Butter Wouldn't Melt

by Penny Birch

  Some of the girls were clapping as I rocked back on my heels, with AJ’s piddle still dribbling from either side of my mouth. My belly felt round and heavy, filled up with her piss, and I was dizzy with reaction and need, my thighs cocked wide to spread pussy open in the hope of a touch. AJ saw, and nodded, put out one booted foot and pushed me over.

  I sprawled on the mattress, now sodden with pee, and lifted my legs, showing off my pussy to her and the audience. She stepped close, to press one rounded boot-tip to me, spreading my sex lips onto the hard leather. I began to wriggle, rubbing my slippery, dirty cunt on her boot-cap, to smear black polish on my skin, and to bring my clit into contact. That was how I came the last time, tied up in the nude, spanked and tortured, my legs cocked wide to show off my bumhole to thirteen other girls, squirming in my lover’s piss as I rubbed my cunt off on the toe of her boot.

  Four

  I WAS IN a fine state the next day, but I still managed to get into work. In fact it was rather nice having a bruised bottom, as the tenderness kept me constantly in mind of what had happened. I had been punished, properly, not in play, and although I assumed I could have called a halt if I’d needed to I knew that would have marked a downturn in my relationship with AJ. She had little time for anyone who wouldn’t play by her rules.

  Just that knowledge was enough to give me an exquisite little thrill every time I thought about it, and every time I sat down I thought about it. I also kept nipping down to the loo to inspect my bottom, admiring the colourful blotches where bruises had come up and the red marks where they’d scuffed my skin. In addition to the belting from Sam I’d been spanked over the knee three times, had a bath brush and a custom-made leather paddle taken to me, and been pinched and slapped repeatedly.

  It felt both ridiculous and shameful to be proud of having my bottom beaten, but those feelings made it all the nicer, keeping me on a pleasant high all day. I was even polite to Andy, and spent lunchtime with the boys in Champagne Charlie’s. When old Todmorden commented on my sunny disposition I just smiled, ignoring the temptation to tell him that I was happy because I’d been so well spanked.

  After all, it would only have given him ideas, and if AJ had given me permission to play with other women subject to her approval, that definitely did not apply to men. With that in mind, I began to reconsider my prospects for winning money on myself. A search of the net revealed plenty of old Triumphs, which I’d now set my heart on. Most were pretty beaten up, but with the assistance of Stepney Customs I could not only get myself a truly superb machine, but do it without help from AJ or the girls, which I knew would impress them.

  My choice was Helen, who might not have been a lesbian, but I knew she shared my secret, and if she enjoyed a spanking, possibly she wouldn’t mind a lick afterwards. There was still some tricky manoeuvring to be done, and the question of how to get my bet on safely, but she was being offered at 100–1, so it had to be worth a try. I made a point of being friendly to her, and by careful timing managed to bring her a cup of tea while both old Mr Montague and his nephew were out. Lucius Todmorden was around, but engrossed in paperwork, so it seemed unlikely that we’d be disturbed.

  ‘Here we are,’ I said, putting the tea down on her desk.

  ‘Thank you, Pippa,’ she said. ‘You’re in a very bright mood today.’

  It was too good an opening to miss, although I could feel the blood rising to my cheeks as I spoke.

  ‘That’s because I got spanked last night.’

  She went abruptly pink, but her eyes were wide with interest for all her blushes, and her voice was low and breathy as she replied.

  ‘Did you? You know we’re not supposed to talk about it in the office, but . . .’

  She trailed off, glancing at the door, which I’d closed on purpose, then speaking again.

  ‘Who by? Lucius?’

  ‘No, by my girlfriend, and some of her friends.’

  A little purring noise escaped her throat.

  ‘Mr Montague had me OTK on Monday night,’ she said. ‘We worked late. He wants me to come to Mr Rathwell’s next party too. Will you be there?’

  ‘No. I’m not really into older men . . . or men at all for that matter.’

  ‘I heard that from Maggie. I prefer older men. They know what to do.’

  ‘So does my girlfriend, believe me.’

  She gave a nervous smile, still blushing with embarrassment for all her obvious enthusiasm. I was too as I put my next question.

  ‘Do you? With other women? Maggie maybe?’

  ‘Maggie? Yes,’ she answered as her blushes grew darker.

  I wanted to ask if she’d let me, or better still, do me, but she spoke again before I could get the words out.

  ‘In front of Mr Montague and Mr Todmorden, of course. I’m not really keen on woman to woman spankings, but I don’t mind in front of men.’

  I nodded, trying to look understanding instead of disappointed. Still, we at least had one thing in common, even if for me getting it with a male audience was only a fantasy and likely to remain that way. Unfortunately that made my wicked plan next to impossible, but I continued to talk, not wishing to give the impression that I’d just been trying to chat her up.

  ‘I don’t mind the idea of getting it in front of men,’ I admitted, ‘but I never have. I’d not sure I’d dare, and there’s always what they’d expect afterwards.’

  ‘You should let Maggie do it in front of Mr Montague, that would be perfect for you. He’s never pushy at all. Lucius . . . Lucius expects things.’

  I knew exactly what Lucius expected, and found myself blushing again.

  ‘But really you should come to a party,’ she went on. ‘Morris and Melody look after the girls really well.’

  That wasn’t what I’d heard, at least, not in the sense of making sure nobody got more than she’d bargained for, but I just shrugged.

  ‘My girlfriend wouldn’t let me,’ I told her.

  ‘That’s a pity.’

  ‘But she did say Maggie could do me, if I asked. Well, not Maggie in particular, but women other than herself, so maybe . . .’

  I caught myself, realising that if I admitted to her that I’d be willing to be spanked in front of old Mr Montague it was likely to lead to an offer of exactly that. AJ would not be happy about it, and I didn’t even have the excuse of trying to win my bet, only my own dirty fantasies.

  ‘You should,’ she urged, and her voice sank lower, to an excited, conspiratorial whisper. ‘Maggie’s very good at it, actually. She likes to slip something up my bottom while I’m being punished, but you know that, don’t you?’

  I nodded, now with a catch in my throat for the memory and blushing red because Helen had obviously been told all about my little session on my desk.

  ‘It’s even better in front of old Mr Montague,’ Helen went on, ‘so embarrassing . . . you understand that, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Sometimes he takes pictures and shows me afterwards, or even a piece of video, so I know exactly what he saw, and he always makes sure to sit right behind me, so everything shows.’

  She gave a little shiver as she finished, then an embarrassed smile. I responded in kind, imagining how she’d look across Maggie’s knee, her knickers well down, her bottom rosy with smacks, as the handle of a stamp was eased in up her bumhole. She was right, it was embarrassing, hideously embarrassing, especially to be filmed like that and then made to watch her own punishment.

  I had to get out of there, or I was going to proposition her. Fortunately somebody passed the door, which broke the mood and I was able to make an excuse and slip away without seeming hurtful. I was burning with frustration as I climbed the stairs to my room, with rude images flickering across my mind in endless succession, and I knew I would have to masturbate.

  My room was safe enough, as always, because I could easily cover up before anyone caught me. As soon as I’d shut the door I pulled my skirt up, leaning back as I slipped a hand down the f
ront of my knickers. I was wet and ready, still a little sore, too, but I didn’t care. Not even bothering to sit down, I slumped to the carpet with my back against the door and my eyes closed in bliss. I had to come, and I had to come over Helen.

  I wanted her badly, but that hurt, because I knew I couldn’t have her, yet at least I could share her. Even if I was the one doing the spanking it would be good, better still if I was across her knee. We could take turns, maybe, or best of all, we could be done side by side, bent over a desk, close together as our skirts were raised . . . as our knickers were pulled down . . . as our cheeks were pulled wide to show off our bumholes . . . as we were penetrated with the little stamps, and spanked, and spanked, and spanked . . .

  Just as I was about to come my mind slipped, imagining not only Maggie, but old Mr Montague, watching us as we were given our humiliating punishment, with a camera in his hand to record the very rudest details. I remembered that Maggie had said the next time I masturbated it would be over dirty old men, and tried to push the thought aside, gently circling my clit with one finger as I struggled to focus. Whatever I thought about when I came, it would not have anything to do with dirty old men.

  Yet Maggie had planted the seeds in my head, and Helen too. Besides, if I was to be spanked side by side with Helen I wanted an audience, and I wanted my shame to be captured on camera. Maybe it would be OK if Maggie filmed us to show Old Montague and Lucius Todmorden later? No, they had to be there. They had to watch my bottom cheeks spread and my anus penetrated, and once Helen and I were spanked and juicy and too far gone to stop it, they’d bugger us . . .

  Again I tried to pull back, but I couldn’t, sobbing with frustration for my own helpless, dirty imagination even as I began to rub myself again. My orgasm was already rising up in my head, and I had to come over the fantasy I’d evolved, nothing else would do. I bit my lip to stop myself screaming when it happened, and let go.

  In my mind’s eye I was bent over Mr Montague’s big desk, after hours, with Helen beside me. Our skirts were up, our knickers down around our knees, our pussies on show, our bottoms bare with the ends of date stamps sticking out between our cheeks where our bumholes had been filled. Maggie would be spanking us and the two men watching, old Mr Montague with his camera, on which he’d already have recorded a close-up of my bottom hole being plugged to show me later, and Lucius Todmorden with a fat, straining erection sticking out of his trousers, ready for that same rude, dirty hole once I was vacant.

  They’d do Helen first, making me watch as the stamp was extracted from her bumhole and replaced with old Montague’s cock. I’d see the pained ecstasy on her face as her hole came wide, and the shame as she began to grunt and pant to her buggering. I’d hear her beg for more as her rectum filled with cock and her satisfied gasp as his balls pressed to her empty cunt. I’d smell the heat of her sex and beg to be allowed to lick her out while she was buggered, even offering to attend to old Montague’s balls as well.

  I’d be ignored, and I’d be buggered. Maggie would pull the plug out of my anus and guide old Todmorden’s cock in. I’d feel it touch my ring. I’d be begging him not to even as my hole spread to the pressure, but I wouldn’t mean it. I’d stay just as I was, bent over with my bum stuck out, whimpering, sobbing, maybe in tears, but all too eager for his fat penis to be jammed right up my bottom, jammed as deep as it would go, with his fat ball sack pressed to my empty cunt.

  He’d bugger me. He’d bugger me in front of Maggie and Helen and old Montague, and I’d be filmed, close up, so that afterwards I could be made to watch in detail as I moaned and gasped my way through the buggering and even watch the taut ring of my bumhole pulling in and out on his cock shaft. He’d bugger me until he’d spunked in my rectum and pull out to leave me masturbating in his mess as it dribbled out of my gaping bumhole and over my cunt, all of which would be caught on film.

  My orgasm was so strong I nearly fainted, but I had filled up with self-recrimination long before it was over, and was left sobbing on the floor in exhaustion and shame.

  Travelling home on the Friday evening, I felt as if I’d been away for months rather than a few days. Everything was exactly as I remembered it; the delphiniums in the garden on the corner, taller than me, the plum tree overhanging the road outside No. 61, from which Jemima and I had always loved to steal the fruit, even Mr Pott’s broken down lawnmower, which stood exactly as it had at the beginning of the week. It felt different, no longer somewhere I yearned to escape from, but a sanctuary to which I knew I could always return.

  Mum and Dad were out, but Jemima was there, in her room, face down on her bed and still in her school uniform, the long white socks halfway down her skinny legs. She turned her head as I said hello, and padded after me as I went into my own room, folding her arms across her chest and cocking her head a little to one side as she spoke.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Well, did you get spanked this week?’

  She smacked her lips on the word ‘spanked’, as if her sister being punished was both highly amusing and desirable. I opened my mouth to deny it, only to close it again. She was a sight too happy about my spankings, so happy in fact that I could not help but wonder if she wasn’t developing an interest in having her own bottom attended to. If there was one thing guaranteed to put a stop to that, it was what had been done to me.

  ‘Yes, I did, as a matter of fact,’ I told her. ‘Hard. It hurt. A lot.’

  ‘Let’s see then,’ she demanded.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Go on, Pippa, show.’

  ‘Jemima!’

  ‘Come on, I want to see. Please?’

  There was altogether too much excitement in her voice, but if she saw the state I was in it was sure to change her mind. I nodded and began to undo the button of my jeans as I spoke.

  ‘OK, Jemima, I’ll show you. I’ll show you what it looks like when you get a proper spanking.’

  I turned my back and quickly pushed down my jeans and knickers, sticking my bottom out a little to let her see the full extent of my bruising. Her mouth came slowly open as she took the sight in, and her lower lip began to tremble before she suddenly rushed from the room. I allowed myself a quiet smile. There would be no more talk about spanking from my baby sister.

  The mirror showed what she’d seen, and although the bruises had begun to fade both my cheeks were still pretty colourful and it was obvious I’d been given a severe spanking. Again a little thrill ran through me at the memory, and I was humming happily to myself as I went downstairs, despite feeling a little guilty about Jemima. I made myself an instant coffee and went into the garden, sipping it on the patio and watching Mr Porter prune his hedge.

  I’d known him all my life, as a large, taciturn man who seldom spoke save to say good morning if we passed in the street. Never once had I given the slightest thought to his sexuality, but now, as he worked the clippers and the beads of sweat formed on his bald patch I found myself thinking of him as the sort of man who’d attend Morris Rathwell’s parties, paying for the privilege of dirty little shows like schoolgirl striptease and spanking some unfortunate girl’s bottom before she was sent upstairs to suck him off.

  From what Penny and others had said, that was generally the sort of thing that happened, and a shiver of excitement and disgust ran down my spine at the thought. Determined not to start fantasising about Mr Porter, of all people, I swallowed the last of my coffee and went indoors. As I put my mug in the dishwasher it occurred to me that Jemima ought to have got over herself and come downstairs, but she hadn’t. I called out, feeling guilty again, but there was no response. With a long sigh I started up the stairs, wondering what I could possibly say to her to make things right.

  I stopped on the landing, trying to put my thoughts together, when I heard a soft, somehow liquid noise from her bedroom. She was crying. I hesitated, wondering if I should wait a bit before speaking to her, but her door was slightly open and I decided to look through the crack a
nd see just how bad a state she’d got herself into. I stepped close, as quietly as I could, and pressed my nose to the wood, peering in.

  Jemima was lying on her bed, as I’d expected, but she wasn’t crying. She was on her back, her shoes off, her socks around her ankles, her jacket gone and her blouse undone to show her breasts, her school skirt pulled up around her waist and her knickers taut between her calves, her thighs cocked wide to show off her little pink cunt, which she was busily masturbating. I could only stare, transfixed, my mouth open as I watched her fingers move, patting and snatching at her sex.

  She was about to come, her back arched tight, her eyes closed in bliss, her spare hand teasing one stiff little nipple. I could even smell her arousal, and had to remind myself exactly who I was watching before my own hand went between my legs. That didn’t stop me, even when she suddenly flipped herself over onto her tummy and stuck up her bottom, into exactly the same rude pose I like best when I do it lying down. Now I knew just how rude I looked.

  Her knees were still cocked wide, her lower legs slightly lifted, so that her bright pink panties hung between her ankles. She had lifted her bottom, just as I did, allowing her cheeks to part and show off the tiny pink dimple of her anus, also her pussy, moist and puffy with excitement as she worked her clitoris. Now she was coming, shivering in her ecstasy, her thighs and bottom cheeks in powerful contraction, her anus winking lewdly between, white juice oozing from her open pussy hole.

  The instant she’d finished I pulled myself away from the door crack and retreated as fast and as silently as I could, back downstairs. My head was spinning, full of shame and confusion at my own desperate need to masturbate, and worse, for the fact that I could be very sure indeed that I knew what she’d come over, my own well-spanked bum.