by Penny Birch
He took a while to inspect my bottom, gave it a couple of gentle pats, and left the room. I knew he’d gone to fetch the cane he always keeps at my flat for just such an occasion, leaving me with my bare bottom sticking out, wriggling my toes in anticipation of what was to come. Not that it was unexpected, but normally he’d have waited until the evening, once I’d got a few glasses of wine inside me and was in the mood. This was a punishment.
The cane was an evil looking thing, long and thin with knobbles and a crook handle at the end, a rattan, which he’d bought specifically for my discipline when we’d first started to play together. It stung like anything and, when he returned, flexing it in his hand, I felt the familiar weak feeling in my stomach and a lump rising in my throat.
‘Six,’ he announced, ‘although it can hardly be said to fit the crime.’
I braced myself as he lifted the cane, still looking back, and trying to fight down the rising panic at the thought of the pain he was about to inflict on me. I do like it, I adore it, but caning hurts.
I screamed at the first cut, and kicked my legs so that my shorts fell down. Percy paused to pick them up, holding them up to my face. I opened my mouth obediently, letting him stuff them in, crotch first, so that I could taste my own sex. It was to stifle my screams, but it was humiliating too, with the rag of yellow cloth hanging from my mouth as I once more pushed my bum up and out.
The second was delivered low, right across the fat of my cheeks, again making me jump and kick, the shorts falling from my mouth. Patiently, Percy paused again, rolling them into a tight ball and forcing them into my mouth, to leave me gaping wide with just a little yellow cloth showing in the opening. That left me breathing through my nose, bringing my sense of panic to a fresh peak as he drew back the cane for the third cut.
It was harder, and lower still, just above the groove where my bumcheeks join my thighs, a really sensitive spot, right over my pussy, and agonisingly painful. My eyes went wide and I blew my breath out through my nose, kicking wildly, then jumping up and down on my toes until the unbearable stinging began to dull. I was really panting as I got back into position, and my skin had started to flush on my boobs and tummy, as well as around my sex.
Seeing me come on heat so fast, Percy gave a dirty little chuckle, and squeezed his crotch as he lined up the fourth stroke. I could see he was getting hard as I braced myself, thinking of his cock inside me, and then once more it was all pain and the uncontrolled jerking of my body as the cut came down, higher, but harder still, to leave me gasping and trembling.
I could feel my pussy growing warm and urgent, and the pain had become more hot than sharp, a state it normally took longer to get to. I was sticking my bum up higher too, only half consciously, and as much in an instinctive need to flaunt myself for entry as for the cane. Percy knew full well what was happening and chuckled again, before bringing down the fifth stroke.
Once more I bucked, but with less violence, and I was sticking my bum up again even before my breathing had come back under control. He brought the sixth stroke down, another one across the meat of my buttocks, and as I slumped across the table I was feeling both relief and disappointment that the punishment was over.
Well, not over, because no man worth his salt canes a girl and doesn’t come over it, even if it’s only to put his spunk across her beaten bottom. Knowing Percy, it was unlikely to be anything so perfunctory. Sure enough, he had hung the cane over the back of a chair and was bending to look in the fridge.
‘Lard? Butter?’ he demanded. Sure enough, I was going to be buggered.
I pulled the shorts out of my mouth, finding them wet with saliva.
‘Neither. There’s some olive oil in the cupboard, extra virgin.’
He grunted, rising to open the cupboard and pull out the bottle of oil, glancing at the label as he turned to me. It was going up my bum, and he was reading the label, which made me giggle, only for the sound to turn to a squeak of pain and alarm as he took me by the ear, hard between finger and thumb, pulling me up. I went, squeaking with the pain, as he dragged me out of the kitchen and into the bedroom, throwing me down across my bed.
I scrambled into a crawling position, bum up, knees well apart, showing him everything. As he groped for his trouser buttons I lifted my shirt high, tucking it up under my neck to leave my boobs swinging bare beneath my chest. He kneeled on the bed, watching my bum all the time, and popping his buttons, one by one, the olive oil bottle clutched in his other hand. I gave him a wiggle and stuck my tongue out.
His cock, already half hard, came free of his fly, sticking out above his disproportionately large balls. I opened my mouth, hopeful for a suck, and he waddled forwards, on his knees, letting me take it in my mouth as his hand went to my bum. He fondled me as I sucked, stroking the cane wheals, then my cleft, my pussy, slipping a finger up my hole, then to my anus, tickling me as I sucked him to erection. It felt lovely, and my eyes were shut in bliss, revelling in the taste and feel of the cock I’d missed so much. He was smaller than Monty, or Damon, with a thin shaft, not that impressive maybe, but perfect for girls’ bumholes.
Which was where it was going: up mine. He had stopped fondling me, and was pouring the olive oil out into his hand, his face set in a frown of concentration. A little spilt over, the thick, yellow-green fluid running down over his hand to splash on my back. Then he had slapped it on to my bottom, full between my cheeks, and I felt the cool, oily sensation on the skin around my anus. He rubbed it well in, bumhole and pussy too, frigging me a little before a single fat finger found my bumhole and pushed inside. I stuck my bottom out, sucking harder as he invaded my rectum, lubricating me for the lovely slim cock in my mouth.
He let me suck for a moment more as he put the bottle down, then pulled free. I sank lower, pulling a pillow down the bed so I could cuddle it as I was buggered. My bum was right up, high, with olive oil pooled in my open anus, ready for buggery. Percy took me by the hips, pushing down to get me at the right height for entry, his cock slipping up into the crease of my bottom. I sighed, burying my face in the pillow, waiting to have my anus popped, only for him to slip it up my pussy, very easily, and start to fuck me.
I’d thought he would bugger me straight away, to make it more of a punishment, but I wasn’t complaining. It was nice, and he was well up me, with the firm, fat swell of his stomach pressing to my beaten bottom, fucking me with little, short pushes of his cock. It didn’t last long though, and as he pulled himself out of my pussy I once more braced myself for anal entry.
This time I got it, the head of his cock pressing to my juicy bumhole as I relaxed, letting my anus open with that awful, helpless feeling of being about to poo myself rising up, until he was in me and I was firmly plugged. Once in, he put it up slowly, push by push, pulling my ring in and out as I gasped and panted into the pillow. My whole body seemed to be filling with cock, right up to my head, with each push until he was right in, his balls squashed to my empty pussy, his shaft stretching my ring wide, with me breathless and abandoned.
His cock was up my bottom, a dirty old man of over sixty, buggering me as I kneeled on my bed, everything showing, my boobs quivering to his pushes, my smacked buttocks bouncing to his thrusts, stripped, caned and now buggered. It was ecstasy, nothing less, and as I slid my hand back to find my pussy I also knew that I could count on him to keep his cock wedged firmly up my bum until I reached orgasm.
It was going to happen too, very quickly, almost more quickly than I wanted it to. I couldn’t stop though, rubbing at my clitty, slipping a finger up my empty vagina, touching the junction between cock and bumhole, then back, to my clitty. He was getting faster, and harder, his balls squashing on my hand with each push, hurting me a little, just enough to be perfect as I concentrated on the utter, delicious humiliation of allowing a dirty old man to cane me, bare, and bugger me. And what was I doing? Crying? Trying to fight? No, I was frigging my pussy, masturbating my rude, wet little cunt . . .
I came, screaming out in
pure, perfect ecstasy as my bumhole squeezed hard on Percy’s erection. It was more than he could stand and he immediately jammed it in, right up me, making me scream again, to a second peak, then a third, at the wonderful, utterly dirty thought that he had just spunked up my bottom.
He drained it into me, puffing and panting, with his hands locked in the soft flesh of my hips. I kept frigging, stretching out my orgasm as long as I could, until at last he had finished and we slumped together on the bed, exhausted but happy, kissing, lightly, then open mouthed as he took me in his arms to comfort me. Eventually he got up and I rolled on to my front, reaching back to stroke my sore bottom.
‘Ow!’ I said. ‘Satisfied, I hope?’
‘Absolutely,’ he assured me. ‘Especially as I have nearly a whole case of the stuff put down. In fact I’ve promised Charles a bottle to replace the one you drank, so you needn’t worry about the bill.’
‘That’s worth six of the best, just about,’ I joked.
‘We can easily make it a stroke a pound,’ he suggested.
‘Eight thousand five hundred cane strokes! Double ow! Not even from you.’
‘Well I dare say we’ll get there eventually anyway.’
‘Promises, promises. How does my bum look?’
‘As a girl’s should: well caned. Damn fine piece of work actually, if I say so myself. Go and look in the mirror.’
I did, and he was right. My bottom was well marked, and all six wheals were flat, parallel and evenly spaced. Each stroke had fallen just so, across both buttocks, with the teardrop marks where the end had caught me still on my cheeks. It was perfect, and with my bum stuck out it was better still, with my bumhole wet and juicy, the skin around it shiny with oil, a little sperm running out of the hole. A really lovely image of a punished girl: caned and buggered.
That was what was so good about Percy, one of the things anyway. He had caned me to perfection. In fact, if there was such a thing as a manual of technique for caning, the way teenage girls’ magazines have them for make-up, my bottom would have made the perfect illustration for the ‘finished’ picture.
Not that any such thing had occurred to me during my caning, when it was all pain and humiliation and the anticipation of sex. Yet I’d soon have been complaining if he’d caught my thighs, let alone the base of my spine. Of course he hadn’t. The victim shouldn’t have to worry about her tormentor’s skill. With Percy I never did, which is one of the things that makes him a master of the art.
So I was thoroughly pleased with myself afterwards, well and truly punished, and well and truly fulfilled. Well and truly buggered as well, but if my bottom was bruised and my anus throbbing and sore, it was in the nicest possible way, and I knew it would keep me horny all day, and probably longer.
It also put Monty’s abilities into very clear perspective, especially in terms of my reaction. He was going.
I’m certainly a brat, and I can be a bitch, I suppose, but only when people make me behave that way. Monty deserved better, and he was going to get it. It would have been so easy to tell him to get lost, and all he had was my mobile number, nothing else. It would have left me feeling bad though, which I hate. I’d still have done it, in different circumstances, but as it was, I had a solution.
I’d enjoyed the grown-up baby game with Gabrielle, but it hadn’t been perfect, and I knew it hadn’t been perfect for her either. Afterwards she had told me I’d been a little rough with her. Her ideal was strict but fair, spankings when she needed them, but only then. Unfortunately, having control over her, but only within the boundaries of her fantasy, wasn’t really enough for me. Head trips are all very well – crucial, in fact – if sex play is going to rise above mere animal response. They’re not everything though, and for her game to be any fun for me I’d had to have the physical contact, plenty of it, and rough. I do like being in charge, sometimes, and I like to punish.
Besides, I wasn’t really sure how a dominant was supposed to get her kicks in a game of grown-up babies. It’s easy with corporal punishment, because you can always make the victim lick pussy to say sorry, or to thank you for punishing her, or sit on her face as part of the punishment, with her tongue up your bumhole, whatever. Pee games are easier still, because she can lick while you do it in her mouth. After the scene I’d played out with Gabrielle it was different, and hard to see how I could have done it without breaking role. After all, what should a nurse do after bedtime? Go and drink gin in front of the TV?
What she needed was somebody who was more dominant and less sadistic, who liked the control for its own sake. Fortunately I knew just the man, her perfect partner. Well, not perfect – far from it in fact – but with enough common ground between them for each to get a lot of fun out of it. Just the thought of Monty and Gabrielle together was enough to put a huge smile on my face, while it would also salve my conscience. So it was perfect, for me anyway, which was what mattered.
It took me the rest of the week and three long phone calls to persuade Gabrielle that she ought to meet a complete stranger, and a man at that, with a view to him being her nurse. In the end I succeeded, but only on the proviso that I’d be there too and that we would all meet on neutral ground.
Monty was a lot easier. When I suggested that he might like to dominate another woman, and me at the same time, I thought he was going to come on the other end of the phone. He wanted to know everything, at once, but I told him to calm down and wait for me to call back with the arrangements.
All that was fine, except for one thing. Neutral ground was all very well, but we could hardly play grown-up babies in a pub or restaurant. A hotel was better, but we needed complete privacy, and a fair bit of equipment. It also had to be far enough away from any form of public transport to give me the time I needed if it looked as though Gabrielle was going to freak completely when she found out what Monty actually looked like.
So it had to be somewhere well out of town, where I and, if necessary, Gabrielle could maintain our anonymity. It also had to be safe, comfortable, with en suite bathrooms and preferably decorated in pink. It was the pink that set me thinking of the War Down Man. The room Monty had tormented me in had been pink, very pink. It was also miles from anywhere, and they didn’t even know my name as I’d never actually paid a bill there. The couple who ran it might be surly, but both Percy and Monty had had me screaming and they hadn’t interfered, so obviously they believed in leaving guests to their own devices. That or they were both stone deaf. Monty knew it too, which made it easier to arrange the meeting. In fact it was perfect, except that it was where he’d played the ‘It’ game on me, but I felt I could put up with that as long as he didn’t expect to repeat it.
I called both of them again, on the Friday night, and arranged everything, then rang the War Down Man from a call box to book the rooms, insisting on a double in pink. It was all set, and as I walked back to the flat I was feeling both the thrill of sexual anticipation and of the game I was playing. It even seemed a pity to be getting rid of Monty, but then I didn’t have to, because if he and Gabrielle worked together there was every likelihood they’d let me join in again, so I’d have the best of all worlds.
In the morning I collected Gabrielle from her flat. She was nervous, not surprisingly, but less so than I would have been. What I didn’t want to do was spring Monty on her as a complete surprise, so once we were out on the A3 I told her that Monty was pretty fat, and very much a pervert. To my surprise she simply shrugged and gave me a five-minute lecture on not allowing myself to be influenced by society’s concepts of the ideal. I wasn’t going to argue with that, so I gave her the whole story, or most of it anyway, certainly enough to give her a clear idea of what he was like. She listened without a word, just steepling her fingers, as if I was on her couch. Only when I had finished did she nod thoughtfully and speak.
‘His need to objectify women comes from his fear of rejection by real women, probably built up across a series of experiences, each of which will have fortified his attitude. T
he solution is simply to be open and trusting, demanding the same in return.’
I was going to say I’d tried that, only to realise I’d done nothing of the sort. In many ways Monty had been right not to trust me. Yet if I had told him the truth, he probably would have hated me for it. Certainly he’d have refused to play. He had pride, after all, of a sort.
‘As a fetishist yourself your must understand the frustration of being unable to easily express your sexuality,’ Gabrielle went on. ‘For you this applies only to your desire for those sexual preferences not broadly acceptable to society, as is also true for myself. For your Monty this is likely to apply to the full range of sexual experience. Was he overweight as an adolescent?’
‘Search me, I always avoided the topic. I got off on him being fat because it was so unacceptable, to humiliate myself.’
‘I see. Regardless, what we must do is build trust and hope it is returned.’
I didn’t answer, smiling to myself and remembering how it had felt to be sat on by him while whipped cream was squirted up my bumhole. She might be right, or not, but she seemed to be up for it, which was what mattered.
She went on talking, explaining her ideas of sex and society, which centred on the need for greater openness and understanding. I agreed, by and large, although I had to point out that if everybody was completely open and understanding nothing would seem naughty any more, which would take half the fun out of it. I had to explain, and ended up telling her some of my deepest secrets, even one or two things Percy didn’t know. Now it didn’t matter any more, because when you’ve changed a grown woman’s nappy for her, you can be sure your own secrets are safe.
What did annoy me a little was how coolly she took it. I told her how I’d sucked off a tramp to prove my own willpower to myself, how I’d let Percy stuff my anus and vagina with food and how we’d shared it, even how I’d first masturbated while filling my panties on a toilet in a French hotel. All of it she took quite calmly, as if I was talking about the weather.
