A Taste Of Amber

by Penny Birch

  When I went downstairs and announced my intention I got a mixed reception. Henry choked on his coffee and asked if I was sure I was thinking straight. Francis cautioned me to prudence. Susan supported me, viewing it as a game in which I really won either way.

  It was the first time Henry had been even a little cross with me, which I didn’t like at all but, being stubborn, I kept arguing. Francis simultaneously tried to mediate and to talk sense into me, failing on both counts. Susan kept fairly quiet, but occasionally put in a word in support of my case. Eventually Henry admitted that if I was determined then it was up to me and said I was welcome to use the equipment but not to expect him to help set the challenge up. Only then did he tell me that Rathwell had boasted that he would accept any challenge I could think of and win. That really set the seal on it and, as soon as Susan and Francis had left, I retired to my room to think, ignoring Henry’s suggestion that I was merely sulking.

  I got on my bed and lay on my front with a notebook and a pencil. First I had to come to terms with some ego-deflating truths. I had a tendency to let my own passion betray me, I wasn’t more cunning or intelligent than Morris Rathwell, and I was far less experienced than him or indeed Melody and Harmony. I then made a list of Rathwell’s faults – or at least the relevant ones – which included arrogance, drinking rum by the bucket, the assumption that money was always the solution, and finding me attractive. The next list covered the qualities of himself and his team for pony-carting. The girls were fast, strong, had stamina, were exhibitionistic and anything but shy. Rathwell was experienced and inspired their loyalty, which I found hard to understand. On the other hand, Melody and Harmony were good – but not the best – and both had a soft spot for me, although in Melody’s case this was not necessarily to my advantage. Rathwell was fit for his age but no more, weighed too much for a good pony-cart driver, and tended to be too showy for his own good.

  The answer then had to be to get together a team better than the black girls and choose a sport that would give me every advantage. The team was the first problem. It would have to be superlative and come as a surprise to Rathwell, which wasn’t easy. Ginny was as good as Melody and Harmony, but no better, and over any distance they’d undoubtedly win. I only knew one pony-girl who could definitely out-run them: Vicky Belstone. Actually there were two people I knew who were good enough, but the other wasn’t a pony-girl – or at least not yet. She was Miss Ellen Campbell.

  I got up from the bed with a wicked grin.

  There was no point in seeking Miss Campbell out until I had a challenge accepted by Rathwell. Henry pointed out that visiting him at home was like walking straight into a trap but, as I obviously enjoyed being utterly humiliated by him, then it wasn’t such a bad idea. I told Henry not to be grumpy but decided to visit Rathwell at his office instead, which would prevent him from doing anything sneaky like getting the girls to spank me and then taking advantage of me.

  His office was in the city. It was an old building, narrow and four stories high, yet looking tiny in between the modern blocks on either side. It was one of those odd bits of London where everything got bombed except one building, or so my father had explained. I had rung ahead and arrived shortly after two o’clock in the hope that Rathwell would have had an alcoholic lunch and be easy to goad into a poor bet. The receptionist greeted me with a friendly smile and told me to wait in Rathwell’s outer office while he finished talking to some colleague with whom he had had lunch. I climbed the stairs and pushed open the door with his name on it, finding a large airy office with a secretary busy typing at a desk. She looked up as I came in. She was a coloured girl, pretty and very smart, the perfect businessman’s secretary. Also the perfect businessman’s pony-girl. It was Harmony.

  ‘Hi, Amber,’ she greeted me with. ‘Come to get even with Morris?’

  ‘Yes,’ I admitted.

  ‘We didn’t think you’d be able to stay away,’ she replied. ‘Look, come over here.’

  I crossed the room quickly, aware of the conspiratorial tone in Harmony’s voice.

  ‘You’ve picked a good time to put a challenge in,’ she whispered as I sank down on my haunches next to her chair. ‘Morris has got this deal going through with some guy who owns a load of wasteland down in the East End. He signed before they went off for lunch and Morris is well pleased with himself as he’s going to make a packet on the deal. He’s well keen on you, too, even more so because you tricked him …’

  ‘Tricked him?’ I queried.

  ‘Pretended you were a virgin,’ she explained. ‘He’s got this thing about virginity, and he’s got one major thing for you. He really thought he’d done it, and got you as his slave into the bargain, the way you went with the yoke and all. Then you up and go straight back to Henry and tell him you’d let that guy Francis shag you and old Henry and all! Morris was steaming! See, he thought that after you’d subbed to him and come for him and everything, then you’d want to come and be his slave-girl …’

  ‘The arrogant pig!’ I interrupted.

  ‘Well, Morris has his faults, but he looks after his girls. So anyway, he’s steaming and he wants you so bad he told Henry he’d take any challenge you named. What he wants now is to sex your bottom, and if you don’t like that you’d better quit now, ’cause whatever else he goes for, that’ll be part of the bet.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I answered, feeling more than a little alarmed.

  Being buggered by Morris Rathwell would be painful and humiliating. That I could take. Spending the rest of my life knowing he’d done it was something else entirely. Harmony had been as sweet as pie ever since I’d spanked her in the toilets at the second pony-girl meet. Certainly she’d always been more sympathetic to me than Melody, which made me wonder.

  ‘Harmony,’ I asked tentatively, ‘would you throw a race for me?’

  ‘No way, girl,’ she laughed, her accent slipping further from typically secretarial to the odd mixture of London and American she and Melody normally used. ‘You want your pussy kissed, I’m always here, but cheating on Morris is out.’

  ‘Just a thought,’ I answered, feeling a mild but delightful flush at her suggestion of licking me.

  ‘Oh, yeah, but didn’t you just push Melody’s button,’ she continued. ‘She wants you nearly as bad as Morris. As her pet.’

  I hadn’t realised before that Rathwell didn’t simply want my sexual submission; he, Melody – and probably Harmony – wanted me as the fourth member of their household. I would be the junior member, too, licking, sucking, probably scrubbing the floor with half-a-dozen whip stripes on my bare bum …

  It just wasn’t going to happen. I might enjoy a good spanking, suck men’s cocks or be a pony-girl, but when and if I moved in with a lover it would be a girl and I’d be the dominant one. Still, Rathwell seemed to think that if he turned me on enough I would be begging for the privilege. That was something I might be able to use to my advantage.

  ‘So, if you’re his secretary, what’s Melody?’ I asked, curious to know how the set-up worked.

  ‘His wife,’ Harmony answered.

  A sharp click of the door to the inner office alerted me and I stood up, asking Harmony a polite question about her job, as a man in a loud check suit emerged from Rathwell’s office. Rathwell followed him, ignoring me completely until he had shown the man out and then turning to me.

  ‘Well, well, if it isn’t little Amber,’ he drawled. ‘Come back for more, have we?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I answered cautiously. ‘You said to Henry that you’d take me on over any course and in any style I chose?’

  ‘And beat you,’ Rathwell added. ‘Come into the office. We’ll talk. Harmony, tell any callers I’m in a meeting.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Rathwell, sir,’ Harmony answered, her voice betraying just a hint of impertinence.

  ‘So what’s the deal?’ Rathwell asked as he sank into the big leather chair behind his desk. ‘Take a seat. Bacardi? Whisky? Cognac?’

  I accepted a glass of bra
ndy, of which he poured about half the bottle into an enormous balloon glass.

  ‘A race over distance, at Henry’s,’ I said, sipping the brandy and finding it far inferior to what Henry served. ‘I’ll tell you the details on the day.’

  ‘I can see you’re trying to work it to your advantage,’ he answered, ‘but I don’t care as long as the bet’s right. I’ll have the competition details three days before though, that’s straight. So, I’ve had your twat, what’ve you got to put up?’

  ‘What do you want from me?’ I asked, trying to look cool and in control.

  ‘What don’t I want from you?’ Rathwell answered, blowing his cheeks out. ‘Look Amber, I’ll be straight. I’m a good-looking guy, I’ve got money, I’ve got power. I want you to be with me. If you want to put it in the form of a bet to save your pride, then that’s cool, but you know you want it. Come on, Amber, Henry’s a fat old boy who hardly ever even leaves his farm. What’s he got that I haven’t?’

  ‘A decent-sized cock,’ I answered, unable to resist the dig. Rathwell coloured nicely and I went on quickly. ‘Look, Morris, you don’t really understand me at all. I’m not Henry’s girlfriend. OK, we’ve been to bed –’

  ‘And you give him all the blow-jobs he wants,’ Rathwell interrupted, and it was my turn to colour up. ‘No eighteen-year-old learnt to suck like you without some expert tuition. He fucks you, you suck him, you’re his pony-girl … What more does it take to make you his girlfriend?’

  ‘I … I actually prefer girls,’ I stammered.

  ‘Yeah, sure, so Melody tells me, but we both know that’s shit. You were at that girls’ school too long. Sure it’s nice to play with girls, but you need cock like all the others.’

  ‘I …’ I began and hesitated.

  As usual when I talked to Rathwell, I was losing my grip on the conversation. He could be so crude and so certain of himself that it was hard to know which outrageous statement to argue against first. Not that it mattered; he obviously believed his own opinions regardless of what I said to the contrary.

  ‘See,’ he continued, ‘you know it, so the bet’s this: when I win I want to fuck your backside in front of everyone, so they all see it go in and can watch how much you love it. Then you come and live with us. OK?’

  ‘No,’ I managed, my temper coming to my rescue in the face of his unbelievable arrogance. ‘It is not OK, and anyway, who says you’re going to win?’

  ‘Come on, girl, you know you want it,’ he chortled. ‘Still, a bet’s a bet, and I don’t want to make you feel undervalued, so I’ll put up the field I promised, plus the old forge that it belongs to. That’s got to be worth maybe two, two-fifty …’

  He stopped, making a sign to show how little the sum of a quarter of a million pounds meant to him. There was a lump in my throat and I could feel the tears starting in my eyes. He was effectively buying me; as if I could be traded for goods like a slave. Yet the offer was far, far better than anything I could have hoped for and was exactly what I most wanted, as if he was dangling my dream in front of me. Unfortunately what he was demanding of me was too much and my pride and honour were too strong to simply accept and then back out if I lost. I could feel a tear on one cheek, but part of me remained detached and rational, wondering if I couldn’t play on the very arrogance that was making me cry.

  ‘Look maybe,’ I started, ‘but what if I say I’ll be your house-slave for a week? Then –’

  ‘A trial period,’ he broke in. ‘Yes, that’s fair, if that’s what it takes to satisfy your pride. When the week’s up you’ll have found your true self and you can move in properly. So it’s a bum-shag and I get you on terms against two-fifty in property. You’ve got the better deal, but I won’t argue because that’s the kind of guy I am – generous to a fault.’

  ‘I didn’t say anything about my bottom!’ I objected.

  ‘That’s not negotiable, Amber,’ he answered, his voice harder than before. ‘Add a few tit-bits to your side if you like as I’m going to win anyway, but the bum-shag stays on the table.’

  I’d done it, although the bet was still terrifying. The tears were running down my cheeks but inside I felt suddenly aggressive and determined to bring Rathwell down to size.

  ‘Two things,’ I said. ‘A public whipping for the loser and no protesting the competition rules I set.’

  ‘Fine,’ he answered blandly ‘Yes, as long as the course is fair. As for the whipping, I don’t go submissive.’

  ‘It’s not negotiable,’ I imitated him.

  He paused, suddenly looking as insecure as I felt about taking his cock up my bottom. I realised I’d really got to him, and in a way I hadn’t expected. I’d thought he’d take it easily and had suggested it partly because I knew that being buggered by him would be much more bearable after my bottom had been warmed. As it was, the thought of risking a whipping from me seemed to worry him more than giving away a great chunk of real estate. Maybe it did. He was rich and would probably manage to fiddle the money back from his taxes. His pride was irreplaceable.

  ‘It’s not negotiable, Morris,’ I repeated.

  ‘OK, but believe me you’ll pay for that suggestion,’ he finally answered.

  ‘Good. Let’s shake on it,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll get Harmony to put it in writing,’ he replied, suddenly businesslike. ‘Will you accept her as witness?’

  ‘Yes,’ I told him, taking his hand and shaking it.

  ‘Great,’ he said. ‘Now how about a blow-job to seal the deal while she types it up?’

  Rathwell didn’t get his blow-job, or at least not from me. For all his humiliating sexual suggestions and dominant manner I just wasn’t in a submissive or turned-on mood. As I left he called Harmony in and I heard the key turn in the lock, so I imagine that she was sucking away by the time I stormed out of the building and turned towards Moorgate and the railway that ran back to Henry’s.

  My mind was swimming. On the one hand I had the chance of gaining exactly what I most wanted, and winning would enable me to defy my father with impunity. On the other hand what I was risking was truly alarming. Logically, I kept trying to tell myself, I had the better end of the deal. A whipping, Rathwell’s skinny little cock up my bum and then a week as his house-slave wasn’t such a big deal at all. Emotionally it was one hell of a big deal and I sat on the train staring out at suburban London, the thought of what he planned to do to me going round and round in my head.

  As I approached the station I got more and more worked up about it. I’d seen Susan take Francis in her bottom; seen her anus stretched taut around his intruding cock; heard her grunt and pant like an animal as he worked it in and out; felt her buck and writhe as she came with an erection filling her anal passage …

  I had to masturbate. It was more than I could resist. I cut across the fields on my way back from the station, found a quiet place at the edge of Henry’s land, took my panties off under my skirt and pulled it up to get at my pussy. It was a wonderful orgasm, but I was in tears as I came and, as I walked on, one thought kept coming back to me: I had to win.

  Two days later my plans were taking shape. I had evolved an idea that I was sure would give me every advantage I could fairly take. It relied heavily on Rathwell’s assumption that I would never be able to outdo him in the pony-carting stakes, and so I borrowed the Land Rover and set off for Bridestowe Ladies’ College and Miss Ellen Campbell.

  The last traces of light were fading over Cornwall when I parked. To one side of me was the majestic sweep of Dartmoor; to the other the lower land falling to the river Tamar in a succession of hills and valleys. In the nearest valley a cluster of lights stood out from the gathering night – Bridestowe Ladies’ College. Just looking at it infected me with a nostalgia so strong that I had to wipe my eyes. When I’d been there my most earnest desire had been to get out. Now I was out it seemed to me a haven – safe and secure from the pressures of the outside world.

  I had decided against simply breezing in and visiting Miss
Campbell’s cottage. For one thing it would raise eyebrows as I had officially been expelled for assaulting her. Also, every girl except the new fourth form knew me and it would be impossible to pass unrecognised. I’d been popular and, according to Ginny and Susan, had become something of a legend after my expulsion. The popular myth among the girls was that Miss Campbell and I had argued over her refusal to allow juniors to canter or gallop when riding on the moor. This had been carefully propagated by Susan and was enough to make any girl a hero. The truth was very different and was not something I wanted to have to discuss.

  Instead I took a leisurely dinner at The Bear, indulging myself in Cornish oysters and langouste simply because I’d never been able to afford to before. This was washed down by Dutch courage in the form of a bottle of Tokay and an Armagnac, both tastes for which I had to thank Henry. The next section was even more nostalgic – getting into the school grounds without being seen. There were several routes, but the best for my purposes was to go down into the village and walk along the stream to the point where it ran behind Miss Campbell’s cottage. I’d been fifteen when I’d last done it, and it was a lot harder and less exciting than I remembered. For all that I reached the cottage at a few minutes after eleven, finding the kitchen light on.

  I walked up the bank from the stream, grinning to myself and imagining her face when she saw me. I could see the faint outline of a figure through the kitchen curtain. She was washing up and singing softly to herself. I moved closer, indulging a voyeuristic thrill as I came to the side of the cottage and peered through a gap in the curtains, lifting my hand to rap on the window.