I had shared my bed the night before. Third, and maybe best, was the delicious and wicked thought of numerous female bottoms across the country, bare, round and rosy as they were smacked to a warm glow, and all because of me. Just how many sets of panties had been pulled down into a tangle around how many pairs of girlish thighs I would never know, but even if only one Metropolitan reader in ten thousand took Amy’s advice the figure would be in the hundreds.

  Amber’s suggestion was that I should be spanked for every girl I’d caused to be spanked, which sparked a fine but sadly impractical fantasy of spending years travelling around the country for punishment, getting a spanking a day, each with its own special style. We enlarged on this as we drove out to the moors for a picnic, imagining the great queue of spanked girls, some vengeful, some tearful, but every single one turned on and eager to get me across her knee.

  It was a glorious day, so we drove well north, up to the high moor and found a comfortable place among the heather. We ate salad and drank Riesling, each reading the article again and again, thoroughly happy and thoroughly pleased with ourselves. We had seen nobody all day, and inevitably I ended up getting spanked again, along with Wendy. We kneeled together on the rug, bottoms up and hands crossed behind our backs as Amber used the straps from the picnic baskets to fasten our wrists.

  With us both tied and helpless, Amber undid our jeans and tugged them down, then made a big show of lowering our panties. Once we were bare, with our backs pulled in to make our pussies pout and flare our cheeks to show our bumholes off, she spanked us, taking us around the waist in turn and delivering a hundred hearty smacks to each quivering pink bum. I was on heat by the end, and ready to masturbate or get in a tangle with Wendy and come under her tongue. Of course I couldn’t, not with my wrists strapped together, and Amber made me beg, all the while tickling my pussy with a piece of grass. I was nearly demented by the time she condescended to untie my wrists, and I put my fingers straight to my pussy.

  I hadn’t got in more than five good rubs before Amber called out in alarm. When I looked up it was to find over a dozen hikers approaching us through the heather. Wendy was still strapped up, and while I managed to get my jeans and panties up in good time, she was still struggling with hers when they came close enough to look down into our hideaway. All they saw was a little tummy as she did her button up, but she was scarlet with blushes, much to my amusement.

  We finished off later, in the shelter of a little gully, taking turns to lick pussy while the third person kept look out. It was a lovely orgasm, and afterwards I felt utterly content with the world, bringing the outing to a beautiful close.

  The last part of term was fairly dull, with my research on hold as I helped invigilate and all the other tasks of the examination season. As a student I had always imagined that there could be no easier job than walking between lines of desks, each with its tight-faced incumbent, eager or thoughtful, worried or just plain baffled. In reality it is both tedious and frustrating, as one wants all the students to do as well as possible and it is pretty heart-rending to see a well-liked tutee state that the chimpanzee has fewer chromosomes than man.

  By the end of it all I was badly in need of something more light-hearted and looking forward to returning south. As usual I intended to spend most of the summer with Amber, coming back north only when I had to. Two days before I left she rang, saying that Amy had called and wanted to put together an article called Endorphin Junkies which she hoped would include interviews and such with us.

  As before, I had my reservations, but we were assured of privacy and Amy had played fair with us before. It also sounded far too much fun to miss, with Amber suggesting the creation of a new fantasy to give them something to get their teeth into. Inevitably that made me think of Beth’s reaction when she saw the finished product and I accepted, subject only to being allowed to read the thing before it went out. Nor was I the only one who was going to be in it. They wanted photos and Vicky, who has no reason to care what people think of her, had volunteered.

  By the time I got down to Hertfordshire, Amber had Vicky’s part all worked out, a fantasy at once strange, visually effective and designed to play to their tastes. Amber had found some reference to ‘the female as exotic prey’, which she considered an inspiring phrase. It had also irritated her, as it was part of some supposed high-brow art criticism objecting to this and dismissing it as a purely male fantasy. As Amber has been indulging her taste for exactly that for years she took the remark personally and had determined to use the Metropolitan piece as an opportunity to set the record straight.

  What she had done was blend the fox-hunt and pony-girl fantasy to create a new image, the zebra-girl. This was, in fact, not entirely new, but new enough, especially when the zebra was due to be hunted, roped and caged. Amy was delighted with the idea, and full of
enthusiasm, promising to come out and see it herself. All they needed were a few posed shots, but this was less than satisfactory and it was agreed that we would do it for real once the photographer had finished.

  The problem was where to do it. We needed woodland, or ideally parkland, several acres of it, on which we could guarantee to be able to play without disturbance. With the Metropolitan crew present neither Michael and Ginny, nor Henry, nor his gay friend were willing to let us use their land, which made things rather awkward. Amy was willing to drop the actual hunt if necessary, contenting herself with pictures taken in Anderson’s garden. Neither Amber nor Vicky were prepared to do this, arguing that it would make the whole thing false if we didn’t do it in reality. Amy seemed to regard this as naïve, but eventually Amber won the day.

  Unfortunately, after what had happened to me at the fox-hunt nobody wanted to risk public land, which left us in something of a quandary. It was me who suggested asking Morris Rathwell if he had anything on his books, which earned me a threatening look from Amber. Unfortunately nobody else could come up with a better suggestion, and so she was finally forced to call him.

  Amber’s relationship with Morris Rathwell and the twins goes back a long way. It is also fairly fraught, involving a lot of competition and some fairly painful sexual escapades for Amber. In the long run she has undoubtedly benefited, yet to hear her talk you would think he was a demon in human form, an attitude I can sympathise with although she does rather make a fuss.