by Penny Birch
My whole body was shivering as he began to tickle me, first my boobs and side once more, then my neck and back. Unlike Beth he had no compunction about my bottom-hole, tickling my spread cheeks in circles that moved ever closer to my anus. My ring began to pulse even before he touched it, and I was giggling pathetically, clutching Vicky with my legs and writhing my bum in a futile effort to escape.
As the first tiny featherlet touched my anus it just happened: I wet myself. I felt the pee coming and screamed for him to stop, calling him a bastard and a sadist. He just laughed, and ran the wretched thing along my squirming bumhole. It was too late anyway: my pussy just exploded, the piddle gushing out on to Vicky’s tummy and spraying from the sides. I cried out in an agony of utter, helpless frustration, shame too, made worse by Vicky’s gasp of shock as my hot piddle sprayed against her flesh and ran down her body.
It was everywhere, mostly down her legs, but splashed right up on our boobs and it was still coming. I could feel it dripping from my bumcheeks and around the hole, and only then did Anderson stop tickling, not to save me further distress, but to stop the ostrich feather getting spoiled. My reserve was broken, and I let it all run out, down Vicky’s tummy and legs and on to the floor. I was sobbing and squeezing my thighs around her, high on a dirty ecstasy, soaked in pee and desperate to come while still in pain and distress.
It was Amber who took mercy on me, and Vicky, too. She had been watching, and as the last trickle of pee splashed to the ground from my bumcheeks she gave a knowing sigh and pulled up her top. Stripping in front of a man, even if it’s only Anderson, means a lot to her, but she took off her bra as well as her jumper, which wasn’t really necessary to keep the pee off her clothes.
She masturbated me with a clinical thoroughness, sliding her hand down between Vicky’s tummy and my pussy, finding my clit and starting to rub with practised expertise. Her other hand came up between my dripping cheeks and fingers and slid up my pussy, her thumb pressing to my bumhole. I relaxed my anus and the top joint of her thumb went in even as my orgasm hit me, rising and bursting to make me scream with ecstasy.
Once I had finished she undid my wrist cuffs and helped me off Vicky. I sat down in my puddle with a squelching noise, too far gone to care that I was stark naked and sitting in a pool of my own pee. As Amber began to masturbate Vicky the thought came to me that the experience had been far stronger and far dirtier than I had expected. With that came a further, wicked, thought.
Four
WHEN A GIRL is being spanked, let alone caned or whipped, you can feel her pain and her arousal. Leastwise anybody with the slightest sense of empathy can, especially if they’ve been through the same experience, which is why I prefer to be punished by those who know how it feels. Restraint is different, with more of the experience in the head, although what the victim is thinking is crucial for any physical erotic punishment, from a meaningful pat on the cheek to a full-blown flogging.
A smack is a smack, and while I’ve known spankers to pat my bottom to test my reaction, you can hardly pretend it didn’t happen. The target is too obvious, for one thing. A smack also creates a clear imbalance of power between the people involved, and a big one, as to accept someone’s right to smack you is effectively to surrender your right of control over your own body. That was the root of Beth’s objection to spanking, that it was wrong for a woman to submit her will to a man, and by extension for her to punish another woman.
The same would doubtless be true if I asked her to tie me up, and while her slow kissing technique would have been far better with my wrists tied to the bed post, I couldn’t see her accepting the suggestion. What I could do was make it seem accidental, and surely she would discover the extra pleasure to be had from having me helpless while she brought me slowly to orgasm. Setting it up was going to be tricky, but an entertaining challenge.
I checked as many back issues of Metropolitan as I could find in case there was some long-winded article on why completely free physical movement was morally vital during sex. There wasn’t, but there was plenty of other stuff, and it struck me that the editor was basically making her best effort to be the arbiter of what was and what was not acceptable. It was illogical by any rational standards, hypocritical even. Gay men could do as they pleased, although it was far too coy to actually mention what it is gay men like to do, beyond a little cock-sucking. Women, by contrast, could never take a submissive role, and preferably never a passive one, even in lesbian relationships, although I was glad to see that the idea of girls having sex together was actively encouraged. For two girls to have sex in front of a man was out though, as it was supposedly surrendering their bodies for his voyeuristic pleasure, and anything that smacked of male voyeurism was out.
That had me scratching my head in puzzlement, but one thing made me laugh out loud. There were occasional articles on wine, food and so forth, usually with a dietary slant. One of these was by Natasha Linnet, discussing the calorific value of different wines. Natasha was a colleague of Percy Ottershaw, and occasionally a playmate, with tastes not so very different from my own. Her favourite thing was to be spanked, preferably bare-bottomed and across the knee just like me, but ideally by somebody who thought they were giving her a genuine punishment. I’d personally seen her upended, panties off, while Percy whacked her bum with a shoe, and to think of the sight and compare it with the picture of her in the magazine, cool and poised with a glass of white wine in one hand, was just superb.
Both naughty clothing and body jewellery were acceptable, to a point. The argument was that a woman had the right to display her body in any way she pleased without interference. I had to agree, in principle, although I considered the idea dangerously naïve, rather like demanding the right to eat a raw steak in a lion enclosure. That made my leather dress acceptable, in any case, although undoubtedly daring. It was basically a halter top and miniskirt joined by carefully placed strips that left my back and most of my tummy showing. The edges were deliberately ragged, including the skirt hem, which was so short that even bending forward a few degrees left my panties on show. Anybody coming upstairs behind me was going to get a fine eyeful. It was shaped around my breasts, too, with carefully designed little bumps to make it look as if I had permanently erect nipples.
I spent the week working out the details of my plan, then rang Beth, who was delighted with the idea of going out together. She accepted my reluctance to go anywhere in Reading because of the supposed risk of running into Mark, and happily agreed to London as the better place to be. I had chosen the club carefully, seeking advice from among more extrovert friends. This was Geezer’s, which sounded pretty awful but had stalls selling body jewellery and so forth, including little bondage bracelets that could be linked to make delicate, playful handcuffs. With those, and a little flattery for Beth’s skill in bed, I felt I had a fair chance.
Unfortunately things started to go wrong when we were still on the train. Beth was full of enthusiasm, for me, for going clubbing together, for life in general, and I began to feel bad about deceiving her. It had seemed so easy discussing it with the others, not greatly different from the other games we played, but faced with Beth in the flesh my conscience had begun to get the better of me. By the time we got to Paddington I had decided that at the least she deserved to know who I really was. It wasn’t going to be possible to maintain the deception for ever anyway, as what had been intended to be a brief naughty adventure had become something more.
Not that it was easy, with Beth chattering happily away, hinting of the pleasures we might share in bed and speculating on whether this was the night Mr Right might come along almost in the same breath. It was more than I could resist to offer to join in for a threesome if he did, which nearly earned me one of her lectures. I managed to laugh the comment off and suggested we have a drink to change the subject.
I had a long coat on over my dress, and as we had met at Reading Station she didn’t get to see it until we got to the club. She was both pleased and a littl
e shocked, as if determined to approve but not really sure about it. Personally it left me feeling exposed and vulnerable, at least until we got through the inner doors and I found it was only a little more daring than what the other girls were wearing.
Geezer’s was hot, smoky and deafening, not really my sort of place at all, but Beth seemed to like it, so we drank and danced and had shouted conversations with the various men who approached us. By the time we managed to get to the jewellery stall we were both fairly tipsy, and with Beth giggling over the body jewellery it was easy to buy the bondage bracelets. I put them on, feeling pretty pleased with myself and well in the mood to be fixed to her bedstead and teased slowly to orgasm.
I put my arm around her as we went back to the bar and she made no resistance, but when I took a handful of her bottom and gave it a gentle squeeze she patted my hand away, smiling but evidently not up for a cuddle in public. She was ready to play, though, I was sure of it, and pretty sure that if I played my cards well I’d end up cuffed to her bed. Telling her the truth had been postponed, at least until the morning.
We went into what was called a chill-out room, where the music was less unbearably loud, and settled down to chat and drink. Our arms were around each other’s shoulders and I was feeling ever more ready for her when a girl came into the room, handing out flyers. She was black, really dark, beautiful too, with a bold, impudent face and muscular curves, just the sort of woman I like to be dominated by. About a second later I realised I had been: it was Melody Rathwell.
There was no way out. I was sitting in full view, wearing a deliberately provocative dress and bondage bracelets, with my arm around a pretty girlfriend. Melody could not fail to see us, and when she did she was certain to want to chat us up. Being Melody, she would probably offer to take us into the girls’ loos and have us bend over the bowl for a double spanking. I could just imagine Beth’s response.
Worse still, if Melody was handing out flyers they could only be for Morris’s club, and her sister Harmony, and even Morris himself, were likely to be around. I tried to make myself look small, then, on sudden impulse, grabbed Beth and kissed her hard on the mouth, hoping that Melody would not recognise the back of my head. It was a stupid decision, because she was bound to look at two girls snogging and think us ideal material for their club. Sure enough, Beth met my kiss, responding nervously, only for a hand to close on my shoulder.
‘Penny?’ Melody’s silky voice sounded, right in my ear. ‘Put her down a minute. Hi, you’re cute. I’m Melody.’
‘Beth,’ Beth answered.
‘You’ve got to come on afterwards,’ Melody went on, smiling and full of enthusiasm. ‘There’ll be about twelve of us, at my place. You two can come in the Rolls. Amber around?’
‘No,’ I admitted.
Her mouth curved into a smile that would have put a crocodile to shame.
‘Catch you later then,’ she finished and left with a playful smack to my bare thigh and a flash of her teeth.
She didn’t leave a flyer, which was just as well, as I’d caught of glimpse of them and the picture showed a girl on a lead between the feet of another girl, Melody herself. As she went on she bent to hand a flyer to a couple and her tight shorts pulled right up her crease, giving the most gorgeous display of ripe, muscular bottom. I remembered the same view, only naked, the last time she had sat on my face. A shiver went right through me.
‘She’s nice,’ Beth chirped up cheerfully. ‘How do you know her? What’s this about a Rolls? Who’s Amber?’
‘Hang on, give me a chance.’ I laughed, frantically trying to decide what to do. ‘I’ve known Melody ages. She’s married to this property developer, Morris Rathwell. He runs a club as a hobby and he’s got a Rolls, a gold one, he’s really . . .’
I’d been going to say vulgar, then go on to enlarge on the disadvantages of Morris Rathwell, other than what he liked to do to pretty young girls, that is. Unfortunately Beth interrupted me with a delighted squeak at the prospect of riding in a gold Rolls-Royce.
‘. . . rich,’ I finished. ‘Amber’s a friend, a very close friend actually. Look, Beth, I haven’t been as truthful with you as I should have.’
I was going to tell her, I really was, all the details and then beg for her forgiveness and explain it was only because I fancied her so much. She would probably have run out, maybe even slapped my face, which would have been ironic, but she never gave me the chance.
‘She’s been your lover, hasn’t she?’ Beth said, her voice full of understanding. ‘It’s all right, Penny, I know it can be hard to accept your feelings for other women, but you must rely on your inner strength. When did it happen, before Mark?’
I shook my head, still meaning to tell her the truth but with a big lump in my throat.
‘While you were with Mark!’ Beth gasped. ‘Did he know? Did he . . .’
I knew what she was going to ask – had Mark forced us to have sex together. It was actually quite a nice image, although I’ve yet to meet the man who can force Amber to do anything, but it would have been just one more complication, so I shook my head again.
‘Behind his back!’ she went on. ‘Why did you stop? Did he find out?’
It was pointless telling Beth anything: she just made up her own version according to her imagination. I’d given up on trying to tell her the truth, as I wasn’t even sure she’d believe it if I did. The sort of relationship I had with Amber was just too far outside her experience for her to accept, particularly the way I chose to be kept under discipline. Melody was worse, what with threesomes with her sister and the appalling Morris Rathwell into the bargain. That brought my mind back to the more immediate problem: how to dissuade Beth from her Rolls-Royce ride and escape the club without Melody catching us.
‘Let’s not talk about horrid old Mark,’ I chirped up. ‘I want you to kiss me all over like you did before, on my neck and down my spine, on my tummy and on my boobs . . .’
‘Penny!’ she interrupted.
She’d gone red and several people were looking at us, but that was fine: anything for a hasty exit.
‘Let’s go,’ I urged, ‘or I’m going to want you to take me in the loos.’
‘Penny! You’re drunk. Anyway, what about the party?’
‘Never mind the party: I want you.’
‘Please? At least let’s ride in the Rolls; we can get out near a tube station.’
I should have told her that once in Rathwell’s Rolls it wasn’t so easy to get out, at least not before you’d sucked his cock. That might have put her off, but the point became redundant as Rathwell himself shouldered his way into the room.
‘Hey, Penny,’ he greeted me. ‘Mel told me you were here. You must be Beth? Hi, Morris. Say, this place is a dump, isn’t it? You’re coming to the party, yes?’
That was it. He put an arm around each of our shoulders as we stood and began to steer us towards the door, indifferent to my explanations of how we really needed to get back. Beth was no help, giggling and simpering for all her supposedly feminist views, and once we were in the main body of the club it was hopeless anyway because nobody could hear what I was saying.
I know I give up too easily in social situations, but it was truly hopeless. Beth wanted her Rolls-Royce ride and if I complained too much I was going to look like a complete spoil-sport. I half expected Rathwell to grope Beth, which would doubtless have saved the day, but for once he showed restraint.
The Rolls was outside, a huge gold thing parked on a double yellow line. Harmony was in the driving seat and waved cheerfully as we approached, blowing me a kiss and then sticking her tongue out in an unmistakably lewd gesture. Beth either failed to understand or ignored the implication of a tongue tip pushed slowly out between pursed lips and Rathwell hustled us into the back, taking a good squeeze of my bottom as he did so, but not Beth’s. His hand had gone right under my dress, tugging my panties into my crease, and I was forced to adjust them as I sat down.
‘Keep them on, Penny, ther
e’s no rush,’ Melody’s voice sounded from beside me as she swung herself in, a comment which Beth fortunately missed.
‘It’s great of you to give us a lift,’ I tried. ‘Paddington would be best, but any tube will do.’
‘I thought we were going to the party?’ Beth pouted.
‘We are, little lady, we are,’ Rathwell answered. ‘Hey, Penny, where’s the spirit, girl? You’re usually well up for it.’
‘It’s not that,’ I answered him. ‘Beth lives in Streatley; we’ll miss our train.’
‘Hey, this is Morris you’re talking to,’ he answered. ‘Would I leave you on the streets? Would I? No, party tonight, stay over, and tomorrow who knows? Maybe a chauffeur-driven ride back to the sticks. What do you say, Beth?’
‘Look, Morris, I’m really not sure it’s her type of party.’
‘Hey, Penny, any girlfriend of yours has got to like my parties. Am I right or am I right?’
‘Come on, Penny, let’s go; I’m in the mood for a party.’
Whether she was in the mood for one of Rathwell’s parties was another matter. Being expected to do striptease and suck cock was the least of it. I could do nothing, and when Beth found that Rathwell and the girls spent half their time in New York that was the end. For some reason the US fascinated her, New York in particular, and within minutes they were chatting about shopping while I looked out the window and contemplated the future.
It had begun to rain, and Camden Town looked wet and black, with the people huddled down as the pubs spilled out. As Beth chattered happily on my sympathy began to decrease. After all, she was a grown woman and I’d done my best to shield her. I knew I’d still try, but if she got shocked then I had done my best.
We weren’t going in the direction I’d expected and I realised Rathwell must have moved. Sure enough, we ended up somewhere to the north of Hampstead, at a large house with a Greek portico and high, black security gates. Beth went into raptures over this, much to Rathwell’s delight, and he offered to show us around, which finally gave me a chance to speak to the girls.