Bad Penny (14 page)

The thought sent a shiver right through me and I was just about to sneak a finger back between my legs and put it in myself when a rustle of foliage snapped me out of my fantasy. I hastily pulled my panties back up in a flush of insecurity, only to see a jay flap away through the trees. I stood listening, but there were no more sounds and, after a while, my excitement got the better of my trepidation. I reassured myself that anyone approaching would be bound to make a lot of noise, just as I had done, and so I would always have time to make myself decent. I put my hands to my breasts and stroked the little bumps of my nipples through the cotton, as much to soothe myself as for the pleasure. The intense, delicious feeling of doing something improper returned, stronger than before; I wanted to do something dirty, something even dirtier than my little striptease or frigging over the scraps of porn.

The question was, what? I considered wetting my pants, perhaps on all fours with my bum stuck in the air or lying on my back so they got well and truly scaked, before finishing myself off with the sodden material still clinging to my skin. It would be really messy, though, and there was no way of cleaning up, so I reluctantly rejected the idea.

Tying myself up? Using my clothes, it would be easy to sit in the tractor seat and tie my ankles to the sides so that I was forced to sit with my legs wide apart. It would provide lovely orgasms, especially when my muscles tensed against the bonds. On the other hand, if someone did come, I'd be well and truly caught and my position would take a lot of explaining.

Punishing myself? With a hazel switch or some birch twigs I could whip my bottom up to a good rosy pink. It would be nice and I tried a couple of experimental smacks with my hand, tugging my panties tight up my bottom to get at the bare flesh. My bum tingled pleasantly, but I knew I wouldn't be able to get the full thrill of chastisement without someone else to take control and so abandoned that idea as well. Besides, when I told Amber what I had done, she was bound to want to take her cane to my bum and it would be a shame to spoil the target for her.

Thinking of Amber reminded me of something I had done shortly before meeting her. After I'd accidentally come across Ginny and Michael playing pony-girl games in a wood, I'd masturbated and had used an immature maize cob as an improvised dildo. The feel of it had been exquisite and it was just possible something similar might be available now. As I had walked up the footpath, there had been a field of maize before the copse, maize that should have knobbly little cobs just right for pushing into girls' holes. I reached for my jeans, then decided against it and instead peeled my top off, determined to do it in just panties, socks and trainers.

The copse was bordered by a rusting iron fence. Sure enough, the maize field was there, separated from the copse by a couple of yards of earth, or rather of glutinous brown mud. I climbed over the fence, feeling very exposed in the alley of clear ground between the two banks of greenery. My fingers were trembling as I pulled off a cob and peeled away the fibrous leaves encasing the fruit. It was the palest yellow, the size of a large carrot and had a hard, bumpy texture, just right to use on my clit.

I stood up and pulled my panties down, carefully pulling the leg-holes over my muddy trainers and hanging them on the fence, then stretching luxuriously naked in the sunlight. There was a strong temptation to sit down in the mud, to feel it squelch up my bottom and rub handfuls over my boobs. Maybe just a little bit, I reasoned – after all, it would soon dry and wouldn't show through my jeans. Before I could change my mind, I squatted down, waited for a delicious moment of suspense and then sat my bare bottom squarely down in the thick brown goo. It was cool and felt lovely as I took two handfuls and smeared it over my breasts, rubbing my nipples until they protruded pink and hard through the muck. I leant forward on all fours, picking two ears of corn and rocking back to squat on my heels as I peeled them. The smaller went up my bottom, the mud lubricating my anus as it stretched to accommodate the thick cob. The other was for wanking with, and I still wanted my smutty pictures to come over, so I stood up and climbed gingerly back over the fence. Walking back to the tractor, I swung my hips deliberately, thinking how rude I must look with the cob sticking out from between my bum-cheeks, obviously up my bottom-hole.

I took my place in the seat, tipped back so the penetration of both my holes would be visible to an imagined onlooker. The larger cob slid up my vagina easily and I left it there while I arranged the pictures across the rusting dashboard until I had as dirty a show of bum and tit as any dirty old man could want. Right in front of me was a fleshy blonde, face heavy with bright red lipstick and blue eye-shadow, tarty blue knickers pulled aside to show her shaven quim and wrinkled bumhole.

I sat back and pulled the cob out of my pussy with a sticky plop, my eyes locking with hers as I began to rub, wondering how I myself would look in such a sordid pose, imagining my dirty old man staring at my filthy, mud-smeared body, taut anus full of one maize cob, another being rubbed frantically on my clit as my vaginal muscles began to contract in orgasm. My eyesight fogged and I'm sure I screamed at least once as I came again and again, ending up limp and panting in my seat, utterly drained and in absolute bliss.

As I had suspected, it didn't take long for the mud to dry, especially when I had scraped the worst of it off, and I was soon looking respectable. I then went to the field to retrieve my panties, which were of course still draped over the fence. Only they weren't – they'd gone.

9

Lace, China and the Cane

Some people are just born lucky. One such was Anderson Croom, whose parents had left him a beautiful house in Surrey and enough money to leave him in comfort, if not quite luxury, for life. He was also tall, handsome and well formed. The combination of wealth and looks would make most men unbearably smug and arrogant. Anderson was neither, instead going through life with a boyish innocence and an unquenchable cheerfulness. I liked him from the first time we met and became closer with time.

He didn't have to work, but spent his time collecting things, studying forensic science as a hobby and indulging his passion for unusual sexual practices. That was where I came in, because he and his girlfriend, Vicky Belstone, were close friends of Amber's. Anderson brought the same boyish enthusiasm to sex as he did to life as a whole, revelling in physical pleasure and with an awareness of sexual subtleties second only to Amber's. He took a particular delight in things considered especially rude, as I do myself. His special joy was buggering girls and making them come while he was inside them. Even Amber occasionally submitted to his cock up her bottom, which was an extraordinary thing for her.

Vicky was the ideal partner for him: nearly six feet tall, lithe and strong with a combination of a dirty mind and a sensible outlook. Had it not been for her, I feel sure that Anderson would have managed to get locked up for something, as he was always ready to take risks; in fact, he thoroughly enjoyed doing so.

Their house was a great rambling red-brick structure built at the end of the last century. It was hidden in thick woods at the bottom of a valley, with the River Wey flowing through the garden. There was no better site for misbehaviour, and he and Vicky took every opportunity of indulging themselves, not infrequently with Amber and me.

Like Amber, Anderson was a fanatic for organising and making things, also for collecting unusual erotic adjuncts. It was a rumour that a junk shop somewhere in Addington had a stock of genuine malacca canes that left Vicky and I sitting at their house while he and Amber went to London on what was in all probability a wild-goose chase. As both Vicky and I knew whose bottoms the canes would be tested on if they were successful, there was a distinct atmosphere of anticipation as we sat at the kitchen table and ate ham and French bread together.

Not surprisingly, the conversation had turned to caning, a subject with which both of us were pretty familiar. I find something exquisite about the cane as an implement of punishment. It's very formal, and somehow very English. It also hurts and a good caning will leave precise red lines that last for a couple of weeks. Amber caned me regularly, and I found that having my bottom marked with a set of tramlines is a wonderful reminder of being under discipline. Also, after a good caning, the thoughts of the submissive sex that I crave are never far under. All I need to do is catch sight of my well-beaten bottom in the mirror or to feel the dull ache of the marks, and in my mind I'm back over Amber's study table with my naked bottom raised for punishment. Cane marks look pretty, too, whereas most implements just leave shapeless blotches.

It looked pretty well inevitable that Vicky and I were going to end up punishing each other before the afternoon was out, and so I was surprised when she suggested spending the time looking through the attic.

‘He's got some great stuff,' she explained, ‘going right back to when the house was built. It was his great-grandfather's originally, or maybe even his great-great-grandfather's.'

‘What sort of stuff?' I asked.

‘Clothes mainly, dresses and some underwear, which is really cute. There are those big drawers which split open at the back and all sorts.'

‘Sounds fun,' I agreed, remembering how much Amber liked me in Victorian underwear and how pleased she'd be to come back and find Vicky and me in costume. ‘Can we try some on?'

‘Sure,' she answered. ‘That's exactly what I had in mind.'

I followed her up the stairs with my sense of sexual anticipation growing. She was in jeans and, as we went, I found myself admiring her muscular but very feminine bottom and wondering what the afternoon would bring. One of Vicky's strong points was that she was always very aware of her playmate's mental state, and this was my first chance to experience it on a one-to-one basis. I also knew we'd get punished when the others got home, which made me feel pleasantly naughty as she pulled down the ladder to the attic.

Inside, it smelt of dust and age, a curious aroma born of products that really aren't used much any more, like mothballs and camphor. I wouldn't say it was a sexy smell, but it certainly added to the atmosphere, and made things seem less ordinary, which is always nice for sex games.

There was lots of other stuff as well as the clothes, from furniture like a great gilded mirror, through paraphernalia like a globe that still marked the British empire in red, to a wooden chest entirely full of toy cars. Vicky was pretty familiar with things and showed me a few choice objects before we got to the clothes. These were wonderful, a great range of both male and female wear dating from between about 1890 and the beginning of the Second World War. Some of the silk had perished, but the tougher fabrics were still sound, packed in between layers of special paper and heavily mothballed.

Vicky's height made it a bit difficult for her, being tall even by modern standards, but someone, presumably Anderson's grandfather, had once had a governess who must have looked truly terrifying. The dress was in black bombazine, and as heavy as perhaps a dozen modern dresses. It was laced and flounced and decorated with jet beads, every detail being black except for a thin trim of ivory lace around the high-necked collar and the cuffs. Just looking at it made me feel deliciously small and submissive and the idea of being spanked over Vicky's lap while she wore it was far too good to resist.

She didn't take much convincing, either, and we decided to play at governess and charge in a very definitely adult game that was sure to focus on the chastisement of my bottom. Of course, if Vicky was going to be the governess, then I would need something suitably girly to complement her. Being five foot three, I made an ideal charge, and we had soon found the sweetest Alice-in-Wonderland type dress, which I simply couldn't resist.

‘Where shall we play?' I asked as Vicky rummaged out a selection of petticoats, drawers, chemises and even two corsets.

‘In the bedroom you and Amber use,' she answered. ‘It used to be the nursery.'

‘Is that why there are bars on the windows?' I asked.

‘Yes,' she replied, ‘though Anderson decided to keep them for a very different reason than safety, as you well know.'

I did. On a previous visit Amber had made me strip and tied my wrists to the bars before tickling me into a frenzy with a peacock feather. She'd then caned me and let Anderson fuck me while I was still tied up. The feel of his hair rubbing on my freshly punished bottom had given me a delicious blend of pleasure and pain that had combined beautifully with the mental torment of being tied and teased before being entered. Vicky had watched, and helped Amber bring me off afterwards.

Anderson liked antiques and there was little modern about the room, which I could see was going to be close to ideal. I climbed down and caught the clothes as Vicky dropped them through the hatch, then took them down the passage as she busied herself with closing the attic up. As I turned, I saw that she had collected something else, which she had concealed under a petticoat. She also favoured me with a wicked grin as she pushed the ladder up.

We took our time changing, stripping and washing first, then helping each other with the garments. Vicky chose a pair of voluminous drawers in heavy linen as her foundation garment. These were bulky, heavily trimmed with lace to below her knees, and opened among a gathering of material at the back. This served to accentuate the size of her bottom, which could be exposed by pulling the back open. Despite covering far more than any modern garment, they seemed delightfully naughty and I took great pleasure in pulling them open and kissing Vicky's bottom through the gap.

She put a chemise on next, a delicate garment of loose, light cotton which fitted snugly over her apple-like breasts and laced across them. This left her boobs twin globes of pink flesh in nests of lace and criss-cross strapping, which looked irresistibly sweet, especially as her nipples showed through the thin cotton and pushed it up into little humps as they stiffened under my caresses. I only stopped because I wanted to prolong our pleasure, leaving the delights of Vicky's breasts so that she could help me with my underwear.