by Penny Birch
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Also by Penny Birch
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Tweleve
Copyright
About the Book
Natasha Linnet has a weakness for older men, preferably those with the confidence to put her over their knees. So when the directors of old fashioned wine merchants Hambling and Borse – notorious purveyors of traditional discipline for wayward girls – invite Natasha to work for them, it is an offer too good to refuse. But Natasha soon discovers that she is expected to give a great deal more than she ever anticipated, to a great many more people and in a number of unexpected ways. So will the temptations being dangled in front of her make it possible to endure what is going on behind?
Also by Penny Birch
A TASTE OF AMBER
BAD PENNY
BARE BEHIND
BRAT
BUTTER WOULDN’T MELT
DIRTY LAUNDRY
FIT TO BE TIED
IN DISGRACE
IN FOR A PENNY
JODHPURS AND JEANS
NAUGHTY NAUGHTY
NURSE’S ORDERS
KNICKERS AND BOOTS
PEACH
PENNY IN HARNESS
PENNY PIECES
PETTING GIRLS
PLAYTHING
REGIME
TEMPER TANTRUMS
TICKLE TORTURE
TIGHT WHITE COTTON
UNIFORM DOLL
WHEN SHE WAS BAD
TIE AND TEASE
WHAT HAPPENS TO BAD GIRLS
BRUSH STROKES
SLIPPERY WHEN WET
THE INDECENCIES OF ISABELLE
THE INDIGNITIES OF ISABELLE
THE INDISCRETIONS OF ISABELLE
(Writing as Cruella)
Why not visit Penny’s website at www.pennybirch.com
BARE, WHITE AND ROSY
Penny Birch
One
‘YOU LOOK AS if you’re trussed for the spit,’ Percy remarked, grinning.
I made a face. He was right: with my head and chest sticking out over one end of the coffee table and my bottom over the other, I certainly looked as if I was ready to have something stuck up me, although probably not a spit. Not that I could stop him, whatever he wanted to do. My upper arms and thighs were lashed securely to the table legs, fixing me in a kneeling position, completely vulnerable, with just the minuscule red bikini I’d been sunbathing in to protect my modesty. With the high tide cutting off my little island and no human soul within maybe half a mile I was completely at his mercy.
‘What are you going to do to me?’ I asked.
He took a moment to ponder his options, lifting one podgy hand to pinch at the first of his three chins as his face set into a thoughtful frown.
‘First,’ he said, ‘a little humiliation.’
I looked up as he stepped close, but all I could see was the swell of his more than ample paunch, which pressed against my face as he knelt. His hands slid beneath my chest, to take hold of my dangling breasts, one in each hand. I closed my eyes as he began to fondle me, his fat little fingers squeezing and stroking at my flesh, not with the intimacy of a lover but with the lewd, intrusive interest of a man intent on having a good grope of a girl who can do nothing to stop him. At last he took hold of the undersides of my bikini top and tugged, flopping my breasts out. Again his fingers found my flesh, pulling on my stiff nipples as if trying to milk me on to the living-room carpet and giving me a little jiggle before finally standing up again. His cock was now erect, making a small but prominent tent in the baggy green corduroy of his trousers.
‘And your bottom, naturally,’ he remarked.
He had stepped close again even as he spoke. I closed my eyes, even my newly stripped breasts unimportant as his fingers once again touched my flesh to pinch the waistband of my bikini bottoms. He was right behind me, ensuring that nothing whatsoever was left to his imagination as he began to peel them down, ever so slowly exposing me. Not that I was hiding much, not of my cheeks anyway, with more flesh out of the small red triangle of material than in, but cheeks don’t matter. What matters is what’s between, which was very slowly coming on show to his inquisitive, dirty gaze, first the pale-brown ring and puckered, pink central star of my anus, next the pouted, freshly shaven lips of my pussy, split to show the wet folds between, each and every detail bare for his inspection.
Already I could feel something akin to panic welling up inside me, making my muscles squeeze and my bumhole start to wink. He chuckled to see the state I was in and began to touch, exploring my bottom with that same intrusive, loitering intimacy he had applied to my breasts, squeezing my flesh, stroking my cheeks, smacking me just hard enough to make them jiggle, teasing me between them, tickling my anus and at last invading my pussy hole with one short, podgy finger. At that I broke, sobbing and gasping as he fingered me, tossing my head in a pathetic, futile effort to repress the overwhelming emotion of having my body so casually molested.
I knew he would fuck me, maybe worse, but that was his choice. He could do as he pleased, for all my squirming and wriggling, for all my protests. I heard his zip come down as he extracted his finger from my pussy and immediately imagined it being replaced by his cock. He shifted his position, pushing close, and I felt the hot, smooth tip of his erection press between my cheeks, pushing at my anus. A powerful shudder ran through me as I realised I was to be buggered, but I bit my lip, determined not to beg. Instead I forced myself to relax, readying myself for my own violation.
It never came. His cock slipped up between my cheeks, rubbing in my crease as his fat belly pressed against my cheeks and his balls squashed up against my pussy lips. Still I thought I’d get it, just as soon as he’d had his fun with my bottom slit, but he pulled away once again, to plant a heavy slap across my cheeks, leaving them stinging. I was going to be spanked and then sodomised, a thought that had me choking with outrage. It was unthinkable, impossible, that a fat, dirty old bastard like him could even dare to look at me sexually, never mind to touch me, to feel me up, to smack my cheeks, to stick his filthy little cock up my hole, but that was exactly what was going to happen. He’d begun to masturbate as he spanked me, tossing over my cheeks as he readied himself for my bumhole. My whole body was shaking, wracked with violent sobs as I thought how his cock would feel in my rectum. I wondered if he’d rub me off to make me come, to enjoy the feel of my anal ring tightening on his penis and bring my shame to a burning, helpless peak . . .
Something hot and wet splashed my cheeks and I realised he’d ejaculated over me.
‘Percy! You said you’d put it in!’
‘Sorry, my dear,’ he puffed. ‘I . . . I was overcome. It’s been too long, and you’re too beautiful. I couldn’t hold back.’
‘That’s all very flattering, Percy, but how do you think I feel?’ I demanded. ‘You said you were going to bugger me and make me come on your cock, and now you’ve wasted it all over my bum. You’re a selfish pig!’
‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated. ‘Perhaps later? Or maybe . . .’
As he trailed off his hand had moved to my body once more, cupping my sex. I immediately realised what he was going to do, and it filled me with a sense of shame stronger even than when I’d had my breasts and bottom stripped. He was going to masturbate me, to bring me off as if I was just some little brat who couldn’t be counted on to behave herself until
she’d had an orgasm.
‘Percy!’ I protested.
He didn’t even bother to answer, his middle finger now working between my sex lips with a practised thoroughness, not so much like a lover as like a vet performing some messy but necessary task on a cow or sheep. I felt fit to scream, my face burning with resentment and shame, both emotions made far worse because I knew full well that it was the right thing to do to me. Once I’d come I would feel far better, but that did nothing to dampen my fury as my body was manipulated. He’d begun to fondle my breasts again, slapping at them and pinching my nipples as he rubbed between my sex lips. A thumb was inserted up my pussy, his finger began to move faster and I gave in.
‘Pig!’ I gasped, and I was coming.
I was gasping and panting as he brought me off, wriggling my bottom on his hand and squirming in my bonds, still furious with him, still thoroughly ashamed of myself, but at the same time in a state of ecstasy. He didn’t stop rubbing until the contractions of my muscles had died down, and as my pleasure faded so did my resentment, and the tension that had been building up for weeks.
‘Pig,’ I repeated. ‘Thank you.’
‘My pleasure,’ he responded, and began to untie me.
I was stiff and sore, but a shower sorted that out. Once I was dry I slipped on a summer dress and a pair of sandals, not bothering with underwear. I seldom did, except to go into town, and not always then. The locals thought of me as a slut anyway, a wealthy, eccentric slut, but still a slut. They were too insular to appreciate my liberty, although quite happy to take advantage of it.
‘How have you been?’ Percy asked as I returned to the living room.
He had settled himself into a chair, once more the classic image of an elderly English gentleman and very far from the sadistic old pervert who had me over my own coffee table and amused himself with my body just minutes after arriving from the mainland.
‘Much as usual,’ I told him. ‘I’m beginning to understand why they describe the island as two thousand alcoholics clinging to a rock. I might even join them.’
‘What you need is a holiday.’
‘I am on holiday, permanently, or in exile.’
Percy responded with a wry smile. I went to him, bending to kiss him and then put my arms around his shoulders, holding him to me until what was left of my tension had drained away. For weeks I’d been anticipating his visit, but until that moment I hadn’t realised just how much I’d missed him and everything he stood for: intelligent and open conversation, easygoing friendship and, above all, guilt-free kinky sex. Plenty of people on the island wanted to fuck me, even to spank me, but not one of them could approach his combination of casual aplomb and sheer filthiness.
‘Sorry I was cross,’ I told him as I pulled away.
His response was to pat my bottom as I turned away, an intimate, almost proprietorial gesture and entirely appropriate from him to me. A younger man would have earned a slap in the face, but I gave him an encouraging wiggle before dancing quickly out of his reach. I sat down, feeling relaxed and pleasantly naughty. He spoke.
‘You remember Hambling and Borse, don’t you?’
‘Yes, of course. Dad has an account with them.’
‘In that case he is one of a dwindling band. They’ve been losing customers for years, mainly because they refuse to move with the times.’
‘I remember their list, page after page of claret and hock. I used to recite the names of the German vineyards as if they were a litany.’
‘As well you might, my dear. Ah, for a glass of Maximin Grünhauser Abtsberg, the Kabinett perhaps . . .’
I took the hint and went to the fridge, although the closest thing I could manage was a Piesporter. Percy made no complaint, smacking his lips as I pulled the cork.
‘What about Hambling and Borse?’ I asked.
‘They’re in difficulty, or about to be. Not that they’re short of assets, what with the building in St James’s, stock, agencies and so forth, but they’ve been losing money for years. They need a new manager, somebody dynamic but who appreciates tradition, qualities that appear to be mutually exclusive, or so old Gilbert Hambling says. So I suggested that you might like to take the job on.’
‘Me? I don’t know the first thing about management.’
‘You don’t need to. Everybody knows who you are, you’re young, personable, you understand the trade and its tradition, but most importantly you have a knack with curmudgeonly old buggers like Gilbert Hambling and Otto Borse. Meanwhile, you’re getting bored out of your skull here, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I admitted.
He was right. Having nothing to do and all day to do it in is not what it’s cracked up to be. I was tempted, but there was still the reason I’d secluded myself on the island in the first place.
‘What about the papers?’
Percy gave an airy flutter of his fingers.
‘You are yesterday’s news, my dear. At present they are in a foment because one so-called celebrity called another a rude name. I see no reason why they should even notice that you’re back in London.’
‘I’m not so sure, Percy. What about Pia Santi? I imagine the vicious little bitch would do anything to get back at me, and she’d certainly recognise me.’
‘In the case of Miss Santi I took the precaution of ascertaining her whereabouts. She is in Los Angeles, and besides, in the unlikely event that life does become unbearable, you can retreat here whenever you wish. But really, I doubt that even Miss Santi would trouble to pursue you when there is no money to be made. She is nothing if not mercenary.’
‘True,’ I admitted, ignoring an instinctive touch of pique at how quickly the press had lost interest in me, ‘Well, maybe it would be interesting, but I’d need a free hand and I absolutely refuse to do anything that involves paperwork.’
‘You would need to discuss that sort of detail with Gilbert,’ Percy said, ‘but if you don’t like their terms, you can always turn down their offer. It would be a shame, though, because if anybody can turn their fortunes around you can, and the wine trade would be duller without them. We face a creeping tide of base, grey commercialism, Natasha, which—’
‘I know,’ I interrupted before he could mount one of his favourite hobby-horses, along with the decline in educational standards, why young girls should be spanked on a regular basis and a wide variety of similar topics.
‘You’ll do it then?’ he asked.
I didn’t answer, but took a sip of my wine, staring out of the window to where puffy white clouds were rolling in from the west over the lip of the high wall surrounding my retreat. The tufts of grass growing between the stones were shivering in a light breeze and I could just make out the gentle, rhythmic splash of waves on the rocks beyond. For the last few days there had been a distinctly autumnal scent to the air. I’d never known anywhere so peaceful, or that provided me with such a deep sense of security, and yet I felt that if I spent the winter there I would go mad.
‘I’ll come to London,’ I promised, ‘at least to talk to them.’
‘Good girl.’
He raised his glass to me, swirled, sniffed, and swallowed in a sequence so familiar to him that I’d known him to do the same with coffee and water, just as I occasionally did myself. I smiled to myself, already imagining the magnificent tastings I would organise in order to restore the reputation of Hambling and Borse. Clearly I would need a new wardrobe, smart designer clothes suitable for my executive role; also shoes, plenty of shoes. In fact, I would need to cultivate a new image: refined, efficient, cool yet definitely sexual, with a poise that few men would dare to aspire to . . .
A cough from Percy interrupted my daydream.
‘There is one other thing you should know, Natasha. I, ah, I may have been a trifle indiscreet when I was discussing things over dinner with old Gilbert Hambling. He had done me remarkably well, La Chapelle ’seventy-eight with the first grouse of the season and then a wonderful Eve’s pudding with a ’fifty-nine Bonnezeau
x, which was quite superb. He’d used Bramleys and a variety called Charles Ross, with just the right amount of cinnamon, and . . . but where was I? Oh, yes, I’m rather afraid that I let slip about your penchant for being abused.’
Two
IT WAS MORE than likely that my knickers would be coming down for a spanking, or repeated spankings. I’d run into Percy’s wine-trade friends before, outwardly respectable old English gentlemen but in practice a bunch of lecherous old perverts. Neither Mr Hambling nor Mr Borse was likely to pass up the chance of getting me across his lap if he thought he might get away with it, and both belonged to a generation who regarded spanking their subordinates at work as an amusing way to pass the afternoon. I liked to think so, anyway, because the occasional well-smacked bottom would ensure that my job was never dull, while with any luck I could manipulate the situation to ensure that they both did as they were told. That was essential, because while I was reasonably confident of being able to turn their company around, it would be a great deal easier with their co-operation.
The knack was to exploit the American market, or so it seemed to me. While working as a wine writer prior to pulling off my coup d’art, I had always been struck by the curious American habit of wanting the best and only the best. It’s ridiculous, of course, because enjoyment of wine is far too subjective for the concept to have meaning, but the fact remained that if the American market came to believe that a particular winery was ‘the best’ they would pay many times over the sensible price. Where the Americans led, the Far East would follow. All I needed to do was ensure that a couple of Hambling and Borse’s agencies became identified as superlative and I would be home and dry, with a rosy bottom into the bargain. It was all rather appealing.
As I took the short flight from the island to Eastleigh Airport I was reading the Hambling and Borse price list Percy had given me. Their mainstay was claret, but the Bordeaux trade was too fluid for my scheme to work. Burgundy and the Rhône were better, and in both cases they held high quality but unfashionable agencies, which I was sure I’d be able to push forward. That was going to mean sucking up to the most influential of the American pundits, perhaps even sucking them literally, a thought that gave me a delicious thrill of sexual humiliation. All the really big names were whiter than white, but one, Earle Hayes, had a reputation as a bit of an old goat, and I’ve always loved the feeling of having no choice but to do something rude. To have my behaviour dictated by the needs of my job would be wonderful.