by Penny Birch
It was only then, as I told her she had a fat bottom, that what I was doing began to become revenge. Until then I had been putting everything into making her first spanking a good one, taking it slowly, trying to keep her mental state one step ahead of her pain. As her hand slid back between her thighs I knew I had won. She was going to bring herself off, and if I didn’t know what was going on in her head then I could have a pretty good guess.
I had said some pretty humiliating things to her and she hadn’t objected, and the last thing I’d told her was that her bottom was fat. It was a lie, but that wasn’t important, when so many women are so deeply horrified by the thought of being fat, and worst of all, of having a fat bottom. A fitness fanatic and journalist could surely be no exception.
Watching her masturbate was too much for me. She had slipped two fingers into her pussy and was pulling juice out to rub on her clit, which was deliciously rude, especially with her winking bumhole and quivering, beaten cheeks. I kept going, slapping hard even though my arm had started to ache, but I also adjusted position, spreading my knees and reaching in under my dress. I was soaking, hardly surprisingly, and quickly had two fingers inside myself and my thumb on my clit.
Amy started to come, and as I saw the muscles of her vulva squeeze and heard her cry of ecstasy I brought the shoe down on her bottom with all my force. She yelled and bucked, but kept frigging, screaming for me to beat her harder, to hurt her and punish her. I obliged, giving her other bumcheek the same treatment, then again, spanking her furiously in a frenzy of ecstasy and revenge as her sex spread and tightened over and over on her fingers.
I stopped as she slumped to the ground, but I wasn’t finished with her. Finishing her off with a final hard salvo to her crimson bottom, I moved to reach for her head. My hand caught her neck and I pulled her around, pushing her face in under my dress, right on to the soaking gusset of my panties. Reaching in, I wrenched them to the side, forcing her head to my pussy. She began to lick at once, lapping up my juice in abandoned, beaten submission, tonguing me with her reddened buttocks stuck high and naked, her swollen, soaking pussy and tight pink bumhole showing to the sky, puffy and moist with her excitement.
My thighs clamped on her head and I was coming, slipping into a glorious climax as her tongue flicked over and over on my clit. She was good, doubtless better for her beating, and I couldn’t hold my pose, but slumped back to the ground, spreading my legs to her as the sky spun over my head and I cried out in pure, perfect pleasure.
Amy McRae and I walked back along the beach arm in arm. She was still asking me questions, but they were different now, and a lot more understanding. I promised to keep what had happened between us secret, although Amber was at Walberswick and knows a spanked girl when she sees one.
Her virgin spanking had lasted somewhat over half an hour. After what I’d said it had had to, and I’d been checking my watch throughout. As is often the case with someone after a new and intense sexual experience, she was keen to justify her actions to herself, and to have me support her. Not that she needed much help, finding a dozen reasons why it was acceptable in no time at all.
I had been partially right about what had been going on in her head, but not entirely. She had decided beforehand that she would let me do it to her if I asked. Not bare, though, that had come because she fancied me and from my own obvious enthusiasm for being punished. She hadn’t expected to enjoy it either, but for the experience to confirm her beliefs and leave her in an unassailable position to argue from. Once she had tried it and hated it nobody could have said she didn’t understand. She had still been doubtful, even after I’d taken her panties down, and I’d nearly overdone it with my humiliating remarks.
Only once her bum was warm had she really given in to her arousal, and I’d really hit the nail on the head when I’d said she had a fat bottom. With her boobs out and her bum on show as she underwent punishment, it had been the final straw. As she came she had been thinking of how awful it would be to be force fed until her bottom really was big and fat and wobbly, then spanked for getting that way, adding injustice to her distress over her ballooning figure.
That was a new one on me, although for a weight-obsessed fitness fanatic I could see the power of it. What it did mean was that I had to admit that taking punishment could, at least sometimes, be a way of overcoming fears or past tribulations. After all, her worst nightmare was suffering mockery for being overweight, and that was exactly what she had come over, and to deny her the right to her own feelings would have been in total contradiction to my own argument.
We thrashed it out as we walked back down the beach, once more along the water’s edge. I had to admit that a lot of my fantasies involved being punished or degraded for things that would have been totally unacceptable in normal life, especially having my ability to control myself taken away. She asked if maintaining an exact control was a normal part of my life, and I admitted I was a scientist. This fitted her rapidly evolving theory, but I had to point out that girls exist who enjoy spanking largely for the physical aspect.
By the time we reached Amber I was completely confident that Amy was genuine. She was being too open to be anything else, and I was sure her request for secrecy had been genuine, if only because she had been blushing so hard when she made it that the cheeks of her face were nearly as red as the cheeks of her bottom. I couldn’t see it as a set-up in any case. After all, dedication is one thing, but what editor is going to give her camera team a full spread of her bare pussy and red bumcheeks for the sake of a scoop?
Amber was sitting on the little breakwater at the mouth of the Blyth, which meant she could see the whole of the beach, to well beyond where Amy and I had nipped behind the dunes. She greeted me with a knowing smile, which set Amy blushing again, but we were soon chatting intimately between the three of us.
We ate at one of the pubs, a lobster and salad washed down with Gewurztraminer, which was delicious and all the more so for being on Amy’s expense account. I was feeling distinctly cheeky by the end, and couldn’t resist ordering a large slice of sticky chocolate cake smothered in cream.
Amy asked how I dared to eat like that, which brought the conversation round to pony-girl play, which she had never heard of. Amber began to explain, first the basic pony-girl fantasy, then about piggy-girls, puppy-girls, vixen-hunting, tack, whips, dressage, everything, talking until long after dark with Amy soaking it all up in baffled amazement.
By the time we got back to the car it was the only one there, with the dunes a black line against the stars and only distant street-lights to show the way. It was lonely, but there was just that slightest risk we could be seen from the village, if not in detail. I was tipsy and thoroughly pleased with myself, so I asked for a spanking and got it, bent across the bonnet of the car with my dress high and my panties down, from both of them, slapping my cheeks in turn to bring the day to a perfect conclusion.
Seven
IT WAS GOING to be just under two months before the article was published. Amy was going to write it herself, and make it the main feature of the issue, all of which was immensely satisfying. I was absolutely triumphant. The best I had possibly expected to achieve was to make her accept that my viewpoint was valid. To have converted her was better by far, especially in view of the pleasure of dishing out her virgin spanking.
The only pity was that, with so little time before my return to the university, I had very little chance to enjoy my new-found playmate. She had no regular girlfriend, and was keen to explore, coming up for an afternoon and dinner. We introduced her to the pleasures of pony-girl play, first with me in harness and then herself. She enjoyed it, as I had been sure she would, with the blend of sex and sport having a strong appeal to athletic girls, especially when, like Amy, they had once owned a pony. She liked the harness as well, and was impressed by Amber’s ingenuity and skill, both at making things for keeping girls in restraint and at inventing erotic games.
We spanked her after dinner, naked over th
e end of the table, which is set up so the victim can see both her face and bottom while she is punished. I could remember my own first experience in the same place, and the strength of feeling as I watched my bottom stripped and the way my pussy juiced as I was beaten. I’d been caned too, and we did the same to Amy, warming her well first and soothing her in between strokes to calm her down. She took six, despite having been genuinely scared at first, ending up excited enough to use a candle in her pussy in front of us. The night was spent in each other’s arms after Amber and I had come together while Amy spanked us, an experience made all the more intimate by our hot bottoms.
Two days later I was back in the north, missing Amber and my other friends as ever, but with an added nostalgia and an undeniable sense of dissatisfaction. This came from events with Beth. True, she would read Amy’s article when it came out and doubtless have her eyes opened somewhat, but I had still failed, either to get her to punish me or to tie me up.
When I had first moved north I’d been pretty lonely, a long way from Amber and with nobody who knew about my sexuality, let alone understood it. I had managed to get involved in a particularly lewd affair with a janitor, Colin, but that had been based purely on our compatibility when it came to rough, dirty sex. In any case, he’d been sacked for installing a miniature camera in the female students’ lavatory, which had left me with mixed feelings of relief and regret.
Two years later I’d become involved with a group of female students who had formed a coven. It had been fun, with some deeply intense sexual experiences, but at the end of the day their beliefs were complete mumbo-jumbo and I’d found it impossible to fit in. All of them had either left or were now third-years and busy with their approaching finals, and so it had fallen apart. Ella, who had introduced me to them, was in the department, so I saw her occasionally, but that was all.
More lately there had been Wendy, who had been with me in Brittany to set up the previous summer’s field course. We had ended up in bed, and she had proved no innocent. She and I had continued our intimacy, which was just as well as she had managed to secure a junior lectureship and now worked in the department. That at least meant I had someone to talk to and an occasional playmate, and if her tastes were rather different from mine there was enough overlap for us to have fun together.
Amber rang me a week after the start of term to say that there had been a development. Amy was having a little difficulty getting her idea of what should now be in the article on corporal punishment accepted. Being pretty strong-willed and the editor, she had managed to get the majority of her colleagues to agree with her or at least accept her viewpoint. An exception to this was Isabel, who, although she was freelance and had no direct say in the matter, was also the niece of a director on the board of the company that owned Metropolitan.
Isabel was apparently questioning the authenticity of the piece, not suggesting that Amy had made it up, but that I might be a fake. I could see the logic behind the argument, as could Amy, although she assured us of her trust. If Metropolitan published a piece with anything less than a damning condemnation of the whole subject, erotic spanking included, and they turned out to have been set up, it would be pretty embarrassing. The upshot was that Isabel’s uncle, Sir Rhys Mintower, wanted to meet me, ostensibly to confirm that I was genuine.
It sounded to me more likely that Mintower was a dirty old man with entirely different motives for wanting to meet a woman who liked her bottom smacked. Amber agreed, and suggested I meet up with him but be careful. She defined careful as not letting him do anything Henry Gresham or Percy Ottershaw wouldn’t. This was not what worried me, but that it would be difficult to convince Mintower of my sincerity without risking my professional position. Yet if I refused it would risk damaging Amy, as a degree of her credibility had come to rest on me. Mintower was hardly going to accept my word for it if I insisted on anonymity.
After a minute of cursing myself for getting into such an awkward situation I decided that I had been right to contact Amy. There comes a point when one has to take a stand, but I had no intention of taking it publicly. Instead I needed somebody to introduce me to Mintower, somebody he trusted to tell the truth and who knew me well enough to be relied on.
My first thought was Anderson, whose father had been an important city figure of the same generation as Mintower. I drew a blank, but he pointed out that during Percy’s career as a wine merchant before taking up journalism he might well have supplied Mintower. Again I drew a blank. Henry was my next thought, although it was a long shot. He had bred horses, and it was just possible Mintower shared his interest. Sadly Mintower had no such hobby and Henry had never even heard of him. On my fourth telephone call I struck lucky, although it wasn’t the word I used when I replaced the receiver.
Morris Rathwell knew Mintower. Not well, but well enough for my purposes. Both were directors in some obscure holding company, based on some almost equally obscure Caribbean island, so I could guess what it was for. They met once a year at board meetings, but Rathwell felt certain Mintower would accept his word. What was required of me in return for this favour was made very clear, in fact so clear that it had the colour rising to my cheeks.
It is true that Rathwell exerts a sort of horrid fascination for me. He is so crude, so direct. His favourite thing is to take a girl’s virginity, better still, her anal virginity. Next to that he likes to add conquests to his list, and again he took a particular pleasure if the encounter included buggery. He had spanked me, and a few other things, and I had sucked his cock, but by and large Amber had kept us firmly apart. Now he wanted me properly, pussy and bumhole, and he was not going to compromise. The worst of it was that he was so appallingly arrogant that he would think I’d been angling for it all along and just needed an excuse to let myself go.
I could just imagine it. It wasn’t likely to be in my flat: that would be too cosy, too secure for me. More probably he’d do it in the back of his great vulgar car, with me bent over the back seat as his long, skinny cock was worked slowly up my bumhole. That would be after the fucking, which would probably be done on my back so that I got my bumhole greasy with my own juice. Harmony had told me that detail, of how he liked to bugger a girl in her own lubrication.
Undoubtedly he would come up my bottom, or worse, pull it out and finish off in my mouth. Only when he’d had his fill would I be spanked and allowed to come myself, probably with a carrot or something in my bumhole to remind me of what had just been done to me. More likely than not he would bring the twins, so not only would I get watched as I was sodomised but I’d be obliged to do whatever they wanted. After what Mel had said the last time I wasn’t sure if she was any better than her husband. I thought about it for a bit, but in the end I picked up the phone and called him back.
I always like to try and understand other people’s viewpoints, whether or not I agree with them. Certainly I could see Rathwell’s. He was a busy man, giving up time to do a girl a favour that would gain him nothing more than her gratitude. All he wanted to do was be sure of that gratitude by making certain it was delivered in concrete terms, specifically, his penis up my bottom. The fact that social conventions make it utterly outrageous to suggest to a woman that she submits to buggery in return for a favour was neither here nor there. Not that Morris Rathwell ever cared for social conventions. What his family must have thought of him marrying a black girl from the East End and then living in a ménage à trois with her and her twin sister I could only imagine.
So I was going to get it, that very weekend. To be fair, he could have made me go all the way to London, but he decided to come north and I was instructed to meet him at a cottage to the south and east of the city. This was obviously hired for the weekend, and he had chosen well. It was at the bottom of a little valley, wooded on both sides with a long track down to the buildings, the cottage, a garage and a jumble of sheds. They welcomed me at the door, all three of them.
I greeted them happily, actually feeling quite reckless about it all,
probably because my adrenalin was up. They showed me inside, Rathwell giving my bottom a proprietary squeeze as I went through the door. The interior was cosy, twee even, with lots of polished wood and chintz decor. It had obviously been a barn before, as the roof beams were blackened with age and riddled with nail holes, which showed despite a heavy layer of varnish.
They didn’t rush things, but sat me down to a hearty dinner with plenty of wine and Cognac to follow. By the end I was feeling pretty mellow, with only a mild knot in the pit of my stomach at what was coming. The buggery wasn’t the problem: I’d always known he would get me in the end. More alarming was the system of ropes that I’d glimpsed as I came in.
I was expecting him to want to humiliate me, perhaps making me dress as a schoolgirl or a cheer-leader, but I hadn’t really counted on being strung up from the ceiling, nor on what Harmony brought in to the kitchen area. As I saw it I realised that they intended to completely destroy my dignity, and that they had probably spent hours deciding how best to do it. Rathwell loves that, making a girl feel as ridiculous as possible while she is punished, and as long as it is presented in a sexual way, no piece of imagery seems too extreme for him.
Schoolgirl uniform and maid’s outfits are the least of it. Both imply innocence and a low social status, even if the concept is a bit out of date. A Girl Guide’s uniform is much the same, perhaps stronger still. When I’d told Beth that Mark had made me dress as a Girl Guide it was Rathwell who had given me the idea. He had made a girl do it at one of his parties, a little green uniform, green tights, the lot, even green knickers. She had been spanked with it all disarranged to leave her bare bum showing in the middle, which had left me feeling sorry for her and jealous at the same time.
Every person is different, and every submissive girl has her vulnerability when it comes to clothes. The image must be meaningful, and as downgrading as possible, but still look cute. That way she can feel humiliated and sexy at the same time. A very serious girl, say an accountant in real life, might be most effectively dealt with in a clown’s costume, perhaps with the seat and front cut away to leave her bottom and breasts showing. The converse of this is to punish a girl in an outfit she normally wears in a context of which she is rightfully proud. Thus a barrister might be beaten in her wig and gown, with her smart suit beneath. Expose her bum and boobs and whack her like that, and she will get a far stronger experience than she would taking the same punishment naked.