by Penny Birch
I obeyed, turning as I entered the kitchen to see Amber start to run the hose over herself. Amber’s room was large and comfortable, with a faint smell of some sort of aromatic wood. It was true that I was exhausted but, as I crawled naked on to the bed, I didn’t expect to be able to sleep. The ache of sexual need in me was too strong, especially with the implications of lying nude on Amber’s bed.
Lying face down, I reached back to stroke my bottom, feeling the smooth skin and wondering how many cane strokes I had coming. A mirror on her dressing table reflected part of me, including my behind. The last traces of the marks from my previous beating were just visible, along with two pale-red lines where the training whip had caught me. I may be vain, but I think I can reasonably claim to have quite a nice bottom: small, round and firm but fleshy enough to be girlish.
I rolled to the side to give myself a better view. The pose left the rear of my pussy visible, the lips pouting out from between my thighs. That was the view Amber was going to have when she beat me later: only more vulnerable still, as she would probably make me part my legs and stick it out more. I turned from the mirror and slid a hand between my thighs, wondering if I should sneak an orgasm.
The next thing I knew, I was being shaken awake, Amber looking down at me as I lay curled up, with my hand still between my legs.
‘Dinner time, Penny,’ she said. ‘You’ve got ten minutes to get ready and dress.’
‘In what?’ I asked blearily as, to the best of my knowledge my clothes were a hundred miles away in Wiltshire.
‘You’ll see,’ she answered and walked out.
I’d been expecting to serve naked, and when she left the room I was imagining perhaps a maid’s uniform with an embarrassingly short skirt and no panties. It didn’t surprise me to find that Amber had nothing so obvious in mind. It was a maid’s uniform, but of the most conventional sort. While it was a little large for me, the outfit was complete to an obsessive level of detail. Of course, the same could be said for her pony-girl tack, so I don’t suppose I should have been surprised.
Only when I’d been for a brief wash and began to examine the outfit did I realise that she had chosen a style that hadn’t been in fashion since the beginning of the century. The underwear consisted of several petticoats, a corset and a combination chemise and drawers that opened between the legs. Knee-length stockings completed the underwear; a dress of coarse, plain blue wool, a pinny and mob cap made up the rest.
It was a nice touch, typically complicated, and I was looking forward to wearing it so much that I even began to stop worrying about the caning I was going to get after dinner. Only when I started to dress did I realise that there was more to her choice than simply dressing me in an old-fashioned servant’s uniform.
Ten minutes, she had said, and she hadn’t needed to add that being late would result in some new detail being added to my punishment. After ten minutes, I was still trying to get the corset laced up and was beginning to panic, which slowed my progress even more. A gong sounded once, downstairs, then again, impatiently. I wrenched the corset and tied the laces off any old how, hoping that I wouldn’t have my uniform inspected and knowing I would. The petticoats were easier, although she didn’t seem to approve of anything as simple as buttons and everything did up with draw-strings. After that it was easy, until the last moment when I discovered that the dress buttoned all the way down the back.
The gong went again just as I was adjusting the mob cap in front of the mirror. If Amber’s intention had been to fluster me, she had certainly succeeded, but I determined to play my part as coolly as possible.
I came downstairs to find Amber seated at a mahogany table in a room I had not been in before. She was dressed in a crimson gown and gave me a single disdainful look as I entered the room and curtsied to her. Rich scents coming from the kitchen told me that she’d actually done all the cooking while I slept, so I left her and went to fetch whatever she had chosen.
I like to think I did it quite well. A place had been laid for me at the kitchen table and it was a simple matter to bring her dishes in, quickly eat my own and be back in time to clear and serve the next course. The erotic effect of serving her was subtle and slow, defining my position with respect to hers and affecting me with the subtle humiliation of my position and dress. Of course, if I hadn’t known that I was dressed as a Victorian serving maid, it wouldn’t have really worked. Amber seemed to assume that I would be educated enough to know this and also understand the implications of it. Actually, I don’t know how widespread fantasies of class distinction and corporal punishment of servants are, but I do feel that there’s something very English about them and, even fifty years after the end of service as a major trade, there’s still an echo of it in our culture.
She ate without hurry and ignored me, except for giving the occasional order. As the meal progressed, my sense of anxiety increased, so that by the time she gave her mouth a final delicate dab with a linen napkin I was actually unable to stop myself from rubbing my thighs together in anticipation. She told me to pour her a brandy and sipped it slowly, while I stood by the sideboard with my hands behind my back.
‘I believe we have a regrettable little duty to attend to, Birch,’ she remarked as she put the empty glass down on the table.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ I answered quietly.
‘Thirty-six strokes, I believe,’ she continued.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ I repeated. Thirty-six strokes!
‘Bend over the table,’ she ordered.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ I managed. It was going to be now, over the table with my bum showing. A hard lump rose in my throat as I went to the end of the table and bent. I looked up at Amber, who was rising and pushing her chair back. Behind her a tall mirror in a gilt frame reflected the room and also a similar mirror behind me. I could see myself in the reflection, both my face and the back of my skirts. The mirrors were evidently placed intentionally so that girls could watch themselves being beaten. I was going to see everything: my skirts pulled up, my bottom exposed and the cane applied to it. Oh, Amber, I thought, you really know how to get to me.
I couldn’t keep my eyes from the mirror as she stepped behind me. First my skirt came up, exposing my top petticoat. Just that filled me with shame, although the petticoat was considerably more demure than most of my ordinary clothes. When it came up and my shorter, lighter petticoat was laid bare, the feeling of shame intensified. That petticoat followed the first and my drawers were showing, then her hands were on them and my cheeks were burning with the humiliation of it. She drew the flaps of cotton apart and I could see my bum in the mirror, bare in a froth of cotton and lace. I was shaking as she made a few final adjustments to leave her target completely vulnerable.
‘On your toes, girl,’ Amber ordered.
I could see my bottom clearly in the double reflection, a tuft of black hair sticking out between my cheeks. Pulling my back in and raising myself on to my toes opened my cheeks so that my pussy and the hair in between my bottom cheeks showed. The pose destroyed my last vestige of modesty. My bottom-hole was showing and she was going to beat me like that, while she had not so much as a button disarranged.
Amber walked out of the room, leaving me to contemplate the indignity of my position and my approaching punishment. I knew she had gone to fetch the cane and waited in an agony of humiliation and desire.
If it takes a good imagination to get in the sort of state I had worked myself into, then you don’t need any at all to benefit from the physical side of a caning. Amber came back into the room and my heart jumped when I saw the cane in her hand.
‘Count,’ she ordered as she got behind me and laid the implement gently across my bottom. It felt cold and hard, a line of potential pain across the softness of my bottom.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ I stuttered, my voice shaking.
I saw her lift the cane in the mirror and, the next instant, a line of fire sprang up across my bottom. I gasped and kicked, gritting my teeth and only calling out
the first stroke when the initial sting had begun to die. The second followed as I spoke, making my bottom dance again. In the mirror, I could see two red lines on the white of my bum, parallel and laid across the plumpest part of the cheeks.
‘Two,’ I said in between breaths, and the third caught me immediately.
My bottom was beginning to warm properly by the fourth stroke and, by six, my whole body was responding. I was beginning to get that wonderful, sexual warmth that only a well-smacked bottom can achieve. Amber applied the cane evenly and quite hard, but never hard enough to cut. By twelve I was in a blissful haze, wriggling and lifting my bottom for the strokes. The effects of the subtleties of my dress and exposure had begun to fade, replaced by wanton pleasure but, when I tried to sneak my fingers between my legs, I got a sharp word and a cane stroke across the back of my thighs for my trouble.
I made my thirty-six, but I know I could never have taken so much with someone less skilled and tender than Amber. To call someone who had just given me thirty-six strokes of the cane tender may seem strange, yet Amber could have been a lot harder and just hurt me. Also, when it was over and my bum was a mass of red strips and throbbing with pain, she knelt down and kissed my bottom. A moment later, I felt something cool touch my burning skin and looked up to see that she had begun to rub cream on to my skin. That was bliss and, as I let myself go limp on the table top, I felt completely hers, to be done with as she wanted.
What she wanted was me. Her application of the cream quickly began to touch places that the cane had left unblemished. First the insides of my thighs, then down in the crease of my bottom, and finally my pussy and anus. That was too much. I turned and was in her arms in an instant, kissing her and trying to get at her body.
Her gown came down over her breasts as I pulled at it. One large breast was bare in my hand, the nipple stiff as she took my shoulders and pushed me on to my back. Her hand was under my skirts, tugging my petticoats up and sliding into my drawers to find my pussy. My knees came up and open, spreading my thighs for her. Her fingers worked in the wet flesh as she moved herself half on top of me. I kissed eagerly as her breasts came over my head, finding a nipple as my face was smothered in soft flesh. I suckled her for a moment as my arms went round her, then she was pulling upwards, lifting my shoulders from the floor.
‘Come up,’ she breathed, disengaging herself and helping me up.
She took my hand and I followed her up the stairs, letting her guide me on to the bed and responded as she once more began to kiss me. Her fingers were working on my dress buttons, flicking each open with deft touches. It quickly fell open at the back and she pulled the front down, trapping my arms and baring my front as the chemise was pulled open. I pulled my arms free as she laid me back and straddled me, my lower body invisible under the spread of her skirt. My knees were open and my skirts well rucked up, the air cool on my hot pussy and the coverlet rough against my well-beaten bottom.
Amber looked down at me, her mouth slightly open, her tongue wetting her lips. With her legs on either side of my waist, she had me pinned firmly to the bed, producing a deliciously submissive feeling in me. What I wanted best was to lick her, so I stuck my tongue out in clear invitation. She responded with a mischievous look and shifted her weight, turning so that she was still straddling me but head to toe, with her sitting on my chest.
I was even more firmly held in place and could only moan as she adjusted my skirts to bare my pussy and began to play with me. Despite having the wonderfully female roundness of her bottom just in front of my face, I could do no more than squeeze it through her dress while she explored my vulva in the most intimate detail.
‘Please, Amber,’ I begged, getting fairly desperate.
She shifted her weight again, raising her bottom as she began to pull up her skirt. I helped her, tugging at the crimson velvet until it was clear, revealing cream silk camiknickers, loose at the sides but stretched taut across her bottom. She edged back, my mouth was suddenly dry as she tugged open the poppers that closed the garment between her legs. Then her naked bottom was in front of my face, her cheeks wide, her musky, feminine scent rich in my nostrils. As she rocked back, she dropped her dress, leaving my head covered in the red velvet.
I put my arms round her hips and pushed my face into the warm crease of her bottom. She settled herself on my face, wiggling to spread her bottom over my mouth. I knew that all I had to do was poke my tongue out and I’d be licking her bottom-hole, something that had always seemed simply far too rude to do. If there was ever a time to do it, it was now, and as she gave another wriggle I kissed her anus and then stuck my tongue out, licking at the tight hole.
Amber moaned as my tongue touched her bottom-hole, taking hold of my legs and pulling them up so that my ankles were around her neck and gripped by her hands. I knew that my position left the lower part of my bottom cheeks visible, including some of the welts she’d given me.
‘Make me come,’ she demanded.
I could barely breathe with her bottom spread over my mouth, but my attempt to transfer my attention to her pussy was met with more pressure on my face.
‘With your fingers, Penny,’ she said, her tone now more plea than order.
I managed to get one arm up between her thighs, finding her pussy and starting to frig her with my fingers. Her anus was moist with my saliva, and open enough for me to put the tip of my tongue in it.
‘There, yes, do that,’ she said, gasping out the words.
‘Right in, Penny.’
I tried to push my tongue deeper up her bottom and began to circle her clit with a knuckle. She sighed and began to move up and down slowly. I knew she’d come soon. My tongue was well into the opening of her anus and it had begun to spasm. Her hands were locked tight on my ankles and she was squirming her pussy desperately against my knuckles.
She screamed my name and put her whole weight against my face, smothering me against her flesh. I kept licking until her shudders and the contractions of her muscles had subsided, only then pushing at her thighs to signal her to let me breath. She rolled off me, collapsing on the bed with a sigh of utter contentment.
I sat up to look at her. She was lying back, a happy smile on her pretty face, her breasts still bare were I’d pulled down her bodice. One eye was open and turned to me.
‘Thank you, Penny,’ she said quietly. ‘Just let me get my breath back, and I’ll return the favour.’
She did, not once but several times, and it was well into the early hours of the morning that we finally went to sleep, now naked and with my head cradled on her chest.
Seven
I’ve had my share of morning afters and have at least once woken up with a roaring hangover and a man I wouldn’t normally have even considered. When I woke up and realised that I was in Amber Oakley’s bed, it was very different. I’d never spent a night with a woman before and still felt a lingering guilt for what I’d done. Not much, though, even when I remembered that I’d actually licked her bottom, also something that I’d never done before. Other than that, my feelings were entirely happy and very, very satisfied.
She wasn’t actually in the bed when I woke up, but I could hear breakfast sounds coming from downstairs and could smell coffee and toast. For all my acceptance of having had sex with her, I couldn’t help but giggle when she appeared with a tray laden with breakfast. She just stuck her tongue out, clearly happy and completely at ease. Of course, I knew it wasn’t the first time for her.
‘It’s gone ten, sleepy-head,’ she remarked. ‘I’m supposed to have you back in Wiltshire by two.’
I’d completely forgotten the background to why I was there and suddenly found my cheerfulness dissipating. Spending the day with Matthew could only be an anticlimax, after Amber. He was nice enough, and had been good to me, but he simply didn’t have her understanding of my sexuality, let alone the affection I need after that sort of treatment. I mean, it’s one thing to beat me and humiliate me until I have to come, but I need a cuddle af
terwards and Matthew’s post-coital response was mainly guilt and insecurity. Not only that, but Amber was far more subtle and skilled at the beating and humiliation.
So I didn’t want to go back. I wanted to stay with Amber, preferably cuddled up to her for the rest of the morning. On the other hand, I felt really bad about wanting to desert Matthew. It was he who had taken the trouble to follow me that day and introduce me to the thrills of being a pony-girl, after all.
I must have looked miserable, because Amber sat on the bed and put her arm around me, kissing me gently on the cheek. I smiled weakly and accepted a cup of coffee from her, wondering what to do. Honesty seemed the best idea and I began to explain things to her, praying to myself that her feelings towards me were the same.
They were. She listened patiently and gave me a hug when I’d finished. Her suggestion was to go to Wiltshire, make the most of the day with Matthew and then come and see her as soon as possible. Matthew, she pointed out, had no particular claim on me and could hardly expect me to see him as my full partner in the circumstances.
It seemed an odd thing to say, since being his girlfriend seemed to me to be more or less what he did expect. Other than the fact that our sex had been less than ordinary and that he was terrified of his tyrannical brother, our relationship had got off to a fairly straightforward start. I didn’t pick her up on it, but took a piece of toast and reflected that she wanted me as much as I did her, which was the important thing.
I would have liked to have talked to her more on the way to Wiltshire, but instead fell asleep in the car. She didn’t wake me up until we were nearly at Broadheath, and we were pulling up outside the Scotts’ before I was really awake. Michael greeted us at the door, typically unaffected by the new intimacy between us.
We entered the house to the smell of roast beef, which made me realised just how hungry I was. Ginny was cooking and greeted both Amber and me with a friendly hug. All in all, it was a scene of rural domesticity that couldn’t have been in greater contrast to what the same people had been doing just twenty-four hours earlier.