Bad Penny (12 page)

She rolled to her side and stuck her tongue out at me in a gesture of happy exhaustion. I smiled back and held my hand out, finding hers as the light vanished. We drew together, kissing in the dark, her mouth full of the same salty, male taste as my own. I wasn't surprised that one of them had come in her mouth, and nor did I care as our arms went around each other. We snogged and cuddled, aware of the show we were putting on for the boys. I was wondering if it would get them going again – which would be fine, as long as they didn't separate Linda and me. Her body was wonderfully resilient, slick with sweat and sperm and ever so warm and alive. Our sex was perhaps a little clumsy and a little drunken, but it lacked nothing in passion. My fingers found her pussy as we clung together with our breasts touching. She sighed as I started to masturbate her, finding her clit and rubbing it. Then her hand came down between my legs and a finger slid into my pussy. We masturbated together, oblivious to everything else except each other, finally coming together with our fingers on each other's pussies and our tongues entwined in a mess of the boys' sperm.

We lay together for a long time, cuddling and occasionally kissing each other gently. There was no sign of the boys, but I thought nothing of it as I still wanted to explore Linda. She made no objection as I began to fondle her bottom and I let my hands slide down between her lush cheeks to find her anus. She just sighed and cuddled me more closely, kissing my nose as if to assure me that she had no objection to the intimacy of what I was doing. I began to tickle her bottom-hole, very gently, making her groan with pleasure. I was beginning to wonder if the boys would like to watch me spank her when I was startled by the sound of the car's engine and flooded with light from its headlights.

We came apart, vaguely aware of their laughter above the sound of the engine. I could barely see in the glare but managed a protest that was just met with more laughter. Then they began to drive off. Linda got to her feet and shouted something to Gary, but it made no difference. One of them waved something out of the window and I realised that he had my panties. I looked around, finding to my horror that they had taken all my clothes, and Linda's, leaving only our handbags.

I shouted after them but was left watching as they drove off. We stood in disbelief, watching the car's lights fade away and then vanish. We'd let them have us, surrendering ourselves to them only for them to play a stupid, childish trick, leaving us naked and filthy three miles from town. I felt utterly used, yet had the consolation of having laid my ghost with a vengeance.

7

Tweezers

I had gone over to the archaeology building because they have one of those snack dispensers that operate by an ingenious mechanism involving retracting steel coils and dish out a good twenty different snacks into the bargain. It was only as I stood waiting my turn that my eyes drifted to the board listing the staff and I noticed the name of Professor Ruskin.

Ruskin had been the warden of my hall when I was a first year. We had got on well at the time, but I had imagined him long retired and decided to pay him a visit while I was in the building.

His room turned out to be on the top floor of a curious annexe built on top of Egyptology and reached by an iron walkway that connected the two buildings. It was typical of the older parts of the university, iron beams and brick painted in dull cream and set with numerous high windows and apparently purposeless niches. The landing at the top of the stairs smelt of dust and age. Of the three doors opening off it, two were labelled as stores and the third had the professor's name painted on a wooden plaque.

I knocked, only half expecting a response. There was an indistinct sound from within, so I tried the door anyway, opening it to find the professor seated at a desk with his back to me. He was stooped over his desk, studying something with a hand lens and making notes at the same time. His unkempt hair was its normal shoulder-length tangle yet even whiter than I remembered it. It made him look like Einstein, and I had always been sure he cultivated the image on purpose.

‘Hello, Professor,' I ventured when he made no move to turn around.

He gave a little start at what was obviously an unexpected interruption to his train of thought and turned to look at me. For a moment, he merely looked puzzled and then his face brightened in recognition.

‘Ah, Penny,' he greeted me. ‘I am so glad to see you. Tell me, do you shave your pubic hair?'

‘Er, sorry?' I replied, taken aback at his question. The way it had been asked was typical of him, scientifically curious but quite innocent of any intention to offend, and it was impossible to be annoyed at what would have been an unreasonably personal question from most people.

‘I do apologise,' he continued. ‘Perhaps I should explain. I have been studying a remarkable example of
charta Claudia
that was found plastered into the wall of a villa that's being excavated down near Silchester. Generally such things prove to be legal or religious documents, but this is very different. It is a record of the plucking of a slave girl's
mons veneris
: hair by hair, apparently. What I am unable to ascertain is whether the account is an accurate description of a real event or mere wishful thinking.'

‘Wouldn't it take an awfully long time?' I asked, glancing at the ancient sheets of discoloured papyrus sandwiched into their protective plastic casings. It was a deep brown, almost black, the cramped writing a series of barely visible marks in a hardly darker shade.

‘My thought exactly,' he replied. ‘Which is why I had hoped to test the process. Where, though, would I find a volunteer? Students are so precious these days that one daren't even ask, you know. No spirit of enquiry; not a bit of it.'

He turned back to his desk, shaking his head sadly at the state of modern students, though I found it hard to believe that a girl in the fifties or sixties would have been any more willing to have her pubic hairs plucked out one by one than her modern counterpart. I found myself amused by the professor's dilemma. He quite plainly had a genuine interest in completing his bizarre experiment; to his remote, academic mind the idea was no different than wanting to run a test to see if some feat of athletics or construction that the ancients claimed was feasible. That it was a sexual act, and a pretty perverse one at that, evidently only filled him with regret that such a trivial and transient thing as current moral standards should prevent him from asking for a volunteer. A picture came to my mind of him pinning up a notice in the common room among the notices of coming lectures, sporting events and suchlike. The whole scenario was absurd, but also quite rude and sent a wicked thrill right down my spine.

‘I don't shave, actually,' I said, without giving myself a chance to reflect and not sure if I was teasing him or actually prepared to go through with it.

‘Splendid,' he said. ‘But are you quite sure you can spare the time?'

It was his reply that decided me. The idea that I might find the idea improper never entered his head; he was simply concerned that by assisting him I would be delaying my own work.

‘I'm waiting for something to be published, so there's not much on,' I answered. ‘But perhaps we should lock the door?'

‘The door? Ah, yes, I see; explanations might prove difficult.'

I waited while he crossed the room and let the catch into place on the door. He was smiling enthusiastically, obviously delighted by my acquiescence, but with an attitude of boyish mischievousness rather than sexual expectation. Deciding to bare myself in preparation, I struggled my pants off under my dress and laid them over the back of a chair. He sat down again, not troubling to watch but running the tip of his pencil over his notes.

‘Ah, yes, here we are,' he was saying as I leant over his shoulder to read the translation. ‘“The girl Lunula . . .” meaning “small moon”, a pet name, I imagine, “ . . . who was noted for her copious growth of black hair”, hm, perhaps if you could . . .'

I lifted the front of my dress to show him my own thick, dark pussy fur.

‘Yes, that is, I think, a reasonable match to the description. Hm, yes, “growing so richly as to obscure the anus . . .”'

I hesitated only a moment, then turned around and pulled my dress up over my bottom, opening my cheeks so that he could see my hole. I could feel myself blushing furiously, but the embarrassment was mingled with an exhibitionist thrill. Bending over, holding my bum-cheeks wide apart to allow the inspection of my bottom, is the most immodest and revealing pose imaginable; yet, when he spoke, his voice was calm and matter-of-fact.

‘Hm, unfortunately there is only a little hair around your anus; indeed, it is clearly visible, though the inner curve of the nates is by no means hairless. We should allow perhaps five per cent.'

Looking back over my shoulder, I could see him inspecting my bottom, his left hand cupping his chin and his right holding his pencil by the tip. He moved the pencil forward and I felt the rubber on the end tap against the super-sensitive flesh of my anal ring and trace a slow line up the curve of the inside of one cheek.

‘Yes, I think five per cent,' he repeated as he turned back to the table. ‘A reasonable estimate, given that we know nothing of Lunula's actual size in comparison to yours. Now, let me see . . .'

‘OK?' I asked, as I was still holding my obscene pose.

‘Eh? Oh, yes, yes, thank you.'

I let go of my bottom-cheeks and wiggled so that my skirt fell back in place. Acutely conscious that I was bare underneath, I took a spare chair and pulled it up so that I could see his translation.

‘The next part is not particularly relevant,' he continued. ‘Hm, “. . . a wet day in summer . . .”, “A tunic so short as to show her buttocks when she bent to serve . . .”, “laughing and . . .” a word I do not recognise, but it seems she was not averse to their attentions. I am not clear on the next bit, as there appears to be some sort of play on words, something to do with jealousy. In any case, someone called Galeria, possibly the wife of the author, suggested the diversion of plucking the girl's pudenda naked. Hm, “ . . . lying on a . . .” I've no idea what that is, but presumably a piece of furniture, “. . . with her ankles and arms tied beneath to prevent her closing her legs or guarding herself.”'

‘It may have been a bench of some sort,' I suggested. ‘A narrow, horizontal surface in any case. I can see that the instinct to protect the area would be very strong; perhaps I should be tied in the same way.'

‘Yes,' he replied, without the slightest trace of irony, ‘that would be sensible. We must reproduce the original conditions as accurately as possible. Perhaps if you were to sit on the work bench with your back to the wall?'

‘That should work,' I said as I climbed on to the bench and turned round, lifting my skirt so that my bare bottom sat on the hard, wooden surface. I sat cross-legged while he rummaged through his drawers, eventually producing a spool of pink binding tape. I turned and held my crossed wrists behind my back while he fastened them securely, and then wriggled back round before spreading my legs as wide as they would go. He tied pink tape to my left ankle and looped it around one of the tench supports, repeating the process on the other side so that I was obliged to keep my legs apart. I could feel my pulse quickening and my breathing getting deeper, but did my best not to display my reactions. Despite my best efforts, I couldn't resist a shiver as he took hold of the piece of skirt that was all that hid my vagina and lifted it quite casually, tucking it into my waistband so that my whole pubic area was bare. Tied helpless with my pussy on show – and I knew it would be moist and open – I felt ready for the process to begin and was steeling myself for the touch of his fingers in my hair. Instead, he returned to his seat and took up the manuscript again, not so much as bothering to glance in my direction until he had found his place.

‘It appears they used some form of tweezers,' he said after studying the document in silence for a while. ‘Made of bone, apparently. I imagine that a pair of Spencer Wells forceps will provide us with an adequate alternative. I'm sure I have some, somewhere.'

My sense of anticipation rose to an almost unbearable peak while he pottered around the room, searching for the instrument that was going to be used on me. I wanted to beg him to get started and point out that, however cool and detached he might feel, being half naked and in bondage was having a hell of an effect on me. I shut my eyes and tried to think sobering thoughts and had succeeded in relaxing myself considerably when I was brought back sharply to reality by the cold touch of steel on my belly.

‘They were in the drawer right underneath you all the time,' he chuckled, amused at his own forgetfulness. ‘Right, let's begin, then. Just let me set the tape recorder up.'

I let out a little sob as he went back across the room for the machine, setting it running and taking up the forceps. The muscles of my vagina tensed involuntarily as he approached me, clicking the forceps together like a child with a favourite toy. Then he stopped.

‘Oh, the clock, of course; how stupid of me,' he said, glancing around the room.

I only just managed to choke down a scream of frustration, but fortunately the large stop-clock was on a shelf and he had soon readied it on the bench next to my right thigh.

This time it was for real and I watched in fascination as he closed the forceps on a hair that stuck out somewhat from my nest of curls and pulled at it, making the skin rise in a little dimple. I was shivering and my nervousness was making the muscles around my vagina contract in little starts.

He gave a sudden tug, pulling the hair from its roots and drawing a squeak from me at the sudden sharp pain. The anticipation was actually a lot worse than the pain and the next few hairs came out easily as he worked along the top edge of my pubic triangle, quickly settling down to a rhythm as he became used to the task.