by Peter Birch
“Oh, I know all about you, Peter Finch. It’s all in Mum’s diaries.”
“I didn’t know she kept a diary,” Peter managed.
“Well she did, and it’s hot stuff, as I’m sure you can well imagine! Of course she doesn’t know I’ve read it, and Dad would freak out completely if he knew. Come on, quick, in case somebody sees us.”
She took Peter’s hand, towing him behind as she ran for the short line of cars parked just inside the main gate. He was already having visions of a fresh visit to the local police station and quickly drew ahead, helping her into his car and driving away as fast as he felt he decently could. Only when they were clear of the college buildings did he begin to relax, while she was obviously enjoying herself immensely, glancing back over her shoulder as they accelerated.
“I suppose you’ll have to bring me back,” she said, half-regretfully. “But I so wish that was my last ever view of the place. And just think, abducted by the terrible Peter Finch!”
“But I haven’t abducted you, have I?” Peter pointed out. “And what do you mean ‘the terrible Peter Finch’? Anyway, don’t you like Broadfields?”
“That’s three questions all at once,” she said, her voice switching to a playful and faintly admonitory tone. “Now let me see … No, of course you haven’t abducted me, but it’s nice to think that you might have,” she laughed. “Kidnapped and carried off over your shoulder to a life of depraved sex in your secret lair! And yes, you do have quite a reputation, didn’t you know? Nobody else in the whole history of Broadfields ever got expelled for assaulting a nun, let alone for a night of dirty passion in St. Monica’s convent with eight different girls.”
“Eight?” Peter queried. “I didn’t …”
“Don’t spoil the story,” she interrupted. “I know it was just Mum, and you watched Vicky Trent spank some stuck up Indian girl. But the rumors are much juicier. Now you’ve made me lose my train of thought … Do I like Broadfields? I used to. I used to think it was the most wonderful place in the world, but as I got older I came to resent all the rules, all the restrictions. I mean, here I am, a grown woman, and I still have to sneak away as if I was just a kid.”
“I felt exactly the same,” Peter told her. “So did your mother, but she was at St. Monica’s which was far worse. It was supposed to be progressive, just because they allowed make-up and that sort of thing, but they had endless rules and regulations, mainly designed to stop them having any real fun, especially sex. But then they had to do sports in just their knickers! Well, and tops of course, but you know what I mean.”
“That’s nuns for you,” Rhiannon explained. “It’s all about original sin, you see. So girls are assumed to be dirty little bitches until they prove otherwise, while dignity is supposed to be a privilege, hence the gym knickers. Anyway, it’s not as bad as Saudi Arabia. I even have to cover my hair. I hate it there.”
“Religion,” Peter answered. “The bane of humanity. So you want to go to the Duck at Goring?”
“Yes, please, if that’s not too cheeky?”
“The Duck is fine. My parent’s used to take me there.”
Rhiannon was silent for a long time, her expression oddly sulky. Then she spoke up again with sudden determination.
“You’re not supposed to say ‘the Duck is fine’, Peter Finch. You’re supposed to say the Duck is far too expensive and that I’m an impudent little brat for suggesting it. An impudent little brat who needs to be spanked.”
“Jesus!” Peter exhaled slowly.
Rhiannon giggled.
“Would you like to spank me? I bet you would.”
Peter swallowed hard as the blood rushed to his face, a reaction that drew a peal of delighted laughter from Rhiannon.
“Oh you would!” she laughed. “I knew you would! Come on, I’ll take you up into the woods and give you a little show of my bottom. Then maybe you can spank me for being so naughty. Won’t that be fun?”
Peter had been forced to slow down to avoid the risk of an accident and still found himself lost for an answer, his head full of guilt and desire, contradictory voices screaming at him. To spank Tiffany’s daughter seemed an impossible outrage, let alone when he had just taken her out of school, still in her uniform and without permission. Yet he had spanked more than one nineteen year old at the club without thinking twice. She was lovely too, with her endless legs, glorious hair, pixie face and infinitely spankable perfectly rounded little bottom. Even her slightly awkward physical manner added to his desire, while her impertinent attitude would have had any other spankable girl across his knee with her knickers down in moments.
“I’m not a child,” she went on after he’d failed to reply, her tone now sulky.
“I know,” he answered, at last finding his voice. “You’re a very beautiful young woman …”
“So spank me.”
“… and Tiffany’s daughter.”
“What about it? I know how you like to spank girls, Peter Finch. Come on, do me. I’ve got little blue panties on. I bet you’d like to pull them down, nice and slow, while you hold me down across your knee. Think how I’d be, all bare and wriggly with my panties right down and my bottom …”
“You deserve it, that’s for sure,” Peter broke in, “and you’re going to get it, if it’s the last thing I do, which it probably will be, at least this side of jail.”
“So make it good.”
“I intend to,” he answered, pulling the cab to the side of the road.
“Here?” she asked, throwing a slightly worried glance to either side, where open fields bordered the road.
“I ought to,” Peter answered her. “I ought to do you over the car with your knickers pulled down so that all the passing motorists can get a good look while you’re punished. Unfortunately, some busybody would be sure to interfere, especially as you’re in school uniform. But don’t you know where we are?”
“No,” she answered, now openly nervous as she climbed out of the car.
“I’ll show you,” he told her, and took her by the hand.
He pushed through a field gate and up between rows of corn towards where a straggling hedge followed the line of the ridge. She came after, willing but ever more nervous, a reaction that reminded him strongly of Tiffany as he’d once led her up the very same hill, and to the same fate. Only in her case there’d been an audience of his friends to enjoy her pain and humiliation. Coming out through the hedge, he stopped beside a decaying structure of black wooden planks half collapsed across mouldering hay bales.
“This is the barn where I spanked your mother in front of my friends,” he told Rhiannon. “It’s a little the worse for wear now, but it’s going to have to do.”
Rhiannon merely nodded, her impudence vanishing in the face of her playful and exciting fantasy turning into a painful and very immediate reality, while Peter’s initial shock and guilt became subdued by desire. Choosing a stack of bales that were sheltered from view, he sat down as he spoke once more.
“I think you promised me a little show. Front and back, please.”
“Yes, of course.”
She sounded eager, perhaps grateful to postpone her spanking for a little. But her fingers shook as she took hold of the hem of her pleated blue school skirt, lifting it gingerly to expose the triangle of blue cotton that covered her sex. Her panties had pulled up a little, hugging and accentuating her slit, while her mound was abundant with dark ginger hair, making a bulge in the fabric and spilling out at the sides to create an unkempt, rather rude look that Peter found immensely appealing.
“Sorry,” she said quietly, misreading his look. “I’m a bit of a ragamuffin.”
“You’re beautiful,” he told her, “and natural. Now slide your knickers down, just a little, not off.”
Rhiannon hesitated only an instant before tucking her skirt up and rolling her panties down to the tops of he
r thighs, exposing her full bush of hair and the very top of her little slit.
“Now the back,” Peter ordered, struggling to keep his voice cool and even. “Show me your bottom, but pull your knickers up first.”
“So you can watch me pull them down? That’s really dirty,” she said, more softly now.
“That’s the only way to be. So, a little panty play, then bare. But pull them up again before you bend over my knee.”
She had turned her back as he spoke. She watched him over her shoulder, her eyes wide and a little uncertain, although she had pushed out her bottom a little and was holding the little blue panties taut across her cheeks to make the best of her shape. Peter’s cock was growing uncomfortably hard and he was forced to make a quick adjustment, at which she gave a nervous, half smile before pulling her knickers tighter across her bottom and a little way up into her crevice.
“Like this?” she asked.
“Perfect,” he told her, “and now right up. Let your cheeks spill out to the sides.”
Rhiannon obeyed, giggling as her confidence began to return. She’d leant forward and pushed out her bottom, her panties tugged high to leave both small, pale cheeks on full show. She had set her feet a little apart, allowing him to see the swell of her cunt bulging in the cotton that lewdly outlined her dampening slit.
“I have a nice bottom, don’t you think?” she asked.
“Very pretty,” he told her. “Now bend forward a bit more. Slowly … that’s my girl.”
She had responded almost instantly, still looking back as she bent down to take hold of her ankles, her hair a glorious cascade of copper, glossy in the sunlight, her back lithe and tensile, displaying her nearly nude bottom to perfection. The little blue panties had pulled so tightly to her that little curls of hair stuck out to either side of the feeble barrier. Again Peter adjusted his cock, now fully erect, and she spoke up.
“Shall I pull my knickers down?”
“Show off a little more,” he told her. “Tease me.”
Again she giggled. Standing straight, she gave her bottom a wiggle before adjusting her panties to cover her cheeks once more. Her fingers went to her skirt, releasing the hem before rolling the waistband up on itself to turn an appealing but reasonably demure school skirt into a mini so short that the turn of her panties was left peeping out beneath the hem. She’d been looking back all the while, gaging his interest, her eyes flicking between his face and the very obvious bulge in his trousers.
“That’s right,” he told her. “You’ve got me hard. Do you want to see?”
Rhiannon gave a single, nervous nod, half-turning as Peter eased down his fly to pull free his straining cock and imprisoned balls. She watched, fascinated, her mouth a little open with the very tip of her tongue just showing, her big green eyes glued to his erection as he began to masturbate.
“Continue,” he told her. “I’m sure you’ve had a man masturbate over the sight of your pretty panties before?”
She shook her head.
“You have. Take my word for it,” he told her. “Maybe not in front of you. But boys are pervs. With your long legs and your little skirt rolled up, every other guy who sees you will be tugging on his cock over the thought of how you look in your underwear. Do you go around with your skirt rolled up like that?”
“No,” Rhiannon answered. “I’m a good girl. I never let boys see my knickers, or dirty old men, and I’d never bend over in a short skirt, not like this. I’d be scared they might catch me, and spank me, and fuck me.”
As she spoke she’d bent down again, as if to pick something off the ground, allowing the full spread of her panties to bloom over her bottom, before taking hold of the hem of her skirt and lifting it high.
“Is that an offer?” he managed, now pulling fast at his cock. “I’m going to spank you, count on it. But …”
“I’m not a virgin,” she interrupted, “and I’m not made of china. You can fuck me, Peter Finch. Shall I take my knickers down now?”
“Yes … it’s time they came down,” Peter said. “All the way down. I … I want to see your cunt, Rhiannon.”
Her face went pink at his words, but she quickly tucked her skirt up once more and pushed her thumbs into the waistband of her panties, her eyes locked to his. As she began to push, he struggled not to come then and there, his cock achingly hard and only a few final strokes away from orgasm. The swell of her cheeks blossomed over the elastic, then the upper part of her slit. And finally, nothing of her modesty remained concealed as she pushed the little panties lower, and lower still. The tiny, pink-white star of her asshole as mesmerizing as her sweetly turned, ginger furred little cunt. With her final exposure, Peter could barely restrain himself. He gave in to his need, tugging frantically at his erection, like a man driven mad by forbidden lust. He was going to come and there was nothing he could do to stop himself. But with Rhiannon’s beautiful bare bottom pushed out almost in his face, and her wet pink hole tantalizingly on offer, he had no intention of expending himself over his own hand.
“Come here, you dirty little brat!” he gasped. “I’m going to fuck you … fuck you right now … and you can get your spanking while I’m in you.”
Rhiannon squealed in surprise as he snatched at her, catching her skirt. But she giggled as he pulled her to him, and her half-serious protests morphed into a cry of shock and pleasure as he sat her down on his erection. His full length had settled inside her in one smooth motion, and he’d quickly tipped her forward, spreading the handfuls of her little bottom cheeks with his thumbs as she scrabbled for purchase on another of the old hay bales. He could see his cock, thick and dark in her wet pink hole, with her vagina stretched taut and his shaft slippery with her juice.
Sudden guilt hit him as he realized she’d lied. She’d been a virgin, but she wasn’t anymore, her pretty cunt well and truly fucked, with his cock in her to the hilt and her ass cheeks spread wide to show her off. He he couldn’t stop anyway, his ecstasy already rising towards orgasm, his eyes locked on the junction of his cock and her cunt, and on the pale star of her ass. She was gasping and sobbing out every sensation, every emotion, as she was fucked. She clung desperately to the hay bale to stop herself from going face first into a half-dried puddle of mud, but Peter could think only of his promise to spank her before he came.
His hand cracked down across one upturned cheek, then the other, even as she squealed in reaction to the first strike. With that, it was all too much. As he whipped his cock free at the last possible moment, he aimed another hard slap at her bottom, only to miss as she slipped from his lap, to land in the mud with a cry of shock and disgust. His cum erupted from him, and as she twisted around frantically a second spurt caught her full in the face, laying a thick stream of sticky white across one eye, down her cheek and into her open mouth.
“You …,” she managed, only for her words to break to a peculiar gulping noise as Peter filled her mouth with his cock, milking the last of his cum down her throat despite her muffled protests.
He was about to pull free, guilt already welling up inside him for being so rough with her, when suddenly she began to suck, as eager and wanton as any girl he’d known. The force of her suction was not dimmed by her sobs as the tears streamed down her cheeks even as she deliberately swallowed down what he’d done in her mouth.
“Now you can masturbate,” he told her. “Go on. I’ll keep my cock in your mouth until you come. Do it, Rhiannon!”
A wet, choking noise escaped her throat, but she’d widened her legs and her fingers were already working in the wet slit between, the slender fingers of her other hand stroking at his balls, her mouth pursed around his shaft. Her eyes were closed, her tearstained face full of as much shame as ecstasy while the motion of her fingers on her cunt grew ever more urgent, until at last her body locked tight in orgasm.
“Dear, dear Rhiannon,” Peter sighed. “Like mother, like
daughter.”
Peter and Rhiannon took their time over lunch, ordering the Duck’s three course set menu and washing it down with a bottle of cold Rhenish wine as they sat by the Thames. She’d been a little annoyed at first, pointing out in no uncertain terms that when she’d suggested a spanking and a fuck she hadn’t bargained on being dropped in a mud puddle, nor on getting a face full of cum. Furthermore, she had no spare clothes. Peter had offered to return her to Broadfields but the idea was clearly impractical, given the state she was in. So, he’d offered to treat her to some new clothes, and she’d accepted his offer. They’d driven into Goring, where Peter had purchased a green summer dress, which she’d changed into in the car before making herself properly decent in the ladies’ room at the Duck. She’d been much happier when she’d emerged, skipping down the long grassy slope to the table he’d chosen beside the river and giving him a twirl to make her new dress rise, showing off her legs and perhaps rather more of her panties than she’d intended, to the ill-disguised shock of two elderly ladies nearby.
Peter had been ready to make a full apology for his behavior, but she no longer seemed to care, chatting happily of this and that and teasing him for his lack of self-control. In return, he threatened to spank her then and there, in front of the three dozen or so people also enjoying lunch in the garden and anybody who happened to be crossing the bridge. She dared him to do it and he found himself forced to back down, but from that point there had been no doubt that it was going to happen. With lunch finished, they enjoyed a leisurely coffee while watching the river before returning to the car.
Instead of turning south towards Broadfields, Peter drove up onto the downs, stopping at the end of a track where they could look out over the Vale of White Horse through air so clear that the spires of Oxford were visible in the distance. Peter had been there just once before, on a summer Sunday the year before his expulsion. As he’d hoped, it had barely changed at all. The lonely beech hanger where he’d relieved his frustration over a copy of Mayfair magazine was as he remembered it, with a screen of hawthorn to shield the interior from prying eyes and ledges of chalk where generations of badgers had dug into the hillside. Rhiannon seemed to have forgotten all about the possibility of being spanked, laughing and showing off in her new dress as she walked, and when Peter took her firmly by the ear and pulled her in among the beeches she gave a squeak of surprise and alarm.
