Bare, White and Rosy

by Penny Birch

  Not that I gave my full attention to the tastings, because my head was crammed with what I’d learnt that morning and ideas about what I was going to do with my information. The photos themselves were pretty damning, and nobody could deny that I’d been at La-Croix-de-Pignon on the date recorded with the images. I could come forward as a righteous whistle-blower and all hell would break lose. The only disadvantage was that I would be at the centre of the storm and might get more attention than I wanted, maybe with certain bits of my past being raked up.

  Alternatively I could put my case together in as much detail as possible without giving away my identity and send everything to the press – including Pia Santi. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t in the country; in fact it was for the best, because it would be easier for me to remain anonymous, and she was such a cold, mercenary little bitch that she could be guaranteed to milk the scandal for every penny it was worth. With any luck she would ruin Yoshida’s reputation, a very satisfying thought indeed.

  By the time we got back most of the guests had gone, including Anton Yoshida, moving on en masse to another of the Southern and Allied properties, in the Médoc. I wanted to speak with Rhiannon, and caught her just in time before she and her fellow waitresses were loaded into a minibus. Even then we only had time for a brief word, assuring each other that we’d been all right the night before, and a hug, assuring each other that what had happened between us was good, and might happen again. I gave her a card and she promised to call when she was in London later that month.

  I watched the minibus leave, feeling more than a touch of regret, because for all the fun we’d had together she was still very much unfinished business, and if my feelings for her before had been pretty much pure lust, now they were more complex. Back indoors I joined Earle, M. Blanquefort and a few others for a very English tea. We spoke of this and that, mainly wine, and when M. Blanquefort expressed surprise at the depth of my knowledge I admitted to working for Hambling and Borst. He immediately went into raptures, demanding to know how they were and telling a series of stories about his times with them when he’d been a junior broker in the family firm, long before their association with Southern and Allied. I hadn’t really talked to him before, and on the previous day he’d seemed rather stiff, but I now found myself liking him and grateful for his hospitality, which presented me with a problem. If I exposed the fraud he was quite obviously involved in, he would get the worst of it, certainly more so than Anton Yoshida, whom I could only hope to make look a fool, not a criminal.

  By the time we’d finished dinner my dilemma had been resolved. It was a very different affair from the night before, with just M. Blanquefort, his family, two French wine writers, Earle and myself. The wines were better still, including their own ’61 and the legendary ’45. As the last drop of that exquisite wine slithered down my throat I knew I could not possibly expose the man who had allowed me to taste it. It would have been a betrayal – and really, if a lot of wealthy businessmen with no taste wanted to pay vast sums for a mixture of unripe Merlot and southern French Cabernet Sauvignon, what business was it of mine?

  The conversation was also a great deal more open, the older men discussing the way the trade had changed over the last forty years or more and openly cynical about the huge prices wines were fetching. I was included as part of what was to all intents and purposes a conspiracy, and by the time I’d swallowed an ancient Cognac and nibbled my last chocolate we were all as thick as thieves.

  That night I got the cowboy treatment again, but this time I thoroughly enjoyed it, naked on my knees while Earle rode me and spanked my bottom with his hat. He even brought me off with his cock, on my careful instructions, rubbing it on my pussy from behind until I’d reached climax and finishing himself all over my bum as he had the night before. Unlike then I went to sleep beside him, warm and content.

  The morning was a rush: breakfast, hasty goodbyes, the drive back through frost-coated vineyards, Bordeaux airport, the flight, home. By the time I got back to my flat all I wanted to do was put my feet up and sip a hot cup of tea. Earle had kept his word about not talking shop, but had asked for a meeting the following day, which I could hardly refuse. I was still going to have to turn him down, but I wasn’t looking forward to it.

  I went into work the next day feeling glum but determined. Gilbert, Otto and Vernon Flyght greeted me with an open bottle of Patrice Beauroy’s Champagne, all three of them congratulating me heartily as I accepted it.

  ‘Your idea is truly brilliant, my dear,’ Gilbert said warmly.

  ‘More brilliant than you realise, perhaps,’ Otto added. ‘We have been speaking to our accountants, and the tax incentives alone are too tempting to resist.’

  ‘You’re accepting my proposal?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course, my dear,’ Gilbert assured me.

  ‘All of it?’

  ‘In its entirety. Vernon here and a select group of friends and acquaintances with, shall we say, certain shared tastes, have agreed to invest in what we have decided to call the Linnet Club. A nice touch, don’t you think?’

  ‘You’re naming it after me?’ I was flattered.

  ‘Who better?’ he responded, grinning all over his basset-dog face. ‘You conceived the idea and you are a paragon of our founding principle.’

  ‘Which is that girls should have their bottoms smacked on a regular basis,’ Vernon added unnecessarily. ‘But seriously, it really is an excellent solution, Natasha.’

  I nodded, accepting my due. Hambling and Borst would now be broken up, and the premises would become one more of St James’s already numerous gentlemen’s clubs, but with a difference. Membership would be restricted to shareholders, including Gilbert and Otto themselves, Vernon and some or all of his kinky friends from the Aviators, Percy as an honorary member, and, as the sole female member, myself. The stock would become the club cellar, or at least most of it would.

  ‘And I get the name?’ I asked.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Gilbert assured me, ‘although what you want with it I cannot imagine.’

  ‘It has its uses,’ I assured him. ‘How about the right to pay for bottles from the cellar by getting spanked?’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ Vernon laughed. ‘An amusing little clause, we thought, although naturally the lawyers will have to be careful how it is worded.’

  ‘But I can pay for bottles by offering myself for spanking?’ I insisted.

  ‘Absolutely,’ he assured me, ‘and officially, once all the documents are signed, which should be by the end of the week. Unofficially, should you feel the need for a trip over my knee before then, please don’t hesitate to ask.’

  I smiled and looked down, feigning embarrassment in an effort to hide the triumph I was sure would show in my eyes. They had gone for it, hook, line and sinker, accepting my terms without a quibble, including the little piece of dodgy dealing I had disguised as an erotic game. Everything was coming together very nicely indeed.

  As I left the building an hour later with a rosy bottom under my skirt and a large cheque in my handbag I felt well pleased with myself, but with a touch of disappointment. I had succeeded, and all that remained were a few simple tasks; informing Earle and Lydia of the situation, collecting my due and attending the opening party of the club, an event sure to be even more painful and humiliating for me than my visit to the Aviators. I knew what the problem was: except in one or two minor details, there would be no sense of obligation. The next time I had my bottom smacked, or a man demanded that I suck his cock, or I offered, it would be a simple matter of whether I felt like it or not, with nothing important hanging on my choice. That would take a lot of the excitement away . . . still, I knew there would be other pleasures; there always were.

  As well as the cheque in my handbag I had a document signed by both Gilbert and Otto, making over the company name to me. I called Lydia, suggesting she come to dinner and telling her to bring a signed cheque from her boss. She made me speak to him, photograph the document on my mobi
le and email them the picture. Once that was done they agreed, and Lydia waited until her boss was out of earshot before assuring me of an excellent evening and ordering me to wear a plug in each hole for the rest of the day, which put a big grin on my face as I turned my steps towards the bank.

  When I arrived at the restaurant where I’d agreed to meet him, Earle was already there, inspecting a glass of Alsace with anticipation. I greeted him, sat down and poured myself some wine, nervous but determined to say what I had to and to get it over quickly.

  ‘I have bad news, I’m afraid,’ I told him. ‘I did my best to persuade them to take up your offer, but they’ve decided to go with an alternative. A private consortium is buying them up, to convert the building into an elite gentleman’s club. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ he said. ‘There are other names I can use, not quite so grand perhaps, but still good. So they’re closing down, huh? Did you manage to salvage anything from the wreck?’

  ‘Nothing of any use to you,’ I told him, ‘but I did pick up a present.’

  I dug into my handbag to pull out the Bonnes-Mares ’62 from Clair-Daü that I’d selected as payment for the spanking Gilbert, Otto and Vernon had given me earlier. They didn’t know what I’d chosen, and even if they did know that they had any of this remarkable wine left, they had no idea how many bottles, which was just as well. Earle took a moment to realise what I’d handed him before his expression turned reverent. He shook his head in wonder.

  ‘Well, that’s something you don’t see very often these days! Thank you, Natasha, that’s very thoughtful of you, very thoughtful indeed.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ I assured him, ‘just a token of my appreciation and a thank-you for the nice weekend.’

  He nodded, thanked me again and put the bottle very carefully into his briefcase. I picked up the menu and selected a goat’s cheese salad to suit the Riesling we were drinking. Earle began to talk, reminiscing about his early days in the trade and I listened, sipping my wine and feeling content. He’d taken the news a lot better than I’d expected, so well in fact that I began to wonder how much of his interest had been in buying out Hambling and Borse and how much in getting into my knickers. That he had done, and he clearly wasn’t finished with me, because he suggested we meet again soon. I accepted, although I knew I would soon be back on the island.

  With that he left. We parted on good terms, although in my case also a touch of regret. He’d been nice, if not entirely to my taste, but I consoled myself with the rest of the bottle and the thought that it was always possible I’d see him again. After all, a few short weeks before, Lydia had been a distant memory – and now I was going to meet her for dinner and have horrible things done to me. That would be fun, rather more fun than she expected, and as I left the restaurant, now a little drunk as well as happy, I was grinning so broadly that I got funny looks in the street.

  Lydia had told me to put plugs in, and I was tipsy enough and horny enough to want to do it. Soho was only a few minutes’ walk away and I went straight there, rejecting the first two sex shops because there weren’t enough people in them and finally choosing one where they had dirty videos playing and a large audience of sleazy men. I spent ages selecting my plugs, a thick cock-shaped dildo for my pussy and a slim pink one for my bottom hole, all the while with the men’s eyes flickering over my body.

  I went to a pub to put them in, ordering a large gin and tonic before making for the Ladies’ loo with a sachet of mayonnaise pinched from their food bar. In the cubicle I hitched up my skirt and pushed my tights and knickers down, deliberately exposing my bottom and pussy as I unwrapped the plugs, my excitement rising all the while. With my bare bottom stuck out I applied the mayonnaise to my anus, rubbing it well in before sticking a finger up to make sure I was slippery enough to take the plug.

  It went up easily enough, but to feel my ring stretch around the hard plastic and close again on the neck was almost too much. I knew how I’d look from behind too, with the base of the plug sticking out between my cheeks to make it quite obvious what I’d done to myself. Just to know that was enough to make me want to come, and by the time I’d got the dildo unwrapped I was so wet it slid up with ease. In fact it would have fallen out again if I hadn’t pulled up my clothes to hold it in place.

  I’d done as Lydia said and it felt deliciously dirty, both to be under her orders and to have my pussy and bottom filled. As I sat down, back in the bar, they pushed deeper up me, making me gasp and drawing a very odd look from the barman. I gave him a smile, wondering what he’d do if he knew, but determined not to make a pass at him. By the time Lydia got to me I wanted be so high I was ready for anything, and I knew full well that once I’d got my hands on the barman’s cock there would be no holding back.

  While I drank my gin and tonic I sent Lydia a text to tell her I was plugged and got one back calling me a slut and telling me to be in my flat by six o’clock. That was more than four hours away, and I wasn’t at all sure I could hold out. I was going to try, though, if only to torture myself, although I was already fit to burst.

  Knowing I was relatively safe in the pub, I ordered another gin and tonic, trying not to wriggle in my seat as I drank it, my mind running over the possibilities of what might happen later. I had no idea why Lydia wanted me plugged, but it was sure to be filthy. Possibly she was bringing her boss with her and wanted me good and ready for fucking, not just up my pussy but my bottom too. I could just imagine it, some silky, sleazy businessman whose name I didn’t even know . . . I’d be obliged to strip for him, show off my naked body with the twin plugs protruding from between my cheeks as I bent over, suck him hard while Lydia played with me, kneel as the dildo was pulled out and replaced with his cock.

  Maybe it wouldn’t be her boss but the two delivery boys I’d had to suck off the last time she’d had me, Blake and Lucas. She knew where they worked, and it was hardly going to be difficult to persuade them to use me. That would mean a cock in each hole, probably my mouth and pussy, with the thrusts from whoever was in me from behind jamming the smaller plug in and out of my bottom.

  Not that Lydia really needed a man, or men. She would bring a strap-on, a great big fat one that would really stretch me out. I’d be fucked first, naked on my knees while I sucked on the dildo she’d just taken out of my hole. Next would come my bum, with the plug extracted and stuck in my mouth so that I could taste myself while I was buggered with her monster strap-on.

  A violent shiver ran through me at the thought, and if I hadn’t been in the pub that would have been it. My hand would have been down my knickers in an instant, to rub at my bump until I hit my now desperately needed climax. I tried to turn my mind to something else, but even the TV was against me, showing some rap artist loaded down with bling and surrounded by girls, all black or Hispanic and all with voluptuous figures. In an instant I was imagining myself among them, only naked and plugged, with the girls laughing at the state I was in as I was made to suck their man erect.

  ‘You all right, love?’ the barman asked.

  ‘Fine, thank you,’ I lied, blushing furiously.

  I was sure he knew, or at least had guessed something of what was going on, so I drained my drink and left, burning with embarrassment and arousal as I set off up Dean Street. With every step I could feel the plugs moving inside me, keeping me acutely conscious of my penetration and making it next to impossible not to wiggle my hips as I walked. Men were starting to look at me, and I was sure that despite my smart business suit I would be mistaken for a tart and propositioned at any moment.

  At that thought I realised a new possibility. Perhaps Lydia wanted me to disgrace myself? After what had happened with the cabbie, Lucas and Blake it seemed quite likely. I stopped, wondering if I should go back and proposition the barman after all. He was at work, but the pub had been almost empty and he had seemed interested.

  Five minutes later I was on my knees among the beer kegs in his store room with his thick pink cock in my mouth while
I played with my pussy through my knickers and fiddled with the ends of my plugs. He was quick, spunking down my throat almost as soon as he was properly hard, but by then I’d already come.

  Not that it helped much. I was still dizzy with arousal as I started north once more, not just because of the plugs inside me but because I’d been so dirty. My mouth tasted of him and I wanted more, much more, cock after cock after cock until my belly was bulging with spunk and I was dripping from my soiled mouth, my aching pussy, my buggered bumhole. I had to go slowly, though, or the base of the plug up my bum would make me sore in the wrong way.

  By the time I got to my flat I simply couldn’t stop myself. I stripped to my knickers and crawled on to the bed, where I played with the plugs in my bottom and cunt while I brought myself to a second orgasm and a third, more leisurely. Only then did I extract the plugs and climb into the bath, telling myself I had plenty of time to get ready for Lydia. Timing was everything, and she needed to find me ready and willing, so that she could start on me without asking any awkward questions.

  Once I was dry I put the paperwork in the bottom drawer by my bed and covered it with clothes. I was warm, drunk and tired, so it was all too easy to flop back naked on my bed. There were still over two hours before Lydia turned up, and as I closed my eyes I was telling myself I’d have a nap, then be fresh and ready when she arrived.

  The next thing to penetrate my conscience was the insistent ringing of the doorbell. I took a moment to realise what was going on before it all came back in a rush. Jumping up from the bed, I scampered across to the intercom, babbling an excuse about being on the loo in response to Lydia’s angry demand to be let in. I pressed the release button, ran for the bathroom, grabbed my plugs from where they’d been soaking in the sink and tried to stick the dildo up my pussy, only to discover that I wasn’t ready. I grabbed for my moisturising cream and squeezed.