Bad Penny (13 page)

I can only liken the feeling to having one's pussy attacked by a nestful of baby scorpions – not that I've ever had that experience. Each tiny pin-prick of pain came so close on the heels of the last that I could never quite get my breath and was soon panting like a dog. He took no notice of my state but continued to pluck, gradually exposing an area of flesh with the tortured hair follicles standing up in angry red goose-pimples.

‘Ten minutes,' he remarked to the tape recorder in a detached manner. ‘Note the not inconsiderable swelling of the
labia majora
and that the vagina has begun to moisten, a bead of white fluid forming at the entrance. This demonstrates arousal in the subject, which is confirmed by heavy, irregular breathing and muscular contractions.'

I had no idea that ten minutes had gone by, though I was fully aware that I was aroused and that my pussy was beginning to swell and juice. The sensation of pain in my mound had become the centre of everything, made worse by the slow, methodical nature of the torment and the total inattention to my vulva.

‘Twenty minutes,' he said. ‘The entire vulva is now swollen and moist, the vagina slightly open and sufficient fluid has been released to dampen the perineum and run down to the anus. Contractions are more regular and the subject is beginning to push her hips forward rather than pull away from the forceps.'

It was only when he said it that I realised I had been pushing my pussy out in a half-conscious desire to be brought off, which wouldn't have taken more than a few careful touches to my clit. I rejected the idea of asking him to bring me to orgasm, sure that if I waited long enough I would get there anyway and that the result would be really special.

‘Thirty minutes,' he said. ‘There is little change in the appearance of the vagina, though the opening is now clearly visible. I would surmise that a plateau of sexual excitement has been reached. Penny?'

‘Yes,' I managed in between breaths. He was right: if anything, I had come down a bit from my earlier state and was in a sort of sexual trance, quite happy to be lying back with my legs spread. Indeed, I couldn't imagine being in any other position. I knew I wasn't going to come, but no longer cared, any more than I cared about my blatantly intimate display, both physical and mental.

‘Some fifteen per cent of the area is now bare,' he continued. ‘It is my intention to continue plucking the
mons veneris
before proceeding to the
labia majora
.'

Fifteen per cent! I realised that this was going to be a very long haul and lay back with my eyes shut, relaxing as best I could against the surface of the hard, wooden work bench.

Three whole hours passed, though it didn't seem anything like as long in my mist of pain and pleasure. His voice brought me round and I leant forward to look at myself. My pubic mound was as bald as a plucked chicken and very red, my whole pussy was throbbing and I could feel a cold, wet patch under my bottom. I saw that he was untying my ankles.

‘Are you finished?' I asked weakly.

‘Very nearly,' he replied, ‘it only remains to do the anal area, for which Lunula was turned on to her front, and I feel we should follow the procedure. When I have untied your legs, perhaps you could adopt a kneeling posture.'

‘OK,' I managed, waiting until I was free before turning carefully over, my hands still strapped up behind my back. The cool air made the skin of my bottom prickle where it was wet with sweat and juice. Placing my knees wide apart and dipping my back so that my bottom was wide open, I knew he'd have the best possible access to my anus and the hairy area around it.

‘Splendid,' I heard him mutter and then there was a sharp twinge of pain as a hair was pulled out. ‘Three hours and ten minutes. The subject is now in a kneeling position to allow access to the hair on the inner surface of her nates. The anus is notably distended and undergoing slow, rhythmic contractions, indicative of a state of extreme sexual arousal.'

The new position and his casual, impersonal remarks were too much. I thought of my bumhole pulsing in my ecstasy, pink and swollen and stuck out as if expecting something up it. I needed to be touched, or at least to be able to rub myself against something, and I didn't give a damn about how rude an exhibition I made of myself.

‘It is interesting,' the professor remarked, ‘that by this stage Lunula had been begging to be helped to orgasm for some time, whereas you . . .'

‘Do me too, then,' I pleaded. ‘Put something against my pussy so I can rub myself.'

‘I think not,' he continued. ‘They denied her request, and I feel we should mimic conditions as closely as possible.'

‘Please!' I whimpered.

He didn't trouble to reply, tugging another of my anal hairs free. As he rested his hand in between my bottom-cheeks to enable him to stretch taut an area of skin for depilation, I managed to rub my anus against his flesh. For a moment, I thought I was going to come, then his voice broke the moment.

‘Don't wriggle so, Penny,' he admonished in a quiet, steady voice, utterly unsuited to a man who has just had a girl try and bring herself off by rubbing her bottom-hole against his hand. ‘Nearly finished.'

I was panting like a dog as he continued plucking me, my bottom-crease now throbbing with the same fiery pain as my pussy.

‘There we are,' he was saying and I realised that it was over. ‘They then took turns to have intercourse with her. I really do not think that would be suitable, but perhaps I can help you to an orgasm? I have a tall specimen jar here that might prove efficacious.'

I begged for it, completing my humiliation by asking for something up my bottom as well.

‘Certainly,' he replied merrily. ‘The handle of this seeker should do. Pop, in it goes.'

My bottom-hole stretched to accommodate the rounded wooden handle, and as I felt the cool glass of the jar push against my clitoris, I immediately began to rub against it, moving my hips in what I was only too aware must be an utterly abandoned display. I came within moments, screaming my orgasm without thought to who might hear, coming again and then subsiding in a sweaty, itchy mess on the bench.

‘Most interesting,' the professor was saying as he obligingly extracted the seeker from my bottom. ‘Three hours and thirty-five minutes. I shall, of course, include your name when I publish my results.'

8

Smut

I had been woken by the sound of rain flurries on the window but, by the time I had finished breakfast, it was clear, with that lovely fresh feeling that only comes after summer rain. Not to have gone out would have been a sin, so I threw on a baggy T-shirt and a pair of tatty jeans and left the house. I had no particular destination in mind, but headed in the general direction of the downs, choosing a likely-looking footpath that ran between high hedges of blackthorn and scrub hazel.

I was in the most cheerful of moods. I was in love. For nearly two months I had been in a full-blown lesbian relationship with Amber Oakley. She was everything I needed in a lover: warm, sensitive, imaginative, cuddly and, above all, as dirty-minded as I was. She also kept me physically well disciplined without ever trying to actually control my life, which was wonderful. Regular, unashamed spankings were now a part of my daily life, not to mention the cane, the riding whip and several other implements ideal for application to bad girls' bottoms.

She had also introduced me to a wide variety of exquisite sexual deviations and several friends with similar tastes. There were Ginny and Michael Scott, and Ginny's brother Matthew, who had introduced me to the delights of being a pony-girl, an exquisite fantasy involving being harnessed and treated like a pony. Amber had been at school with Ginny, and both were tall, strong girls with opulent figures who found my own small size and fragility particularly appealing. There was also Matthew's fiancée, Catharine King, a vivacious redhead with whom I got on very well indeed. Amber's friends Anderson and Vicky completed the group, both tall, dark and similar enough to have been brother and sister. All summer we had been indulging ourselves in each other, and for the first time in my life I felt that I really belonged.

I had given up my flat when I moved in with Amber, but was spending a weekend house-sitting for Ginny and Michael. This gave me three days of total peace before my last week at Amber's and then the start of term and the run up to the completion of my PhD, and I was intent on relaxing as much as possible. Being deep in Wiltshire, there was endless opportunity for walking miles with my head in the clouds, just thinking and feeling happy.

I had walked perhaps a mile without seeing a single person when my attention was drawn by a scatter of torn paper strewn across the path ahead. This rather broke my mood, and my first feeling was of annoyance at whoever had littered the place, then distaste as I saw that the pieces of paper were the shredded remains of a pornographic magazine. It wasn't the display of naked female bodies that I disliked, but the way in which it was done. The material was incredibly vulgar, without the slightest attempt at art or subtlety. Breasts were thrust out, thighs spread to expose gaping vaginas, buttocks held apart and anuses stretched open. The occasional scrap of cheap, brightly coloured underwear only accentuated the coarseness of it. Every bit was sodden with the night's rain, adding a final sordid touch.

I hurried past, wondering whether such crude images were really what men wanted of the female form and at a deeper level what impulse had made the owner of the magazine tear it into shreds on a country footpath. Feelings of guilt after masturbation seemed the most likely explanation, which led my chain of thought to the possibility – no, the very strong probability – that whoever had torn the magazine up had been masturbating in the little copse that bordered the footpath. The idea sent a shiver down my spine; even as I walked past, there might be some man just yards away pulling at his cock as he stared at crude, dirty pictures of naked girls. Of course, it had to be a man; women just don't do that sort of thing. He'd be young, inexperienced, perhaps a sixth-form boy at one of the nearby public schools – but no, more likely a dirty old man, thick-set and greying, spittle running down his chin as he imagined fantasies that were unobtainable in his home life.

Maybe he'd be thinking about how he'd like to spank the girls' bottoms: over his knee with their silly nylon underwear pulled down before he fucked them doggy fashion, on their knees in the leaf mould and soil of the copse floor. If he saw me walking past, would he transfer his fantasies to me? Watching my bare breast move under my top, or the way my bottom pushed out my jeans? Perhaps he'd imagine me masturbating in his place, legs wide, pink pussy glistening in the sunlight as I came over the sight of his erection.

It was when my chain of thought reached that point that I realised that I was going to have to do it. I felt both naughty and guilty as I turned and walked back along the path, certain despite all reason that anybody who saw me would know exactly what was going through my mind. By the time I got to the sodden remains of the magazine, my heart was in my mouth. I stopped, listening and glancing nervously up and down the path before hurriedly gathering up some of the pictures and scampering into the shelter of the hedge.

My heart was beating fast, and a sensible voice in my head was telling me to stop being so silly, drop the revolting pictures and walk away. Another part of me wanted to masturbate very badly indeed, and I knew that even if I gave in to common sense and abandoned my plans I would be back again for my smutty pictures within minutes. My mind made up, I walked into the copse, looking for a place that allowed the comfort and privacy I would need to reach orgasm. I like to masturbate with both hands, starting with the left on my pussy while I explore my body and finally using the middle finger of my right hand to rub myself while I hold my lips apart. The ground was soaking, and if I lay down I would get a dirty bottom. The idea turned me on even more, but then I would have to walk back through the village with a wet rump, which wasn't such a good idea.

Luck was with me, though, in the shape of a long-abandoned tractor, half eaten away by rust but with the plastic seat still secure, set high on the body. To sit in the seat would mean I was about three feet off the ground and really spread open, which was a lovely idea. I stood still and listened for a long moment, but heard nothing. I put the pictures on the broken dashboard, intent on a little fantasy striptease before getting down to it in earnest.

I was shivering as I returned to my dirty old man fantasy, imagining him watching as I undid my jeans and stuck my bum out, easing them down ever so slowly over my cheeks. I was glad I had chosen fancy panties that morning: tight, white and lacy at the back so my bum looked like a fat little peach encased in see-through lace. His cock would be fit to burst as I bent right over, the outline of my vulva showing through my panties as I took the jeans down to my ankles and stepped out of them. I'd have agreed that there'd be no touching, driving him to distraction as I straightened up and hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my panties, grinning cheekily over my shoulder at my imaginary voyeur, preparing to complete my exposure, lowering my panties and touching my toes so he could see absolutely everything. I knew what I looked like bent over and bare-bottomed – Amber had a set of mirrors in her dining room that was designed for exactly that. Being small and quite petite, the rear of my pussy shows completely, pouting out between my thighs like a little split fig; my bottom-hole shows, too, tight and pink in a nest of black fur.

I stood, holding my pants round my ankles with the cool air on my bare bum, feeling dirtier every moment. This would be too much for him; he'd have to come, groaning in ecstasy at my vulgar, sluttish display, white come spurting over his hand and dribbling down the sides of his erect cock.