by Penny Birch
Table of Contents
Cover
Copyright
By the same author:
Uniform Doll
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
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Epub ISBN: 9780753531167
Version 1.0
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This book is a work of fiction.
In real life, make sure you practise safe sex.
First published in 2002 by
Nexus
Thames Wharf Studios
Rainville Road
London W6 9HA
Copyright © Penny Birch 2002
The right of Penny Birch to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
www.nexus-books.co.uk
Typeset by TW Typesetting, Plymouth, Devon
Printed and bound by
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ISBN 0 352 33698 6
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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‘Not too hard, Jade,’ she said.
‘You need it quite hard,’ I told her, ‘but don’t worry. It’ll be good. Trust me, you don’t know the meaning of hot until you’ve been given a proper spanking. I’m going to warm you, and make you come, and when I’ve finished I’m going to make you get down on your knees and lick my pussy. While you’re licking you can think about how bad you’ve been, and how hot your bum is as a result.’
‘I haven’t been bad!’ she wailed.
‘No?’ I demanded. ‘Wanking off cab drivers to get out of paying your fare? Letting other girls pick you up in bars? You’re a dirty, smutty little bitch, aren’t you, Zoe?’
‘Yes,’ she sobbed.
‘And you deserve to be punished?’
‘I’m not –’
‘Yes, you do, and you know it, so if you can’t take your spanking like a big girl you’ve got to have the gag. Now open up!’
Why not visit Penny’s website at
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By the same author:
THE INDIGNITIES OF ISABELLE
(writing as Cruella)
PENNY IN HARNESS
A TASTE OF AMBER
BAD PENNY
BRAT
IN FOR A PENNY
PLAYTHING
TIGHT WHITE COTTON
TIE AND TEASE
PENNY PIECES
TEMPER TANTRUMS
REGIME
DIRTY LAUNDRY
One
Samantha picked up the scissors. She thanked the barmaid, smiling, and took a pull from her drink. My wrists tensed against my bonds automatically. I felt my tummy muscles jump. She met my eyes, held up the scissors, opened them and snapped the blades shut with a click.
‘Not my bra, Sam, please!’ I begged.
‘Your bra, Jade. I want you bare.’
‘That’s not fair, Sam! I have to have them specially made, you know I do! This one was forty quid! Sam, no! Sam! Bitch!’
She’d done it. As I’d spoken the blade had slid up under my armpit, beneath the material of my bra strap. She’d cut. I’d heard the material part and felt the tension go. It was done, my right boob hanging heavy in her ruined cup, my flesh spilling out around the lace.
‘Bitch,’ I repeated.
‘That’s not a very clever thing to say, is it, Jade?’ Samantha answered. ‘Not when you’re tied to a cross. Now let’s have them out, right out.’
I just hung my head, unable to answer as she set to work, cutting off the remainder of my bra. The left side went. My boobs lolled forwards, more out than in. One shoulder strap went. The cup went slack, held up only because the lacy material was sticking to my skin. The second went and it fell, exposing me.
Samantha pulled the wrecked bra away. I was showing, topless in the flickering candlelight, red and orange shapes dancing across my flesh, my tight nipples rich brown, then crimson. They felt huge, really blatant, great fat balls of flesh sticking out, with everyone staring at them. Well, they are huge, I suppose.
My breathing was deep, my skin prickly with sweat. I could feel the wet in my knickers, and the hot, heady smells of the orange and cinnamon incense, mixed with my own excitement. My wrists hurt a little, my ankles too, the thick rope taut against my flesh. It didn’t matter. It was all part of what she was doing to me.
‘Aren’t they just the fattest?’ she said, and reached out, taking one of my breasts in her hand. ‘I do adore a little, fat, baby dyke.’
I moaned as she lifted my boob, her thumb brushing across the erect nipple. She was smiling, her eyes full of excitement, and bright with reflected candle flame. Her thumb came back, teasing my nipple. She pinched it, hard, and I cried out.
‘Panties,’ she said firmly, and dropped my boob. ‘I want to see if your cunt’s as fat as your tits.’
All I could manage was a weak sob. I looked down, watching as she pulled out the side of my knickers. The scissors went under, snip, to the other side, snip, and it was done. My ruined panties were twitched away and I was naked. Someone in the audience giggled. Another remarked on how hairy my pussy mound was. I looked up.
They were looking at me, twelve women, each with her eyes fixed on my naked body. Samantha was gloating, well pleased with herself. She was aroused, on tying me up, on ruining my clothes, on exposing me. So were the others, butch and femme alike, the couples cuddled close together, the singles pleased, maybe jealous.
Samantha returned the scissors to the bar, bending across to pass them to the barmaid. The motion pulled her top tight to her back, her trousers to her bottom, showing her sleek, tight muscles. She was so neat, almost masculine, her bare midriff sleek and firm, her buns small and pert, stretching out the leather into twin balls of shiny black. I wanted to kiss it, down on my knees, with my own big, wobbling, girly posterior stuck out, bare.
She bought another Pils, paid, but went on speaking, leaned close to the barmaid. I saw her point, up, and my stomach knotted in real fear. The barmaid smiled, stood up, on tiptoe, reaching for one of the long, scarlet ostrich plumes. I was shaking my head even before Sam turned back, babbling out pleas, my body quivering. She just grinned when she saw the state I was in, took a sip from her bottle and stepped close.
‘No!’ I screamed, but too late, as the feather was drawn across the flesh of my tummy, to make my muscles knot and twitch.
‘What a baby!’ one of the butch girls remarked, and laughed.
It was the last thing I heard at all clearly. Sam was merciless. She drew the feather over my tummy again, and back, across my boobs, right on the nipples, tickling crazily. I just lost control. I was writhing in my bonds, babbli
ng for her to stop, giggling stupidly, squirming, my muscles jumping. She didn’t stop, doing my tummy, my boobs, my armpits, my thighs, until I was screaming for mercy and the audience were hooting with laughter.
My legs were wide on the cross, the tuck of my bum vulnerable. That’s the worst bit, just where my cheeks come together, over my bottom hole. I was helpless. I couldn’t cover it, and I knew she wouldn’t let me off. She didn’t. For a moment she paused, just enough to let me get my breath back, holding the awful feather up to my face. She ducked down, and in it went, between my legs, onto the sensitive skin on my inner thighs, higher, towards my pussy, towards my bum-cheeks, touching, pulled slowly forwards, tickling an inch from the little dirty hole between them. I screamed, out loud. Every muscle in my body knotted, hard, my thighs, my bottom, my tummy. My boobs were wobbling, my whole chest jerking to my desperate, uncontrollable panting, my tummy jumping, my pussy twitching.
It just happened. I couldn’t help it. I can’t when I’m tickled, and Sam might have realised. My bladder burst, full across her chest, an explosion of pee that I had absolutely no way at all of holding back. I heard her angry yell, and the barmaid’s, gasps of shock or delight from the watching girls, a giggle.
The tickling stopped immediately. My pee didn’t, gushing over the floor and over Sam, who’d jerked back, but not far enough. I let it all go, shaking and sobbing as my bladder emptied. Sam stood up, mouth open in disgust, skinny top plastered to her breasts, the feather trailed from her hand, limp and wet. She was dripping pee, the fabric of her top stuck tight to her little braless breasts, showing their outline perfectly, and the small, hard nipples at the tip of each. It was on her jeans too, drips running down the perfect black leather, and a little had gone in her face. Worse, she’d dropped her bottle when my stream had hit her, and it had spilled on her boots. I’d peed on them too.
All I could do was stare at the mounting anger in her face, still with pee trickling down my leg. The barmaid was looking too, at the big puddle under the cross, which was rapidly soaking into the carpet. She vanished out into the main room, the music stopped. The owner appeared, looking like thunder.
‘Out,’ she ordered, jerking her thumb towards the door.
I wasn’t too happy about being barred from Whispers. After all, it was Sam’s fault I’d wet myself, not mine. I’d told her how ticklish I was, especially near my bumhole. Anyway, if they didn’t want rude things happening in their bar, they shouldn’t have set up the back room for us to play in.
None of my arguments worked, and nobody stuck up for me, so I ended up being pushed out onto the street, in jeans, boots and top, but with no underwear. Not that anyone seemed to mind, in Soho, or even really notice, but it was a long way back to Turnpike Lane. I got stared at, most of the way, with a couple of boys leering at me and nudging each other on the tube.
It’s all very well for girls like Sam to go around with no bra, but with boobs like mine it’s no good. I just look rude, which is fine if I’m in the mood, and a pain if I’m not. As it was, I didn’t know what I felt. I was really pissed off about being treated so unfairly, but it had been good being put on the cross. Having my bra and panties cut off had got to me, but I couldn’t afford it, and Sam hadn’t even asked. She’d tickled me too, which I hate, but I knew that if she’d taken me all the way the climax would have been something else. So I didn’t know if I wanted sex or not. Either way, I certainly didn’t want a couple of teenage boys mauling my boobs while I jerked their little cocks off, so when one finally plucked up the courage to make a pass I just ignored him.
There wasn’t really enough time anyway, not even for a decent frig. Sam had been after me since we’d left work, and it had taken her quite a while to talk me onto the cross. She’d only known I was into other girls because we’d been in Whispers at the same time, and I usually try to keep my sex life out of the workplace. Not that I care what other people think, especially when I’m in a new office every few weeks, but it can be a hassle.
I was supposed to be at Uncle Rupert’s by eight, and it was nearly seven when I got back to the flat. Not that he’d mind, but his company was just what I needed to cheer me up, and I hadn’t seen him in a long while. Rupert is cool, very cool for a forty-year-old man, laid back and decadent and about the most open-minded person I know. If it hadn’t been for him I would never have had the courage to come out, and the more fun I had, the more grateful I felt. I could talk to him, and I knew that we’d soon be laughing over what had happened at Whispers. He’d make me describe it in detail too, and when I’d gone he’d go upstairs for a sneaky wank over the thought of Samantha dripping with pee. Unlike me, she never goes with men, and she’d have hated it, which was a good revenge, if a bit abstract.
By the time I got to Highgate it was eight-thirty. Uncle Rupert didn’t say anything, but then he never wore a watch, so he may just not have noticed. He had a bottle of champagne open and two glasses in his hand as he opened the door to me. I joined him in the little walled garden behind his house, which had been one of my favourite places since childhood.
It’s no more than fifty yards from a busy street, but it has to be one of the quietest and most private places in London. The walls are high, and topped with clematis and Russian vine, while the house is at the end of a row and overlooks the valley. Nobody can see into the end part at all, except from the windows of his house. It had always seemed to be magical, a secret place of my own, a sanctuary, somewhere I knew I was always welcome and where I could find absolute peace. I had the key to the house, and spent a lot of time there when Rupert was away, alone, often naked, but I never brought lovers there. It was too special.
He poured champagne and climbed into his hammock, leaving one lanky leg hanging over the side. I settled into a chair, drank, and felt my stress start to slip away as the cool wine ran down my throat.
‘How was India?’ I asked.
‘Hot,’ he answered. ‘Dry, dusty, crowded.’
‘You got your coffee contracts?’
‘Yes. My hosts were ever so hospitable. And I had the sweetest little whore in Meerut.’
‘You have no morals at all.’
‘To the contrary, I am morality itself. What I gave her will feed her and her family for a month, while if she didn’t enjoy what we did then she is the most remarkable actress.’
‘Tell me about her then. I know you’re dying to.’
‘Absolutely. She was dark, for a start, that lovely dusky tone you sometimes get with Indian girls, yet deeper than most. Huge eyes, fine face, tiny waist, broad hips, heavy, spankable bottom, titties like melons. It took a bit of persuasion to get her across my knee, but once her bum was warm she loved it, giggling and shaking it to make me carry on . . .’
‘You spanked her?’
‘Naturally.’
‘Pervert.’
‘It would have been a crime not to spank her. Some girls cry out for it.’
‘No, what you mean is that some girls have figures you can’t resist. That’s your fault, not theirs.’
‘I disagree. Any girl with a truly glorious bottom is sure to understand that men will want to smack it, just as any girl is sure to learn where men want to put their cocks.’
‘It’s not the same thing. It’s just your dirty mind.’
‘This coming from a girl who enjoys being tied and whipped in lesbian clubs?’
‘Yeah, well . . . Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about that. I’ve been barred from Whispers.’
‘That was your favourite, wasn’t it? With the back room you were telling me about?’
‘That’s the one. This girl, Samantha, Sam, who works at the place where I’m temping, she put me on a cross. I was in bra and panties, but she cut those off, then tickled me. I wet myself, all over her.’
‘Magnificent. Tell me. Omit no detail.’
I did. He lay there listening, his eyes shut, his mouth set in a contented smile. Occasionally he would take a sip of champagne, but he never said a w
ord, or touched himself, although I could see the bulge growing in his trousers. When I finished he was thoroughly pleased with himself, and with me. We went in, and I was left to myself as he busied himself in the kitchen.
There has always been an understanding between us, a mutual respect. I knew he might well want to come after listening to my story, just as he never came out into the garden if I was sunbathing nude when he came home. So I went upstairs to his library, leaving him the space to do it if he needed to.
I’d visited often enough, while he’d been in India, but I hadn’t been into the library. It had changed, and in a way it was impossible not to notice. The shelves were the same, with their ranks of books on every subject and in every type of binding, from an early Bible in iron clasps and blackened leather to his garish collection of pornographic art, with every cover showing girls in lewd positions. So were the two well-stuffed armchairs, with their studded green leather upholstery and highly polished wood.
What was different, and out of place, were two mannequins. Both were female, and dressed in uniforms – one an air hostess, one a waitress. I was immediately fascinated, and went to take a closer look, wondering what Rupert was up to. They were immaculate, complete too, while a quick peak revealed that they even had underwear. They also had legends, on little stands which had been hidden when I first walked in, a photograph and some text. Both showed the same uniform that was on the mannequin beside it, but being worn, or rather half worn.
I was open-mouthed with delight, and a little shocked too. The air hostess was bad enough, with a pretty Indian girl taken against a bank of brilliant pink flowers, beside a stone bench, with her skirt twitched up and her panties held down to show her bare bum. She looked shy yet pleased with herself, both excited and embarrassed, feelings very familiar to me.
The waitress was worse. The photo had been taken in some anonymous hotel room, and must have been done automatically, because it showed a pretty if slightly tarty blonde in the uniform, bent across my uncle’s knee. Her little pink skirt was up, her panties were down and there was a definite red flush to her bottom. She was getting a spanking and, from the pained look on her face, a hard one.