by Penny Birch
I never saw the bank. One moment I was running in blind panic and the next I was sliding and rolling down through mud and wet grass to land in a huge puddle, face first. The shock of the cold water brought me back to my senses and I pulled my face out of the mud, or rather my mask, which had stayed on and was so heavily plastered in mud that I couldn’t see at all and could barely breathe. I sat up, aching and filthy but still intending to run, only to find that I had hurt my ankle as I fell. That was the last straw and I collapsed back into the cool slime, defeated, willing to surrender to whatever tortures and degradations they chose to inflict on me.
Already I was lying face down in a pool of dirty water, blind with mud and probably cow dung, naked but for my footwear, mask and brush, scratched, bruised and with four scarlet whip marks decorating my bottom. How much worse could it get?
A lot, especially with the five of them all determined to get their pleasure out of me, making me service them in whatever way they pleased once my own wants had been dealt with. Henry was most likely to make me suck him and come in my mouth, either that or in my face. Vicky and Ginny would both make me lick, down on my knees with my face in their pussies and my bare bum stuck up in the air, one after the other. Anderson would probably bugger me. Amber would queen me and make me lick her bottom while she played with herself: it was her favourite thing and, at the thought of her lovely bottom being lowered into my face, I couldn’t resist a little purr.
I felt a hand on my shoulder, not the rough grip I had expected but a gentle pressure, suggesting that it was one of the girls and that she was worried in case the game had gone too far or I’d really hurt myself. I was in a sorry state, but compassion was the last thing I wanted, at least not until I had been thoroughly abused. Intent on assuring them I pushed the gag from my mouth, wincing as the gum pulled from around my chin and lips.
‘You’ve got me, take me, rape me,’ I managed, and sank back into the slurry.
‘Oh my God!’ she answered: a female voice, but not Amber, not Ginny and not Vicky.
It was like having a bucket of freezing water thrown over me. I’d been in a sort of erotic haze, well worked up, with my adrenalin running high and my endorphins higher still, in a deliciously awkward situation from which there was no escape. Suddenly I was in a genuinely awkward situation, with some concerned woman leaning over me and babbling out horror-struck questions about what had been done to me and by whom.
Fortunately, although it didn’t seem so at the time, I’d taken a mouthful of filthy water when I slumped back into the puddle, so instead of saying anything stupid I just choked and spluttered. That gave me a chance to collect my wits and ignore her barrage of questions and sympathetic remarks, which ended with a determined statement that she would call the police on her mobile phone.
I tried to answer that one, begging her not to do it, but it was too late. For once the call got through without delay, and before I could stop her she was jabbering out the most frightful stuff about me being assaulted and beaten up and raped and even kidnapped. Then it was too late, and as she went back to trying to comfort and interrogate me simultaneously I tried frantically to decide what to do.
I certainly couldn’t tell the truth, as it would lead to all sorts of trouble for my friends, not to mention the man who owned the land. Nor could I run for it as, with my ankle and a squad of police about to descend on us, there was no hope of escape. It was too late to reason with her, and as I managed to get enough mud off my mask to see I realised that it would have been hopeless anyway.
She was small, not much bigger than me, with dyed blonde hair framing her face and an expression of concerned, honest alarm. From what she was saying and the way she kept repeating ‘Oh my God’, it was obvious that she was not going to believe anything except that I had been brutalised in some awful way. Why she imagined any rapist would put a girl in a fox’s mask and stick a pretend brush up her bottom was a question that could wait until later.
I said nothing, hoping she would accept that I was in shock while I sorted my mind out. She was scared too, and not without reason, because from her point of view whatever maniac had attacked me was probably still in the vicinity. When Anderson gave a hunting call from the wood she stiffened and threw a terrified glance over her shoulder, but the chase had begun to move in the opposite direction. With that, and looking around me, I realised that I was not in the wood at all, but on the public footpath.
My only chance was to bluff it out. I couldn’t even admit who I was, as if I did the story would be bound to get out. The thought of my colleagues at the university thinking I’d been horribly raped was nearly as bad as the thought of them knowing how debauched my sex life was. The idea of my mother finding out was worse. It would also mean a full investigation, and it wasn’t going to take Sherlock Holmes to put two and two together. What the police would then make of my little fox-hunting fantasy I wasn’t sure, but I had no intention of finding out.
I finally pretended to come to my senses, peeling the mask off my face with considerable difficulty and looking up at my rescuer with what I hoped was a suitably frightened and grateful expression. She immediately cradled my head, muttering soothing words and stroking my hair, apparently indifferent to the mess she was making of her jumper. My head was held tight to her breasts, which were fairly big, and firm too, briefly making me forget how awkward a situation I was in. I let her hold me anyway, and reached back for my tail, which I was determined to get out of my bottom before the police arrived.
She watched me do it, mouth and eyes wide as I pulled the plug out of my bottom-hole and undid the belt. I was pretty sore, and winced as it came out, which drew a fresh spate of sympathy from her. I stood and stretched, still not feeling able to answer, and as she got her first proper look at my body she went quiet.
I have to admit I was a pretty sorry sight. My legs were red with scratches, particularly the fronts, which also had some pretty bad nettlerash. My tummy and chest were scratched, too, less badly, but with two livid welts, one of which ran across both breasts as if somebody had hit them with a cane. My back was less bad, but the four whip marks on my bottom left no doubt that I had been beaten, and well. There were bruises, too, new ones and a few fading marks from when Amber had had to spank me with a hairbrush the week before.
‘Oh my God!’ the girl said for about the thirtieth time and at that moment I heard the sound of sirens in the distance.
If I’d been lucky the police might never have found us and would have gone back thinking it had been a hoax call. Unfortunately Beth, which was my rescuer’s name, insisted on helping me to the road. She gave me her jumper, too, which was big enough to cover most of me. By chance a squad car was passing at the exact moment we arrived. After that it was absolutely ghastly, and took more strength and downright obstinacy than I’ve ever had to show before.
They started off assuming I’d be happy to help, and when I wasn’t they decided that it was because I was scared of my supposed attacker. First it was the doctor, who let me wash the worst of the mud off and then gave me a pretty humiliating inspection that would have had me fully aroused in normal circumstances. I was in stirrups, legs up and open, pussy wide, while he pulled on gloves and gave me a thorough internal, not just vaginal, but anal too. Samples then followed, swabs and fluids, all of which I consented to just to buy me time to think. He asked questions as well, which I was forced to answer so that they accorded with the condition of my body. Yes, I had been beaten. Yes, I had been penetrated. No, nobody had come inside me. He saw the brush and mask and immediately rang for a psychiatrist, but chose not to question me on that subject. Only then did he dress the few minor cuts I’d sustained and give me some ointment for my nettlerash.
A WPC helped me to wash properly, and stood by while I rubbed the ointment into my rash, a process which I’d also have thoroughly enjoyed in any other circumstances. By the time I was ready and wrapped in a police-issue towelling robe, Beth had given her statement, which seemed to
have been pretty dramatic. It was now my turn, and as I sat down and took hold of a cup of thin coffee I was bracing myself for what was to come.
They were pretty sympathetic at first, putting my lack of co-operation down to shock, but it wasn’t long before their patience began to wear thin. This was especially true of the male officer, a bullish sergeant who seemed to take it personally that I wasn’t eager to tell my story in lavish detail. I’d given my name to Beth as Penny Brush, which had been a pretty stupid thing to say but the first name that came into my head. I had to stick with it anyway, and if any of them thought it a bit peculiar that a girl found naked and made up as a fox should be called after a certain well-known children’s TV character from the seventies, then they didn’t say so.
Only when they asked my address did I clamp down, refusing to give it. They presented me with several good reasons why I should, but I stuck to my guns and eventually they moved on to asking me about my attacker. I said he had been just under six foot, of medium build and dark haired, with no distinguishing features. By then I was beginning to feel a bit of temper, or perhaps hysteria, because I had to bite back the temptation to say he was four foot tall, one legged, bald and with a livid scar running from forehead to chin.
When asked what had happened I kept to the minimum of what the doctor already knew. I had been walking and had stopped for a picnic lunch: ciabatta with chorizo and sun-dried tomatoes washed down with a Valpolicella ripasso. That was true, as it was what Henry has served for lunch before the fox-hunt, and while I doubted they would pump my stomach, the alcohol was bound to show up in my samples. At the mention of the wine the sergeant gave a knowing frown and the last piece of my intended scheme fell into place.
‘And what were you wearing, Miss Brush?’ he asked.
‘A little summer frock,’ I answered. ‘It was such a nice day.’
‘With what underneath?’ he went on. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m sure you will understand that we have to ask these questions. Your clothing may provide important clues.’
‘Well, nothing actually,’ I said after a moment’s pause. ‘It was such a nice day, and . . .’
‘A light summer frock with nothing underneath?’ he demanded. ‘A short summer frock?’
‘Yes,’ I answered and saw his brow furrow.
I knew what he wanted to say – that as I’d been out walking, alone, in a short cotton dress with nothing on underneath then I shouldn’t really be surprised when I attracted male attention, even to the point of being assaulted. It had been quite windy on the footpath and I could imagine him picturing my dress blowing up to show my legs, maybe even my bottom, my bare bottom. Any red-blooded male would see it as provocative, and if I didn’t realise that I was stupid. He wanted to tell me, but he didn’t dare, not in front of the WPC.
From then on it was quite easy. He had decided what I was, a silly girl who had more or less got what she deserved, and I was happy to play along with the image. The WPC was pretty outraged at his attitude, but in the end rank told. She tried the line that if I didn’t co-operate I would be leaving a violent attacker at large, trying to make me feel guilty. As there was no attacker this didn’t work either and I just sat there with a petulant expression on my face until they gave up.
I began to worry again when the time came to speak to the psychiatrist. Having read zoology at a university no more than a few miles away I was worried that they might produce someone who actually knew me, which would have been the end of my little pretence. Fortunately it was just some man full of his own theories and much more inclined to talk than listen.
He more or less told me that the reason I had been put in a fox’s mask and brush was that my attacker had been a huntsman frustrated by the moves to outlaw hunting with hounds. My light dress, lack of underwear and casual manner had led him to identify me as the epitome of the enemy; urban, left-wing and unrestrainedly female. Thus I was the ideal victim and what had happened to me had had nothing to do with sex whatever but only power, the act of a male powerless in the face of government and so determined to exert himself on weaker members of society. I let him drivel on for a while and then agreed that this was a brilliant theory and undoubtedly true, and really that was that. He left thoroughly pleased with himself, doubtless intending to write a paper on the subject with plenty of flow charts and bad statistical analysis. From his age it was certain he had grown up during the seventies, yet for all his cock-sure assumption of intelligence it never occurred to him that there was something odd about my name.
All the while I had been dreading that they would run into Amber and the others and bring them in. It didn’t happen, and at eleven o’clock when the night’s drunks and troublemakers started to appear I began to feel I was going to get away with it. Not wishing to end up wandering around Berkshire in the middle of the night I made no demands, and presently went to sleep from sheer exhaustion.
In the morning they had to let me go, as I had known they would if I just stuck to my guns long enough. The WPC made a final effort to get my identity when she brought me tea in the morning, but I resisted and so two hours later I found myself on the street.
My feelings were mixed as I walked away from the station. Most of them had been sympathetic to me, but several, the sergeant especially, regarded me as a complete time-waster. I did feel bad about that, but really I had had little choice. More importantly, it hadn’t been my decision to go there in the first place. I must admit to a degree of triumph too, for having led the sergeant’s thought processes down his own preferred line and evading the attentions of the psychiatrist.
Not that my troubles were over. Standing in the road in Beth’s jumper and an ill-fitting skirt, it was not obvious what I should do, while I had to consider the possibility that I would be followed. My parents’ house was no more than a stiff walk away, but that was the last place I wanted to go, while with no money my options were limited. The best bet seemed to be to take a roundabout route cross-country, until I was absolutely sure I was clear, and then to beg the use of someone’s phone to call Amber.
So I walked, north along the river and then out across the fields on a footpath, constantly checking behind me. By the time I was certain I was not being followed I was in the hilly country to the west of Pangboume, which I know quite well. I was starting to feel confident again, and to see the funny side of what I’d been through, and the naughty side as well.
What with the fox-hunt, Beth, the medical examination and the interviews it had been quite a day. The irony of the situation was not lost on me either. While it has never really been my thing, I know more than one girl who has submissive sexual fantasies centred on forcible medical inspections, and police fantasies too, about being arrested and subjected to various sexual humiliations. I’d had the medical bit for real, stirrups and all, and while I couldn’t fault the police for their behaviour, there had been a definite element of humiliation about the whole thing.
Vicky, for instance, has a fantasy about being taken to a health farm and deliberately humiliated for being overweight. She is put in a room with a dozen or so other women, all thinner than her, and made to strip while the others keep on their smart clothes. The nurse then gives her a lecture, spanks her across the knee and puts her through a full medical, including being made to provide a urine sample and given an enema, all of it while the other women watch and make condescending and insulting remarks. Normally she comes when she gets to the enema, and in one version she refuses and has to be tied into stirrups before it happens. This is strange, as she is tall, slim and muscular, but that’s fantasy for you.
I was looking forward to telling her, as there’s no better way of getting over something like that than making a joke of it with friends. Naturally I’d need to embellish it a bit, and as I struck off down another footpath I began to think of what details I should add to turn her on and make her jealous. I doubted she’d believe I’d been given an enema, but I could say he’d watched while I provided the urine sample, which was gua
ranteed to both horrify her and turn her on. Yes, that would be perfect, saying I’d been made to pee in front of him, on a thing like a potty, still in the nude with him gloating over my embarrassment.
Really I should know my own sexuality by now, but I doubt it will be the last time I work myself up by accident. Thinking about medical inspections and public spankings and humiliations, I had become desperately turned on. There was the frustration of not having come after the fox-hunt as well, an orgasm I had been looking forward to for days. I had to do it.
There was no hesitation. I was walking down the side of a field, with a thick wood ahead, bright green with spring leaves. On reaching it I ran in far enough to be safe, all the while with a lump of tension building in my throat. I adore masturbating outdoors, but I’m always careful not to be caught, however badly I need it.
Having chosen a thick stand of young hazel, I stood still for a moment, listening for any sounds that might indicate a human presence. There was nothing, just birdsong and the distant rumble of the motorway. A moment later and my panties were down under my skirt and I was settling my bare bottom on to a hummock of wet moss, which felt wonderfully cool and soft. I put my fingers to my pussy and closed my eyes, allowing my mind to drift as I started to play with myself.
It was the police station at first, and the way I’d been spread out, thighs cocked wide, ankles high in the stirrups, pussy wide to the peering doctor. I thought of his clinical manner, the calm, detached way he had pulled on his gloves as I lay there with all the most intimate parts of my body on show. He had seen my breasts and bottom, sore with whip marks, my pussy, wet with my own juices, my bottom-hole, still greasy with the lubricant that had been used on the tail-plug. His hand had gone up me, filling my pussy out opening me, exploring me . . .
I could have come, and it would have been good. Good, but not perfect: medical fantasy just isn’t really my thing. It would have been better if the grumpy old sergeant had told me not to waste his time and put me across his knee for a good old-fashioned spanking, hard, on my bare bottom while the pretty young WPC giggled over my distress. That was nice, especially the thought of her enjoying watching me being beaten while in fear of getting the same treatment on her own pert bottom, panties down and all. Unfortunately it was too wide of reality to get me there and I stopped, idly massaging my pussy while I searched for the right fantasy.