Bare, White and Rosy

by Penny Birch

  ‘No,’ she gasped, ‘not that. I . . . I’ve never been—’

  She broke off, but I knew what she meant and suddenly everything about her made a lot more sense. I touched her and felt the tight arc of skin around the mouth of her pussy. She was a virgin, a discovery that sent a delicious thrill through me. I’d seduced a virgin, introducing her to lesbian sex before she’d ever had a man, making her my own sweet playmate, who’d be licking me in turn just as soon as I’d brought her off.

  I needed it desperately, but didn’t dare push her too hard, so I licked her gently and stroked her thighs until her hand found my hair and pulled me in more firmly. Now I had her, and I began to lick harder and allow my hands to stray down to her bottom, teasing her cheeks, and between. She gave a little mew of protest when I found her bumhole, but she didn’t try to stop me. I couldn’t see, but her hole felt tight and sweetly formed, making me want to lick it and see how far in I could get my tongue, but she was already starting to flex her thighs and push herself into my face, obviously close to orgasm. Her bumhole began to squeeze and I slipped my finger in a little way, feeling her tiny ring tighten to the contractions of her muscles, her virgin pussy too, as she came against my face, sobbing out my name over and over again in what might even have been her first-ever climax.

  When she was done I moved up to take her in my arms, kissing her once more and cuddling her close. She was shaking and sobbing, maybe struggling to come to terms with having come under another woman’s tongue, maybe just overwhelmed by her orgasm, but in any case needing to be held. It took all my self-control just to let her cling to me, because the feel of her body in my arms was both frustrating and arousing, but I knew I had to let her take things at her own pace. What I wanted was her bottom in my face, to savour her sweet little bumhole and virgin pussy while she licked me to ecstasy, but I knew I couldn’t just lie down and ask her to climb on top. She need cajoling into it, slowly and carefully.

  ‘My turn, yes?’ I said, speaking very softly and stroking her hair.

  She nodded and her trembling abruptly increased.

  ‘How would you like me?’ I offered.

  ‘I . . . I don’t know. You choose.’

  ‘Head to tail? That’s nice, and your body is so lovely.’

  ‘If you like,’ she answered, so sweet and shy and nervous that her words alone made my tummy tighten.

  She was going to do it, to lick me to ecstasy with her pretty little bottom right in my face. I was shaking as much as she was as I hitched my dress up to get at my panties, only to stop, realising how much more fun it would be to have her pull them down for me. She’d seen me tied up, she knew I was kinky, so maybe I could even persuade her to spank me before we went head to toe. I had to ask.

  ‘Rhiannon? Would you mind doing me a little favour?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Would you . . . do you mind spanking my bottom first?’

  My words had come out in an embarrassed rush, but she burst into giggles immediately. I knew I was going to get it, and I could hold back no longer.

  ‘Over your knee please,’ I asked, twisting myself into position. ‘Lift my dress, and take my knickers down, and spank me hard, even if I kick and squeal, even if I cry.’

  ‘Naughty Natasha!’ she giggled.

  I was across her lap, my bottom lifted to let her bare me, in such ecstasy I couldn’t stop myself squeezing my thighs and bum cheeks in anticipation of what I was about to get: a good, firm spanking across my lovely new playmate’s lap, followed by her bum in my face as she brought me off.

  ‘Very naughty,’ she said as she began to turn up my dress, ‘very, very naughty. You need spanking, Natasha.’

  She was playing, but her every word brought me a fresh jolt of pleasure. Once my dress was up, her hands found my panties and eased them down. As I was stripped I was sobbing with ecstasy, and I couldn’t help but push my bottom up, drawing the satin tight against my cheeks as it drew slowly across my skin, exposing me to the cool night air – my cheeks, my bumhole, my pussy, all bare, ready to be smacked and teased and touched while she told me off in her soft Irish lilt.

  ‘Naughty, naughty Natasha. You do like to be spanked, don’t you, you bad girl? Bad, bad girl, and now . . .’

  She lifted her hand, ready to bring it down on my bare, quivering bum cheeks, and I broke completely, gasping out my words as I begged for punishment.

  ‘Please, yes, Rhiannon, like that. Tell me off while you spank me. Tell me what a bad, naughty girl I am while you smack my bare bottom, smack me . . . spank me . . . spank me like the naughty little girl I am . . . oh, please . . . fuck!’

  Her hand had come down on my bottom, hard, but that wasn’t why I’d sworn. The building was shivering to the low rumble of a powerful engine and it could only be one thing, a lorry. We both froze, Rhiannon with her hand lifted to apply the second smack to my bare cheeks, me with my hips still stuck high to receive my spanking. From outside we heard the crunch of gravel, a grinding noise and the hiss of released pressure. The lorry had parked directly outside our hiding place. I scrambled up, cursing, but not as bitterly as Rhiannon, who seemed scared.

  ‘It’s one of the drivers, Natasha! If he finds us he’ll—’

  ‘No he won’t,’ I assured her, ‘but what the fuck does he think he’s doing at this time of night?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, and now there was no mistaking the fear in her voice, ‘but they’re really rough men. Martine came in here with one of them and he made her do his mate as well, in her mouth while she got it from behind!’

  It sounded fun, but Rhiannon obviously didn’t think so. I gave her a hug and lowered my voice to a whisper as we caught the sound of the lorry door slamming shut.

  ‘Don’t worry, darling. I’ll cope with him, and as soon as we’re gone you nip back to the dormitory. I’ll see you tomorrow, OK?’

  She nodded immediately, happily allowing me to abandon myself to my fate, but then, she was genuinely scared and I didn’t mind. I also needed to come, with a desperation I’d seldom experienced, and if that meant sucking off a French lorry driver while I played with myself it was a scene straight out of my fantasies. It was also something I’d done, more or less, altogether too often in recent days, and licking Rhiannon hadn’t helped; I was rubbing my jaw as I put my eye to the keyhole.

  The driver had just come in, a short, burly man in bleu de travail, the clothes baggy save for where his paunch pushed out the front. He had a thick black moustache and greasy hair with a curl, a big Roman nose but quite dark skin. I was sure I could handle him by flirting a little until he thought he was going to get it, then releasing Rhiannon and returning to the dormitory with her, but that was not what I wanted.

  I quickly adjusted my knickers and dress, then stepped through the door. He looked up in surprise, but his broad, weather-beaten face immediately split into a grin. I smiled back, letting my hips do the talking as I came close. He greeted me, his Catalan accent so thick I struggled to understand. Not that it mattered, because we weren’t going to need instructions. Seeing no reason to beat about the bush, I sat down on his lap and put an arm around his shoulder, then bent close to whisper my proposition into his ear.

  He was surprised, to say the least, and hesitated, perhaps wondering if I had some peculiar ulterior motive. I did, in a sense, but nothing he needed to worry about, so to encourage him I pushed up under my bodice to pop my boobs out, right in his face. That got his attention, and after a mumbled exclamation and a glance at the door he fastened himself to my tit. He was rough, biting at my nipple, while his moustache tickled dreadfully, but I shut my eyes and clenched my teeth, concentrating on the thought of having my tits bare for a man whose name I didn’t even know rather than on the physical sensation. I was also aware that Rhiannon almost certainly had her eye to the keyhole and I was keen to show that I was making a sacrifice for her rather than simply playing the slut.

  I did want it, though, and I knew that if I went
down on him I’d soon be masturbating, and that if he fucked me over the table I’d be unable to hide my pleasure. Right now I had to let her escape. So I pulled back but left my breasts bare as I stood up, beckoning him with one crooked finger as I suggested that the cab of his lorry might be a better place to have me. He agreed and we hurried outside to where a big silver tanker stood parked.

  As I’d already guessed, it was a proper long-distance rig, with a sleeping compartment in the cab, into which he led me, boosting me up with a hand on my bottom. I shrugged my coat off and crawled up, my nose wrinkling at the thick masculine scent. The interior light came on, revealing an unmade bed and several tacky posters of busty girls showing off their tits or spread-legged to expose both their breasts and the pink of their cunts. He grinned as he saw what I was looking at and made what was supposed to be a flattering comparison of my own breasts with those of the girls he liked to wank over. I forced myself to smile and bounced them in my hands, showing off to him as he climbed up to join me.

  He took me then and there, no kissing, no conversation, just a one-handed grope of my boobs while he unzipped and fumbled his cock free, tugged my dress up, removed my panties and shoved his cock unceremoniously up my hole. I let him have his way, knowing my turn would come, although it was impossible not to feel a certain conflict, even with him thrusting in and out of me: I was supposed to be with Rhiannon, spanked and then licked to heaven while I enjoyed her lovely bottom, not on my back with my thighs spread to a hulking French lorry driver.

  I thought he’d do a jack-rabbit on me, a moment of furious pumping, his load up my pussy and me left to take the pleasure of my fingers while his mess dribbled down between my cheeks. Fortunately he wasn’t that bad, or maybe he’d had a wank earlier during a rest stop, enjoying his busty French tarts while he tugged on his cock. That set me off, imagining myself on a beach somewhere in southern France, my bikini pulled up to show off my boobs to a photographer for a few euros so that hundreds of men could masturbate over my naked body.

  He pulled out with a sudden grunt and for a moment I thought he’d come, only to be ordered brusquely to roll over. I obeyed happily, scrambling on to my knees with my bum stuck up for rear entry and my boobs lolling down under my chest. He got on top, clambering on to my back, doggy-style, with his big, sweaty hands cupping my tits. Now I could come, and I was fighting to get my dress out of the way even as he probed for my cunt. I grabbed his cock, guided him in, squeezed his balls as he slid himself back up me, and began to masturbate.

  I had a lot to come over, not least imagining myself as a soft porn model, tits out for men to toss off over, then caught by one of the men for a doggy-style fucking with those same big tits in his great grubby hands. Men like me that way, kneeling with my bum stuck up to show it all off and my boobs dangling bare and heavy under my chest. Earle had done me the same way, making me tell him how Percy liked to spank my bare bottom while he rode me cowboy style. All that was good, and as I rubbed at my clit and the driver’s thrusts grew harder and deeper my mind was flicking between them, only for my concentration to go at the last instant. My mind slipped to what Anton Yoshida had threatened to do to me: tie me kneeling in his room and have me mounted in front of his business friends.

  Suddenly the scene was crystal-clear in my head: me kneeling on the floor, my dress up, my boobs flopped out, my wrists tied to my legs to leave me utterly unable to defend myself. There’d be ten – no, twenty, forty businessmen watching me, Japanese, Chinese, Taiwanese, M. Blanquefort too, and Earle, and the staff, even a few random peasants they’d picked up, all laughing at my plight as I was prepared for my fucking, my panties pulled down, my bumhole and cunt lubricated. Anton would be behind me, sneering down at my helpless body, and I’d get mounted, the audience jeering and clapping, taking photographs and filming me too as my slippery cunt filled with fat red cock.

  How I screamed, again and again as my orgasm tore through me, and just at the perfect moment the lorry driver spunked inside me. I felt his mess squash out of my hole as he thrust himself deep once more, and imagined that same filthy sight recorded on camera as I was given a public fucking in tight bondage, with the man who’d done it to me crowing with delight.

  Ten

  I WOKE FROM a dream in which I was having my bottom iced by a demented dwarf to find that it wasn’t so very far from the truth. There was no dwarf: the inconsiderate bastard of a lorry driver had pulled the covers off me, although my dress was rucked up and I still had no panties, leaving my bare bottom thrust out into the freezing air.

  The cab had been warm the night before and although I’d intended to leave, the drink, sex and simple exhaustion had caught up with me. I remembered lying back, telling myself I’d relax for a little before taking my leave, and that was all. My next thought was the embarrassment of explaining myself to Earle, but with luck it wasn’t too late. Dawn was only just breaking over the wall of the chai, and with any luck I could be safely tucked up beside him before he woke up. Our suite would also be a great deal more comfortable.

  I was stiff and sticky, also thirsty and desperate for a pee. Extricating myself from Vilaró, who’d finally condescended to tell me his name after he’d fucked me, I hurried into my coat and took a swallow from a bottle that proved to contain some revoltingly bitter cordial. A brief search for my knickers discovered them clutched in his hand, which was held against his face as he sucked one large and grubby thumb. I decided to abandon them, sure he’d appreciate a trophy, made a brief and unsuccessful attempt to clean the oily paw marks from my boobs, then climbed down from the cab.

  The frost was rock-hard, covering the ground, the stones of the wall and the nearby building and every branch and twig of the trees. Vilaró had parked in a narrow gap, so that the tanker was concealed from all but one direction, something I was grateful for as I nipped behind it and squatted down. Dress up, thighs wide, let go, sighing in bliss as my pee gushed out to splash on the packed gravel, melting the frost and forming a long yellow puddle. It smelt quite strong, but not strong enough to overwhelm the scent of grape juice filling the air. After a moment I realised that the hem of my coat was in a small pool of it that had dripped from the tanker. I swore under my breath, quickly lifted my coat, slipped and sat my bottom down in a mingled puddle of chilly grape must and warm pee.

  My dress had got wet too and I was cursing violently as I struggled to sort myself out, only to stop as the implications of the situation sank in. Vilaró was Catalan, and he was driving a long-distance tanker with southern plates. The département number was thirty-four, Hérault in the south of France, and the deep red grape juice dripping slowly on to the ground smelt of nothing so much as blackcurrants. I caught a drop on my finger and tasted exactly the bitter-sweet fruit I’d expected. I smiled.

  The dawn was now bright in the east, my eyes fully adapted to colour. Soon people would be up and about, so there was no time to lose. Using my mobile I took a series of photos of the tanker, making sure to get in recognisable parts of the chai and as much of the roof of the château as I could. I still needed a sample, and took time to nip into the room where Rhiannon and I had played, to find a bottle and a cork. I collected an inch of juice in the bottle, took a last photo and fled, nipping through the gate Rhiannon had shown me and across the yard.

  If the back door had been locked I’d have been in trouble, but the kitchen staff were up and very nearly caught me as I slipped in and up the stairs. The corridor was empty, our suite dark and deliciously warm after the freezing dawn air. Earle was asleep, still snoring, in almost exactly the position I’d left him in. I nipped into the bathroom, stripped, washed as quickly and as silently as I could, thrust my dirty clothes into my case along with my sample and climbed into bed.

  I should have slept – I was tired enough – but my mind was racing. Vilaró’s tanker was full of southern French Cabernet-Sauvignon must, brought in at dead of night and parked where nobody could see, or so they thought. That could only mean one thing, that
Château La-Croix-de-Pignon ’07 was going to be stretched with some nice ripe juice from the sunny south. No wonder they could make fruity wine in a bad vintage; that surely explained the taste of the ’06, while Southern and Allied were so big they’d have no trouble in fudging the paperwork. All of it was highly illegal and, better still, it would make a mockery of Anton Yoshida’s claims of mystical excellence, or at least it would if he gave the ’07 a good write-up. For that I’d have to wait until fermentation was finished, because I had no proof that the ’06 was dodgy.

  For the next half hour I was grinning to myself as I imagined ever finer scenarios in which I exposed Yoshida as a fraud, and I was so happy that when Earle finally woke up with a nice fat morning erection I gave him the blowjob of his life without worrying about my aching jaw. That put him in a good mood in turn, but what really put the gloss on it was walking downstairs hand in hand and meeting Anton Yoshida. I gave him a smug grin and a wink, which left him looking puzzled; he obviously thought he’d crushed me completely. Suddenly I remembered what I’d come over, the night before, and the blood rushed to my face, but by then we were past him and he didn’t see.

  There was a reception of some sort in the morning, but we were under no obligation to be there and Earle wanted to visit some other châteaux. Directly after breakfast we set off on a whistle-stop tour of the district, first Pomerol itself, then the backwoods around Montagne and Lussac, finishing with St Emilion. It was heavy going, one achingly tannic young wine after another and the same story at every stop of how careful selection had been necessary. By lunchtime I could barely taste my food, but what had become very evident was that Yoshida’s snotty comments about the smaller wineries not being able to afford to make good wine were rubbish. All the growers had done their best, small and large, and the only thing that linked them was Earle’s good opinion, which was no surprise, as he’d been visiting the district since before I was born.