by Penny Birch
He’d laugh, telling me to touch my toes and pull my back in, thrusting my bottom up for their inspection. He’d walk up to me and pull down my pants. No — he’d make her do it, doubling my humiliation as another girl peeled the little scrap of pink cotton down over my bum. He’d laugh when he saw the base of the cob protruding obscenely from my rear. She’d give an exclamation of disgust, planting a firm smack across my buttocks to make them bounce and wobble. He’d tell her to do it again, to spank me well for such disgusting behaviour. He’d also order me to masturbate while I was beaten.
My panties joined my jeans at ankle level as I slipped a hand between my legs, finding my clitoris and beginning to rub. The other went back and I began to smack my bum, imagining it was her doing it while he watched. She’d spank me hard, aiming at the fullest part of my cheeks so that the cob was rammed home each time she hit me. He’d pull his cock out as he watched my pussy begin to juice, casually getting his erection ready for me as I was beaten in front of him.
I’d look back between my legs and see him as he stood up, an enormous erection rearing out of his fly, his dress otherwise undisturbed. She’d step aside, leaving my buttocks red and sore, the maize cob still sticking out of my anus. I’d grip my ankles as he got behind me, watching her bend and take his erection briefly in her mouth, leaving it glistening with her saliva. I’d feel another wave of humiliation as she turned her attention to the rear of my vulva, avoiding my frantically rubbing fingers as she dampened my pussy lips with her tongue.
He’d be casually ordering her to go and fetch the cart and harness as his cock touched my pussy. Then he’dbe in me, filling me, my pussy stretched around his erection, his first push catching the base of the cob so that it was shoved yet deeper into my anus. Everything would be full to bursting, my fingers working desperately at my clit, his big hands locked onto my hips, my little titties naked in the warm air. Finally he’d orgasm, filling me with sperm, the sticky come squelching out around my pussy to trickle down my thighs and over my vulva. As my fingers became coated with sticky hot sperm, I’d come myself — which is exactly what I did.
The standing position was too much, and I sank down onto my haunches and lay back in the grass, finishing myself off with my eyes shut and my mind focused on my fantasy and the feel of the cob as my anus contracted around it in orgasm. I was holding my pussy lips open with two fingers, frigging with a third while my spare hand gave a nipple her share of attention. My orgasm seemed to last an age, draining me of strength and breath and leaving me panting on the grass.
I lay there for a long time, pussy and anus both rather sore, the cob still lodged up my bottom. I rolled over into a kneeling position and drew the cob out, throwing it into the woods. I felt sweaty, sticky and badly in need of a wash but utterly satisfied. The sense of solitude was stronger than ever. Remembering the stream marked on the map, I undressed completely, bundled my clothes together and began to make my way carefully towards it. The ground quickly began to slope, then became steeper. I was soon plastered in leaf mould and mud. Finally, I lost my footing and slid the last few feet on my bum.
I ended up sitting in the stream, my clothes around me, absolutely soaked. I got out and hung them up to dry in a sunny patch, then climbed back into the water to wash. It was wonderfully cold against my body, easing my soreness as I lowered myself onto the sandy bottom. Sitting in a little pool, I was quite enclosed and was able to wash at leisure, then relax in the cool water, watching the patterns of light through the leaves high above me.
As I lay there, I began to think about what I had seen. Now that the knot of sexual tension it had caused had been eased, that any girl should allow herself to be treated that way seemed incredible. I had often fantasised about being controlled by lovers — had even been tied up once or twice, spanked occasionally, buggered not infrequently. Being used as a draught animal represented a whole new level of submission to a lover’s will. Unless of course, the girl had been the instigator of the game. It was possible, after all, as most of the supposedly degrading things I’d done had been at my own instigation. A lot of men didn’t dare ask for that sort of thing, even when they wanted it. Actually, it’s remarkable how many men won’t do that sort of thing, even if the woman does ask. More than once I’d tried to tease a man into spanking me, only to be told he had too much respect for me. I’d have thought that the offer of a squirming girl over your lap with her bare, hot bottom stuck up in the air would be more than any man could resist, but apparently not.
So maybe it wasn’t so much a question of submission to a lover’s will, but of lovers having mutually compatible sexual fantasies. In any case, they would have to be extremely intimate and very trusting of each other. After all, one of the problems of indulging in the more outrageous sexual pleasures was that it could become embarrassing when a boyfriend became an ex-boyfriend and the fact that you liked it up the bum was being broadcast among your friends. This was worse when you worked in the rather closed environment of a university research facility, as I did. It had happened to me, so I knew.
On the other hand, it looked wonderful fun; given the right man, I felt I could manage it and really enjoy it. Given the right man, of course. Someone discreet; also trustworthy enough not to overstep the mark when I was helpless; rich enough to own a suitable location to play; inventive enough to make the fantasy work; cute enough to turn me on; into petite, dark-haired girls and without a partner already.
I laughed at myself as I sat up in the pool. I’d never met a man who filled even half the necessary requirements. The chance of one cropping up, just because I fancied a bit of unusual sex, had to be close to zero. I stood and stepped out onto the lower bank at the far side of the stream. My clothes were still wet, but the area was quite enclosed and my feeling of safety absolute, so I walked naked down the clear space along the bank, wondering if it really was practical to make anything more than a fantasy out of my experience.
Ten minutes later, I was sitting on a log, still stark naked and still thinking about the couple in the woods. I had long since ceased to have the slightest worry about being caught when a sharp crack from upstream brought me to my senses. Suddenly acutely aware of my nudity, I scrambled back to where my clothes were hanging and began to dress hurriedly, despite the dampness of the fabric. There were no more noises, but the moment had gone and the lonely beauty of the wood had faded, replaced by a sinister atmosphere that had me imagining eyes peering out of every thicket, as I struggled to make myself decent.
After what seemed an eternity I was finished, my boots alone proving really uncomfortable. I climbed back up the slope, pushing under the elders and emerging into the maize field to find it as quiet and sultry as it had been before. The heat of the day had barely begun to fade. Although the shadows were getting longer, I had plenty of time to get back to my car, which I had left outside the King Billy. That was only three miles away, so I decided to skirt the wood. When my boots were dry, that was, I decided as I bent to undo the laces.
The map showed the footpath running along one side of the wood and the other three sides bordering fields, except where a track ran up to it from the road. Having been running around in the nude for the best part of an hour and having got away with it, I felt bold enough to risk the minor piece of trespassing necessary to investigate the wood. Whether I would dare enter it again was another matter, given that I now knew that it was being used, and how!
Eventually, my boots were dry enough to be bearable and I pulled them back on. I walked along the side of the maize field and checked carefully that the coast was clear, before climbing over the fence. As I had felt a thrill of disobedience when I crossed onto private land, so the thrill went as I crossed back, and I looked back at the maize field with a curious sense of missing something and a lovely sense of having been really naughty and got away with it.
Oddly enough, it was harder to pluck up the courage to climb the fence at the far end of the wood than it had been to climb into the maize fiel
d. Maybe this was because I no longer desperately wanted to masturbate. On the other hand, it may have been because I was stepping into a big open field with no cover and because I was spying rather than trying to avoid being spied on.
The first side was frustratingly blank. The wall stretched away, taller than my head; the flint and brick construction made it impossible to get a good toe-hold. Even if I had been able to see over, the wood on the far side was as thick as it had been where I had first got through. The wall turned at an angle then thrust out into the open field, leaving me feeling completely exposed and thankful for the moderate camouflage of faded jeans and a green T-shirt.
Along the next section of wall, I could see banks that presumably marked the position of the track and therefore the gate. I stole towards it, bent over and undoubtedly looking extremely guilty. The gate proved to be set between massive stone pillars, its ancient black paint flaking to reveal rusty iron-work beneath. There was a little stone lodge inside the gate, the windowpanes long gone and the thatch of the roof sagging and moss-grown, in keeping with the general air of dilapidation. Despite this, the gravel showed scrape marks where the gates had been swung open recently.
I listened for a moment but heard nothing. The gate was shut and held closed with a rusty chain. The padlock was shiny and suspiciously modern, quite clearly not part of the ancient construction it guarded.
Did that mean they had left? Not necessarily, but the padlock was outside the gate and would certainly be awkward to get at from the interior. Intent on taking my piece of detective work a little further, I walked boldly over to the gate. Tyre tracks showed clearly in a muddy area of the path: one set in, no sets out. They were still there.
Not only that, but the general state of the track showed that the place was used infrequently at best. Whatever the place had been, it had obviously fallen into disuse years ago. I was fascinated; the whole situation filled me with such curiosity that I knew I could never just leave it. I was even thinking of going boldly in and offering my services as a spare plaything, but quickly chickened out when I turned to look at the forbidding, and pointedly locked, gates.
Still, I decided, I could spy a little more. The woods inside were made for skulking about in and if the wall was a serious obstacle, then the gate would be easy to climb. Reasoning that I would hear their car in enough time to hide, I began to climb the gate, using the fancy wrought-iron decorations as holds. I was soon swinging myself over the top and down the far side, then nipping behind the lodge and again listening for noise.
Nothing happened, so I peered gingerly in at one of the windows. The interior was disappointingly empty, containing only a decaying table and a few ferns that had taken root among the soggy mess of leaf mould and glass on the floor. Emerging from hiding, I started cautiously down the drive, ready to dive into the bushes at the first hint of sound. I jumped at the sudden call of a pheasant, which made me realise just how nervous I was. The drive curved, leaving the shelter of the wood to emerge on an area of badly overgrown lawn, beyond which stood a house.
The remains of a house, I should say. There was no roof, and what was left of the walls was in an advancedstate of decay, the occasional area of blackened stone or charred wood hinting at the fire that must have destroyed it. I walked cautiously forward to get a closer look, only then catching a glimpse of bright red, a colour entirely out of place in the rotting grandeur of the setting. It must be their car, I realised, as I stepped back into the bushes.
It was parked among a group of buildings that stood to the side of the main house. I guessed they had once been stables: long, low structures with rows of tall doors facing a compound. If the house was ruined, the stables were anything but. The buildings were in good order and the yard even looked freshly scrubbed. The car, a big, bright red Rover, stood in the middle, empty. I shifted position, bringing more of the yard into my view. The little cart I had seen the girl pulling was parked at the far end, an untidy tangle of harness hanging from the shafts and a pile of clothes thrown across the seat.
I was considering the implication of this when a noise attracted my attention. It came from beyond the main stable building and sounded suspiciously like a squeak of pleasure. I began to make my way around the back of the stable, staying well concealed and ready to bolt if I was seen. I wasn’t, and presently found myself in a position from which I could see them. She was on her back on a little grassy area, her legs thrown up and open as he mounted her and thrust away vigorously. Her black corset was still on, and her high-heeled ankle boots, along with the red ribbon in her hair; otherwise, she was naked. So was he; his back heaved and his muscular buttocks moved rhythmically as they fucked.
They were locked in each other’s arms, oblivious to their surroundings; their sighs turned to squeals and then grunts as his pace quickened and her grip tightened around his back. My hand had gone between my legs as I watched, feeling the shape of my pussy under my jeans. He was thrusting furiously, making her pant and gasp. At what must have been the last possible instant he pulled out, knelt up, grabbed his erection and jerked frantically at it to send a spray of white sperm splashing out over her face and breasts as she leant forward.
He sank back on his haunches, cock still proud in his hand as she put her hands up to her big breasts and spread the come over them, rubbing it into her nipples. Her face was towards me, her eyes shut and a trickle of white running down one cheek. He came forward again, this time burying his head between her thighs. She groaned loudly, still smearing his come over her breasts as he licked at her. I felt close to orgasm myself, wishing I had a skirt on so that I could get at my pussy and masturbate again.
Suddenly she screamed, then screamed again as she came under his tongue, her thighs locked around his head, her nipples sticking up from between her fingers and sticky with male come. My head was swimming with my own pleasure, but caution got the better of me and I sank back into the bushes as he got to his feet and stretched in the warm air.
I made for the gate, keen to get clear before they dressed and left the wood. My last glimpse was of them walking into the stable yard, hand in hand, and it was only then that I realised that the girl’s whole bottom was flushed red. Obviously, at some stage during the afternoon, she had been soundly spanked.
So great was my state of nervous excitement that I ran most of the way to my car. I got in and sat back, puffing to recover my breath. I desperately wanted to get my jeans and pants down and give myself another orgasm, but it was impossible, with people already arriving at the King Billy for an evening drink. I went and had a drink myself instead, a pint of cold orange, by the end of which I felt ready for the drive back to my flat.
Two
That should have been that, but it wasn’t. On the few other occasions that I’d unexpectedly come across something really erotic, I’d fantasised about it a few times, had some lovely orgasms and then moved on to something else.
One had been watching a couple make love among a patch of rocks in the Welsh hills during a field trip. From their point of view, it must have just been a hurried knee-trembler. She’d had her trousers and pants down and been taking him behind her. We’d been a long way off and hadn’t even had a clear view, but it had really got to me.
Another had been coming into a friend’s room unexpectedly at college. She had been kneeling between a man’s legs with his cock in her mouth and her top pulled up over her breasts. That had provided me with a week’s happy masturbation and greatly increased the frequency with which my own boyfriend of the time had his cock sucked.
This was different. The image of that woman in harness and the cool, amused way he had taken his pleasure just wouldn’t go away. My fantasy developed over the week, starting with me being in her position, then exploring various related ideas and lastly turning the tables on the man. By the end of the week, I realised that I wasn’t going to be satisfied until I had found out more. The question was, how?
Despite never having heard of the particular kink t
hey had been indulging in, it occurred to me that it might not be as rare as all that. Following this reasoning, I bought a contact magazine for the first time in my life. The things people did want from each other opened my eyes considerably, but there was no mention of what I wanted. Of course, I had no idea what the technical term for it might be; with the amount of euphemism and jargon used, I quickly realised that I needed more knowledge to get anywhere.
That really left me with the option of going back to where I had seen them and asking a straight question. Unfortunately, this was easier said than done. First of all, when it came to the crunch I didn’t know if I’d have the guts to walk up to them and ask if I could join in their fun. That was assuming I could find them again. Actually, given the condition of the stables and the sheer complexity of their sex play, it seemed fair to assume that they did it on a fairly regular basis.
I spent most of the week thinking about it and then drove down to Wiltshire again on the Saturday. As I pulled into the car park of the King Billy, I was already feeling nervous. Rationally, I kept telling myself, all I had to do was wait outside the gate of the old park and speak to them when they arrived or left. The worst thing that could happen would be that they told me to get lost. Emotionally, it was a very different matter. The idea of accosting a couple of complete strangers and attempting to butt into their sex life filled me with a feeling of social impropriety so strong that it gave me butterflies in my stomach. Also, there was the chance that I would waste my day sitting around by the park gates and that they wouldn’t turn up.
I decided that a spot of Dutch courage would help and ordered brandy in the pub, instead of my customary glass of cider. The day was even hotter than it had been the previous weekend, but with enough breeze to make the trees shiver. As I sat in a window seat and tried to get up enough courage, a gust caught the skirt of a girl in the car park. I caught a brief glimpse of pale-blue panties and found myself smiling as she hastily smoothed the material down and glanced around her.