A Taste Of Amber

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A Taste Of Amber Page 6

by Penny Birch


  I felt as if I was being hypnotised, drawn towards the bloated penis that was pointed directly at my face. My mouth opened and I leant forward, hardly believing what I was doing even as I gaped to take the head into my mouth. I tasted it, salty and rich with a flavour I had never imagined, rubbing my tongue against the turgid flesh. It slid in until I couldn’t take any more and I began to suck, moving my lips up and down his shaft as I remembered Ginny explaining how it should be done.

  Part of me felt detached, amazed, even horrified, at what I was doing. Everything in my upbringing made the act of sucking a man’s penis seem debased; a dirty act that was also an admission of the girl’s inferiority to the man whose cock she was sucking. At a more animal level it was absolute bliss, rocking slowly back and forth with that great cock sliding in and out of my mouth, my breasts heavy in my hands with the nipples hard between my fingers.

  Despite my best efforts to take it all in, there was still a lot of cock sticking out of my mouth, and Henry now moved his hand to the base of the shaft, making a ring of a finger and his thumb and starting to masturbate himself into my mouth. He had started to groan, which I guessed meant that he would come soon. Too soon for me; I had a lot of sucking to do before I was satisfied.

  I drew back, leaving his cock shiny and wet with my saliva, an inch in front of my face. Again, borrowing a leaf from Ginny Linslade’s book, I poked my tongue out and traced a slow line up the underside of his penis, then kissed the top and began to nibble ever so gently with my teeth. He sighed and then gave a sharp intake of breath, which made me think I had overdone it with my teeth. I pursed my lips around the head of his cock, sucking to make it better.

  His hand closed gently on the back of my head, pushing me down. I went with it, allowing his cock to slide deep into my mouth. He grunted and jerked hard into me. Suddenly, and completely unexpectedly for me, my mouth was full of something warm and slimy which tasted of salt. I gagged as the head of his erection nudged the back of my throat, the come filling my cheeks and then spurting out around his shaft. He let go of my head and took his cock in his hand, jerking at it frantically even as I pulled back. A second jet of come erupted from the end even as it left my mouth, catching me in the face, then a third, splashing on my top and breasts.

  My mouth was full of it and it was trickling down my chin, soiling my top and dribbling on to my breasts. I felt utterly dirty as I began to rub it into my nipples, wet and sticky against the hard buds of flesh. He had lain back, his breath coming hard and fast, his cock already deflating as he watched me play with my breasts.

  ‘Come if you like, don’t mind me,’ he said in between gasps.

  I was far too excited to care about showing off in front of him. I lay back, pulling my trousers down to get at my pussy. My panties followed, down to my knees, as I lay on my back with my legs rolled up, bottom and fanny pushed out towards him. I pulled my legs right up, my knees touching my breasts as I put my hands between my legs and began to masturbate. I felt beautifully rude and unashamed as I did it in front of him, one hand keeping my pussy lips open, the other teasing my clitty with little flicks. I could taste the male come in my mouth and feel it on my face and breasts. My top was soiled and now my jeans and panties probably were too. My legs were up and my fanny wet and ready in front of him. He’d even be able to see my bumhole – wrinkled and dark in between my full bottom-cheeks – begin to pulse as I knew it did when I came.

  Then I was screaming out, coming under my own fingers, my mouth wide open in my ecstasy, my tongue covered in Henry’s sperm. It went on for ages, peak after peak, until I couldn’t stand it any more and stopped rubbing at myself. After that I could only he exhausted on the floor, breathing almost as hard as he had been.

  Neither of us spoke for a long time. We were both lost in our own thoughts. I did feel a little shame, but not enough to make me want to cover myself or run out of the room or anything silly. It had felt so natural with him; uninhibited and easy, and the exact opposite of how the social conscience that had been so carefully drummed into me dictated I should have felt. True, it wasn’t the first time I’d gone against it – after all, it also forbade fancying other girls – but it felt great to have broken the code of respectable behaviour so thoroughly.

  I finally got up, walking to the bathroom with my trousers and panties held up at thigh level. Henry gave me a big, cheerful grin and then followed. We washed together without hesitation, Henry’s first words after our sex being a half-jocular apology for the state of my clothes. I replied with a shrug and a smile.

  ‘Where, if I may ask,’ he said a moment later, ‘did you learn to give fellatio like that? Not at Bridestowe Ladies’ College, I’ll warrant.’

  ‘Sort of,’ I replied. ‘Actually, I’d never even seen a man’s cock in the flesh before this evening. I’ve listened to plenty of descriptions, though, from my friend Ginny Linslade. She’s the one who’s going to be my pony-girl.’

  Three

  ‘I had supposed that your pony would be some lucky boyfriend,’ Henry remarked the following morning as we ate breakfast. ‘And while I’m bound to say that after yesterday evening your preference for girls came as something of a surprise, I admit to being delighted.’

  ‘Wait until you meet Ginny,’ I replied around a mouthful of bacon and egg. ‘Then you’ll be more than delighted.’

  ‘I can hardly wait,’ he answered. ‘Term ends next week you say?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll write to her this afternoon,’ I promised. ‘I’d ask my friend Susan, too, but she’s off on a Caribbean holiday her parents booked as a present for getting into Oxford.’

  ‘Very impressive,’ he admitted, raising his eyebrows slightly. ‘Do you know I’ve often found that it’s the really clever ones who have the most extravagant sexualities. The dirtiest minds, to put it another way.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I answered, uncertain if my own – more limited – experience supported his idea.

  ‘It is frequently the case,’ he insisted. ‘Although not an invariable rule. Given that you prefer girls, I trust that I didn’t impose on you in any way last night?’

  ‘No, no,’ I assured him. ‘I don’t dislike the idea of sex with men. I just … oh, it’s hard to explain. I don’t really think of you as a man anyway. Whoops, sorry, that sounds really bad.’

  ‘I shall take it as a compliment,’ he answered, ‘if only because I think I understand what you mean. It is perhaps not the physical man for whom you feel distaste, but the actual reality of the great majority of modern males. I would personally like to think that I do not belong in their ranks.’

  Henry had put my outlook more or less exactly into words, helping resolve the uncertainty over my true feelings which had afflicted me since puberty. Thinking over what he had said, I lapsed into silence. Inevitably my train of thought led back to the present situation and the prospect of further exploring the world of pony-girls.

  ‘Henry,’ I said after a while, ‘do you think we could go along to one of Mr Rathwell’s events, just as spectators?’

  ‘I’m sure we could,’ he answered. ‘But please, Amber, do be careful of Rathwell. He is certainly not above threatening to tell your father unless you allow him some sort of sexual favour. Charles, while one of my oldest friends, is not the sort of man to lightly accept what he would doubtless see as perversion in his daughter. What he would think of me for corrupting you while in loco parentis, I do not care to imagine.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I admitted, ‘but he couldn’t really expose me without exposing himself as well.’

  ‘Ah ha, a good point,’ Henry replied, ‘but would you risk calling his bluff? Remember that he puts a considerable amount of business Charles’s way. As he is a most valuable client, Charles is unlikely to argue with him.’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that,’ I responded. ‘Daddy’s pretty hot tempered, and obstinate, too. Still, it would be a risk so I suppose we’d better not.’

  ‘Do not be so hasty, my dear,’ Henry
continued. ‘Morris’s events are pretty big nowadays by all accounts and he is hardly likely to be looking for his accountant’s daughter in the crowd. A black wig to cover your distinctive tawny curls, some make-up and a leather domino to hide your eyes, and he’ll never notice. I shall call him after breakfast and find out when the next event is planned.’

  As soon as we had finished eating we went into the study. Henry eventually managed to find Mr Rathwell’s number. The answer came quickly and I stood by Henry’s chair listening to our end of the conversation.

  ‘Morris, good morning,’ Henry began. ‘This is Henry, Henry Gresham. Yes, nearly two years. Very well thank you. Now, Morris, tell me, you are still running the pony-girl club, aren’t you? Splendid, splendid. When’s the next event? Yes I’d like to come – Fifteen pounds? What, even for the man who introduced you to pony-carting? Oh, very well, if you insist. No, two, I’m bringing a friend. A young woman; she’s eighteen. Oh, a bit over medium height, shortish hair, very pretty. I’m not sure, quite large. Well I’d guess 36C, not that I see it matters. Fairly slim, not more than twenty-six inches at a guess. Very fine, well rounded. Look, Morris, never mind my friend’s figure, when is the next meet? The twenty-eighth? Excellent. Hmm. No, just as spectators. Five thousand! Good heavens Morris, I have to say, you don’t do things by halves. Very well, I’ll put a cheque in the post. The nerve of the man; he actually insisted we pay admittance! Me!’

  The last remark had been addressed to me and not to Mr Rathwell, Henry turning to face me as he put the phone down.

  ‘I’ll pay for my ticket if you like,’ I offered.

  ‘No, no, I wouldn’t hear of it,’ Henry replied. ‘It’s just that he has the nerve to charge me. I mean, if I hadn’t introduced him to pony-girls in the first place the wretched man wouldn’t even have a club. When I ran meets here they were free, and for friends only. I’d never have thought for an instant of charging to attend. He’s expecting about three hundred people to turn up at some huge warehouse in the Lee Valley. He’s been advertising at clubs apparently. God alone knows what sort of people will be there. Worst of all, he’s charging five hundred pounds as a stake for the main race and offering five thousand to the winner!’

  ‘Five thousand!’ I echoed.

  ‘So he says. Fair-sized prizes for other places as well,’ Henry continued. ‘The mercenary little toad. I never thought I’d see the day.’

  Henry was evidently upset, although I wasn’t quite sure I understood why. After all, the fact that Mr Rathwell had commercialised pony-carting to such an extent didn’t stop Henry from enjoying it in a more playful form with Ginny and myself. Also, an idea was already taking shape in my mind. Ever since I had arrived at Henry’s I had been becoming more and more fond of the country life and the idea of business school had been becoming more and more repellent. My idea was to try and set myself up with some sort of trade that allowed me to stay in the country. My father would be furious, but there would be nothing he could do about it short of cut me off, which my mum would resist bitterly. The problem was that I had only a few hundred pounds to my name and such ventures need finance. Five thousand pounds might not be enough to buy an existing business, but it would be sufficient to get me started on something new, especially with the contacts I had been making while at Henry’s.

  All this went through my mind while Henry fumed over Mr Rathwell’s commercial exploitation of the pony-girl club. I shared his dislike of Morris Rathwell but, as Henry had pointed out, at a big meet there wasn’t any real reason why I should have any contact with him. This would be true even if I was racing, because Henry could do all the talking and I could race in disguise. On the other hand, it didn’t seem a tactful moment to broach the subject of wanting to race to Henry. Instead I decided to make a suggestion that would take his mind off Mr Rathwell. It was a fine day, if a little cool and, being Saturday, we were alone on the farm.

  ‘Would you have time to show me your cart and the harness Jean used to wear?’ I asked.

  ‘Certainly I would,’ he answered, brightening immediately. ‘Allow me one more cup of coffee and we’ll see what we can do.’

  I waited while he drank his coffee, fidgeting under the table in my impatience. After the previous evening there was no uncertainty between us, and we both knew that I would probably be spending most of the morning naked and perhaps end up with a few stripes across my bottom. Not that we’d slept together. He hadn’t suggested it and I hadn’t felt ready for something that would certainly have meant the loss of my virginity. Possibly it had something to do with my revelation that I preferred girls to men, but I think it more likely he simply didn’t want to push me. I had, after all, done exactly what I offered: eased the head of sexual tension that he had built up while we talked by helping him to reach an orgasm that he had evidently needed very badly.

  He finally put his cup down and rose from the table, dabbing his lips with a napkin as he pushed his chair back. I got up, too, and followed him to the scullery where we put on boots as the ground was still a sea of mud from the previous day’s rain. He took a large, rusty key from a hook on the wall, found a can of oil on a window ledge, and we went outside.

  The yard – which had once been the scene of such strange and wonderful sexual activity – consisted of the rear of the house and two blocks of stables on either side. The fourth side was open to the big field, and brick arches joined each stable block to the main house; one leading to the garden, the other to the drive. Following Henry, I entered the left-hand stable block and stood patiently while he tried to open a door. Eventually the lock gave in, the door creaking open to reveal a dusty chamber hung with cobwebs and illuminated by a yellowish green light coming through the single, algae-spattered window.

  Inside was what I immediately recognised as one of the carts from Henry’s pony-girl photos. Unfortunately it was in less than good condition, rusting metal and peeling paint spoiling its once elegant design. The harness hung on the wall and was in little better shape. The leather was dry and worn, the brass tarnished and dull. It all seemed to me rather sad, like the ghost of something that was once vibrant and brisk. I expected Henry to feel the same, only more strongly as it had once been his pride and joy and would also undoubtedly invoke memories of Jean. As it was he was surprisingly cheerful, inspecting the equipment with what was evidently an experienced hand. I soon found out why.

  ‘You mentioned last night that you would be interested in trying the experience yourself,’ he remarked, rather too casually.

  ‘I’m game,’ I admitted, ‘but all this tack is a bit past it, isn’t it?’

  ‘Nothing that a bit of elbow grease and a lick of paint won’t put right,’ he answered. ‘It was a tradition with the club that the girls always kept their tack in tip-top condition, acting as grooms as well as ponies, as it were. You have rather too dominant a personality to slip easily into the role of pony-girl, but I feel that after a few hours of polishing and painting you might find yourself in a more submissive frame of mind.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I answered doubtfully, ‘but I’m not sure. I generally like smartening things up, and it doesn’t make me feel submissive.’

  ‘True,’ he responded, ‘but then, if you’re willing, we would add one or two touches in order to add a little spice to what would otherwise be a boring task.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ I queried.

  ‘Indeed,’ he continued. ‘For instance, I might demand of you that before lunch you turn this room into the immaculate pony-girl stable it once was. You’d work freshly spanked and naked and, when you had finished, I’d make an inspection and dish out some suitable punishment for any inadequacies I might note. Just an idea, of course, but I would enjoy it immensely.’

  ‘I bet you would,’ I answered, looking around me at the mess.

  Remembering Susan’s fantasies of punishment and humiliation I’m sure she would have loved to have been in my place. Personally I wasn’t so sure, especially with the prospect of some unspecified puni
shment at the other end if I didn’t come up to Henry’s expectations.

  ‘What would my punishment be?’ I asked.

  ‘Whatever you fancied,’ he answered with a shrug. ‘I would suggest, say, a stroke of the cane for every imperfection and another for every ten minutes you take over three hours.’

  I didn’t reply, quite eager for the spanking but wondering how it would feel to be caned if I messed up. I had seen the way Ellen Campbell bucked and squealed under the little quirt I had whipped her with. On the other hand she had been in ecstasy, begging me to whip her harder. By the end she had been so turned on that she’d wanted to play with herself while I whipped her. Would I feel the same? It was very tempting to find out, and if she could take a whipping then why not me?

  ‘I’ll do it,’ I told Henry, ‘but be a bit gentle with me. I’ve never even been spanked before, not properly.’

  His face lit up with a beaming smile that made him look more like Santa Claus than ever. It was all too obvious that he was delighted at the prospect of giving me my virgin spanking.

  ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘There is one important point, however, that you should know if we are to play such games. I will ignore all your cries and pleas, even tears, but should you say the word red, I will stop immediately. I always used the word amber, after traffic lights, to mean slow down. In your case I think yellow would be a more appropriate word.’

  ‘Fine,’ I agreed.

  ‘Good,’ he answered. ‘In that case I think we’d better get started. Fetch a chair from the scullery.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I answered, giving him a deliberately cheeky curtsy.

  A weak fluttering feeling had started to build in my stomach. I was about to be spanked over Henry’s lap and it would undoubtedly be with my bottom bare. I’d put a skirt on that morning and that would shortly be being lifted; but it was the thought that he would then pull my pants down that redoubled the butterflies.

 

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