How did this happen? Did we bring it upon ourselves? We had taken our clothes off, not willingly, but we hadn’t put up that much of a fight. I had stood there proud of my full breasts and firm pink nipples. Binky, too, she was just the same, her silky white body displayed so shamelessly in the firelight. While the Laird had been testing us, I’d thought I’d been testing him.
He stood down, stroking our damp flesh, a potter making a vase, over our backs and around the swell of our backsides. There is nothing more humiliating than to bind two girls in this way, and the Laird was aware of his masterwork as he paused to study us, our arms stretched above our heads, our stomachs pulled in, our bottoms thrust out. We were exposed and vulnerable in every way.
It was the most degrading thing that had ever happened to me and yet, and yet, there was a part of me that wanted to know what was going to happen next. What could happen next? I’m not sure why, but I kissed Binky. Not a snog like before, just a kiss to say it was all right. We would get through this. Tears rolled down her cheeks, one after the other, and I licked them away. Byron moved the chair back to its place at the table. The Laird circled us.
‘Two wee sisters,’ he said, a tone of awe in his voice. ‘Now, girls, I want you to scream as loud and as long as you can. Do it for an old hill farmer, just to bring a bit of pleasure into my life.’
I lifted my head and stared at him, made him focus. ‘What are you going to do?’ I demanded.
‘I’m going to give you want you need, girlie.’
He clicked his fingers and Byron went to the walnut dresser against the wall. He opened the top drawer, removed something, and closed the drawer again. He returned and placed across the Laird’s two outstretched palms a leather riding crop with an ornamental tassel.
‘I’m going to thrash you, lassie. That round bottom you keep pushing oot is going to be tanned until it’s raw.’
I don’t know where I got the courage from, but I spat in his face, an enormous mouthful of spittle that drooled down into his red beard. He grinned and chucked me tenderly under the chin. ‘That’s what I like to see, Byron. A bit of spunk.’
As he spoke, he slid the riding crop through the cheeks of my bottom and up, first between my legs, then Binky’s legs, locked against my own. He bowed the crop as if playing a cello, slowly, gently, backwards and forwards, and the breath caught in my throat. I sucked at the air and felt a deep raging shame as the liquids leaked from me, wetting my thighs. He kept sliding the crop back and forth, back and forth, urging little gasps from my throat, the crop so soft and the sawing motion so mesmerising, without thinking, I dragged down on the straps and rolled my pelvis until the wings of my pussy opened.
When the Laird slid the crop out and showed it to Byron, I saw that it was sticky, slicked and shiny with juice. Why were we wet like this? We should have been dry with shame, but my sister’s naked body pressed tightly to me was intensely erotic, the prurient gaze of the two men so decadent, my embarrassment was submerged by my arousal.
The Laird ran his finger along the length of the soggy crop, then leaned over me, tickling my bottom playfully with the tassel. ‘There, you see, lassie,’ he said. ‘You’re going to enjoy this.’
He was close enough for me to spit again but I didn’t. I’d made my point. I kept my dignity. He gave Byron the riding crop and the two men stood back, one on each side of us, our bodies in profile and, although I knew what was about to happen, it still seemed unreal, unbelievable.
‘Are you ready, lad?’
‘Aye, Hamish, as ready as I’ll ever be.’
‘Together then.’
There was no pause. Byron brought the crop down on my bottom, a swift, hard slash that cut across my pale skin, and the pain that roared through me was like no pain I had ever felt before, a sting, a burn with acid, a flash of fire. Yet even while I was absorbed by my pain, it was the sound of the Laird’s big hand slapping Binky that resounded in my ears. She screamed so loudly, and was so close, it felt as if the scream came from my own lungs.
We rolled with the blow and as I watched the Laird draw back his hand, I knew that behind me, Byron McBride was lifting the riding crop. Down it came again, another flash of lightning, just above the first, cutting deep, searing my skin. Tears were gushing from my eyes. My back was drenched and Binky pressed against me felt as if she were on fire.
The next strike with the crop was lower, making a pattern, the line nearer to my sex. My vagina was shamefully engorged, pouting lasciviously between my thighs. Binky was sobbing against my neck, and I wanted to stroke her hair, comfort her, but our arms were pulled above our heads and the only comfort I could give was to kiss her ear.
The riding crop came down again like a whiplash, the sound of the Laird’s big hand spanking Binky’s bottom like a clap of thunder that echoed and vibrated around the room. She didn’t scream now. She just sobbed, her body trembling. Each new stroke of the riding crop was as painful as the last, but pain changes in character, and when you are familiar with pain, it doesn’t seem quite so terrible.
Byron left six strokes on my backside, six red lines of burning agony, the fire in each stripe warming the whole area, up my back to my neck, down my thighs to my feet. My posterior was a furnace, my front was running with the sweat pouring from our two naked bodies and, as I stood there, arms suspended above my head, I felt like a diver at the end of the high-diving board, the void stretched out below me. Something had crossed over in me. I had changed. I had become under the beating a new person, more aware of my senses, more conscious of my own desires.
The Laird bent to inspect Binky’s bottom. Now that it had become pitch black outside, the long windows were a wall of mirrors and I could see his reflection, this giant of a man bending over the thin elongated body of my sister, his big fingers pressing tentatively at her bottom as if it were a rare delicate fruit he was about to consume. Byron was inspecting my raw buttocks in the same way, then joined the Laird before they traded positions. Byron flexed his muscles, smiting the air with a test stroke, his eyes meeting mine.
‘Now, are you ready, laddie?’ the Laird asked.
Byron smiled. ‘Aye, ready and willing,’ he replied.
He raised the crop, and as he brought it down on Binky’s hindquarters, I felt the terrible smack of the Laird’s hand on my own. Binky was thrust against me, our dank bodies slippery as fish, like two slimy creatures mysteriously mating. The pleasure and the pain were two threads woven together, making both stronger, more powerful. Before I could catch my breath, the second spank was scolding my flesh, the Laird’s huge hand covering the entire surface of my bottom, the sting making the six stripes left by the crop blaze more brightly.
Binky was alternatively sobbing and screaming. I tried not to weep, but the Laird’s will was stronger and I couldn’t stop myself. It was what he expected, what he wanted. We had done everything he wanted. My body was numb. The fire in my raw bottom was growing calmer and, as the third smack found its mark, I hardly felt it at all. All I could feel was Binky pressed against me, our breasts so hot and wet, our pubic mounts slapping urgently together.
As the fourth smack made contact with my bottom, I didn’t cry, and I didn’t scream. I found Binky’s lips and kissed her. She was surprised at first, but pushed back, sucking at my lips, running her tongue over my teeth, curling the trunk in little twirls down my throat. The two men pumped themselves up, readying themselves for the fifth stroke and, as I saw Byron’s arm come down, I felt my stomach clench with contractions.
There was no breath in my body. I was a balloon emptied of gas. I gasped and panted. My mouth had fallen open. I pushed my bottom out to meet the Laird’s hand, the muscles of my stomach tightened, and a spasm gripped my pussy. I was desperate with desire, aching with dirty, immodest needs. I could smell my fruity arousal. Or was it Binky’s arousal? We were pressed so close I couldn’t tell, and the air I breathed was charged on pure unadulterated sex.
Take me. Take me. Take me.
Th
e words ran through my head and just thinking them made me feel carnal, defiled, promiscuous. I was eighteen. A virgin still. And I wanted the Laird to take me, take me now while the liquids were hot between my legs. I watched and I waited. Byron raised his arm one last time and I gazed at him, eyes wide, knowing that as the riding crop beat the small drum of Binky’s bottom, the Laird’s brutish palm would crash like a ringing cymbal across my bruised beaten flesh, the pain mingling with a crude pleasure that had begun to release the creamy juices brewing inside me.
He put more effort into that last grand wallop and I roared like a wounded beast as the Laird’s hand tattooed its shape on my bottom. I was shaking, trembling, forcing my pubic bone into Binky’s open legs, wailing frenziedly, and trying to reach for something just beyond my grasp. The chastisement was over but unfinished, incomplete.
The Laird was retrieving the chair. Byron was already unbuckling the straps around our ankles. I looked into Binky’s eyes. They were glossed with tears and exhilaration. I could smell the piquant aromas wafting from her groin and soft white armpits. It made my head spin. The Laird untied the straps holding our arms.
‘Get the carpet for the girlies, what are you waiting for, laddie?’ he said, and Byron took the fleece from the fireside and placed it at our feet.
My arms hurt. We had been standing on our toes for so long, we collapsed on the soft pile of the fleece, our slippery soaked bodies coiling together. I reached for Binky’s breast, popped the hard mount in my mouth, and bit down on the bud until she squealed. She did the same to me, and the agony was excruciating, so intense fresh tears stung my eyes. I bit her neck. I licked the entire surface of her ear, and we kissed with some unimaginable yearning. I was grunting, sucking at the air, my body turning instinctively, driven by the pull of the moon, by some alien lust.
As I moved my tongue down between Binky’s breasts, she did the same to me. I supped at the tiny cup of her belly button, and down into the sopping pink gash between her legs. Her puffy lips opened and her taste on my tongue was fresh and bittersweet. It was the taste of a girl, my own little sister, something new to me, divine, something to savour. Her clever tongue was exploring the cavern of my sex, pushing in and out, in and out, and I did the same, bathing my face in her smell, gorging on her lush creamy juice, oblivious to everything except Binky’s hot oozing pussy.
I wasn’t even aware of the two men standing above us, gazing down as if at animals in the zoo, two naked creatures with spanked bottoms slurping at each other’s most intimate places. There had been knots inside my tummy ever since we had arrived at the manor house, but now those knots were undoing, smoothing out, caressing me like tiny hands, the feeling of relief spreading like nectar down my throat, through my breasts, my organs, my flaming insides. I gripped Binky’s soft thighs in my palms and lapped at her, her thick creamy girl-juice sticky and warm on my face.
Binky’s tongue was nursing the glowing nib of my clitoris. I did the same for her. We were yin and yang, blonde and dark, four emerald eyes. The spasms running through me were running through her. A sprinkle of pre-orgasm fluids soft as raindrops touched my tongue. Binky lifted her bottom up from the fleece and, as she started to come, my own orgasm broke from me like a fizzing firework, a beating pulse of pure energy that reverberated through my body. Never, never, had anything like this happened to me before, and I pressed my sex into Binky until I had emptied every last drop of hot fluid into her throat.
I gasped for air, then ran my tongue through the crack in her bottom, into the dark winking eyelet throbbing restlessly, wetly above, tasting her, wanting every part of her, giving every part of myself to her. Had we always wanted this? We had been together since we were babies, sisters more than step-sisters, but step-sisters nonetheless.
Stray thoughts fluttered through my mind. I felt Binky’s little tongue wriggle into my bottom, the pressure reaching my swollen clitoris, and I started to come again, the pitch softer, the energy spent, a feeling like the last glow of the setting sun.
I was sopping and delirious, too exhausted to struggle as the Laird suddenly, unexpectedly lifted me from Binky in his big hands and carried me limply to the table. He placed me at the far end, away from the plates and silverware set for three, and I lay there exhausted.
‘There, lassie, there,’ he whispered.
Byron pulled at Binky’s hand; she came unsteadily to her feet. He placed her opposite me across the width of the table, the expanse of polished walnut so wide between us, and when they again connected the bindings at our wrists, our arms were stretched out, my torso resting on the tabletop in such a way that my spanked bottom was forced up in the air.
‘Together, then,’ said the Laird.
I watched as Byron pushed his sporran to one side. He tucked the hem of his kilt in the waistband, and from out of the darkness revealed his erect penis. He eased Binky’s legs apart, and at the same moment I felt my own legs being opened, the ricochet effect obscene and inexplicably carnal. As Byron slid his cock into Binky, the Laird’s cock ran up my thighs until the head rested against the entrance to my vagina. It was huge and, as it pushed patiently through my drenched lips, the walls of my hot pussy were expanding and contracting, pushing back, the giant cock greased by my orgasm sliding slowly, inevitably, like a landslide up inside me, breaking my hymen. I’d finally lost my virginity and it was a little thrill that the Laird didn’t even know.
My mouth fell open. I closed my eyes. I was a woman. I was making love, and it was like nothing I’d ever known before because I’d never done it before. My hips bucked and rolled. I pushed back, thrusting out my thrashed bottom, absorbing every inch of the monster. I was impaled, skewered, his big balls like church bells chiming mutely against my thighs, his coarse hair chafing my soft skin as he rammed into me harder and harder, faster and faster.
It grew more intense, more ferocious. He held me in one big hand and with the other started slapping my hips and sides as if urging a race horse to take a high fence, and I took the fence, and the next one, pushing back against the Laird and taking everything he had to give.
He started to groan, his voice emerging from far away, from deep down in the depths of his immense body. He was vanishing inside me, withdrawing almost entirely, then plunging back between the drenched walls of my pussy with great ardent thrusts, my thighs locked, my back arched in a bow, my arms stretched out until both Binky and I rose clean off the table and I felt like a bird flying through the air. I was being split apart like a length of wood, the Laird’s cock a sharpened axe, and then he exploded, roaring, pumping into me, and his semen was an endless gush like oil from a well, like lava from an erupting volcano, like a tidal wave, like a soft warm sea.
Byron was mutely wailing in the background. So was Binky. So was I. I was climaxing again, my body hollowed out. The contractions felt as if I were giving birth, and I was, to a new part of myself, to my future. The Laird kept pumping away, but already he was growing softer and already I sensed a woeful absence as his giant penis slipped from me on a torrent of steaming sperm. I could smell it, rich like fresh milk, thick as cream.
Now that it was over, I felt drained and, I had to admit, indecently satisfied. Binky was panting, her eyes staring without seeing, her cheek resting on the tabletop, the ridge of her bottom rising and falling. My ribs were bruised. My breasts hurt. The lips of my pussy were opening and closing, quivering like a sea anemone as the Laird’s sperm oozed from me like syrup in bubbling slurps, vulgar and sensuous. The Laird caught his breath. He gave my backside a playful slap.
‘You’re a good girl, lassie,’ he said and, absurdly, I felt proud.
Byron straightened his kilt, then released the bindings at our wrists. We slid apart and I came shakily to my feet. The Laird took me by the arms and stared into my eyes.
‘Now, is that better?’ he asked seriously, and I bit my lips and nodded.
Binky was still lying across the table, the tips of her toes just touching the floor. Byron was examining he
r and, when the Laird joined him, I followed, the sap and semen turning cold as it trickled down the insides of my legs.
Binky’s swollen vulva was pressed between her thighs and Byron’s emissions put a gloss over the inflamed pattern that covered the entire surface of her bottom. I stared and it was hard to turn my head away. I was transfixed, mesmerised. Binky’s bottom was fiery red, glowing like the flames in the fire, the six livid stripes from the crop the same African violet as the trim on Binky’s pink car: the same colour as the lines running down the Laird’s kilt.
My mouth dropped open. My heart skipped. I stared at his kilt, then up into his eyes. He smiled, nodding his head warmly.
‘Aye, lassie,’ he said. ‘You’re a clever girl.’
I ran my palm softly over Binky’s bottom, and looked back again at the Laird.
‘It’s my clan: the tartan plaid of the Black Watch.’
Binky had finally caught her breath. I put my arms around her waist as she slipped to her feet. The Laird crossed the room to the piano, grabbed the carved stool, and placed it at the end of the table facing the place settings at the far end.
‘You can sit here, lassies, you must be famished,’ the Laird said, and I felt grateful for his kindness. He turned to Byron, waving his hand towards the fire. ‘Do you think we live in a barn, laddie, all this stuff hanging aboot. Put it away, for heaven’s sake, mon.’
I watched without fully taking in what was happening as Byron gathered our damp clothing. My heart was pounding, and only slowly did I become conscious of us sitting there naked, my breasts throbbing, my nipples still erect, Binky holding my hand like a lost girl. My bottom stung, but all my senses were so alive, the sting was more pleasure than pain. The Laird found a piece of cloth in the chest beside the fire. He gazed up at the portrait of the woman, turned momentarily to me, then turned his attention to the shiny wet discharges we’d deposited on the table.
Being a Girl Page 5