Bad Penny (27 page)

Finally it was over and I was lying limp and soiled over Ginny's lap. Someone pulled the back of my nappy down so that it was obvious what I'd done, and I remembered the video camera.

‘That's a wrap,' Michael said, but his voice wasn't cool any more: it was hoarse and thick.

Then Amber was picking me up very gently and carrying me into the bathroom. My eyes were shut and, if there were tears in them, then they were tears of pure joy.

16

Boot Black

The seed for one of my most exquisite fantasies came quite by chance as I was driving back from a conference at Exeter University and stopped in one of the lay-bys on Salisbury Plain. As I sat nibbling a sandwich and sipping at a carton of milk, I decided that I needed a pee badly enough not to want to wait until I reached the services. Unfortunately, no sooner had I got out of the car and selected a clump of hazel as a discreet location to relieve myself, than another car pulled into the lay-by and discharged a number of noisy oiks. I had been in the act of undoing my jeans and felt myself blush as I briefly made eye contact with one of their leering faces and caught part of a joking remark that I was certain was directed at me. The idea of driving on induced a pang of stubborn resentment at their interruption of my privacy and so I followed a track that cut twin ruts into the bone-white chalk. It went in the direction of a large stand of scrub in which I was sure to have privacy.

Once well hidden in the scrub, it was the work of a moment to pop my jeans and panties down and enjoy that glorious feeling of release that accompanies a much-needed pee. Decent again, I set off back to the car, only to be brought up short by the sound of raucous laughter from the direction I was going in. My first assumption was that the oiks had come the same way or even decided to follow me and I felt a distinct pang of apprehension and found myself wishing the little wood was a bit less lonely. I moved off in the other direction, hoping to skirt the wood and so reach my car, but the snap of a twig brought me up short.

‘The little shit's in 'ere somewhere,' a male voice called, coarse and unsympathetic, and my apprehension turned to outright fear. The noises seemed to be coming from all sides and I was close to panic. The dense spring foliage prevented me from seeing anything but also mercifully hid me, yet any determined searchers were sure to find me and it wasn't a risk I wanted to take. I looked up, the canopy of the little wood a blur of fresh green in uneven sunlight, and decided on my best chance. A moment later I was several feet above the ground, balanced precariously in the V of two branches and realising that the small branches that supported the denser foliage would never take my weight.

‘'E's in the middle bit, I reckon,' the voice sounded again. ‘Bob, you get round the far side.'

‘Yes, Corp,' another voice, presumably that of Bob, replied.

He? Corp? Suddenly I felt extremely silly. The oiks in the car were probably long gone, and I had blundered into some sort of army tomfoolery. I was just about to call out, now concerned with the possibility of being accidentally shot rather than raped, when there was a crack from below me. I looked down to see a man in army outfit standing beneath me and looking around in a state of alarm. Before I had a chance to say anything, two other men leapt out and grappled the first to the ground. The three were laughing, the first making half-hearted protests while the others called out for their comrades.

I decided to stay put in the hope that no one would look up, now more out of embarrassment than fear. This may sound foolish, but when I was at school and our illegal ‘camp' was discovered by some of the mistresses, I had climbed a tree and escaped detection while my friends had all been caught. People just don't look up very much, at least not without reason, and so I stayed very still and watched the men below me.

As it was, they were making so much noise that, had a rhinoceros chosen that moment to charge through the undergrowth, they would probably not have noticed. Amid laughter and cries of mock protest, the first soldier, a young blond man, was pushed on to his front and had his trousers pulled forcibly down, revealing muscular young buttocks that squirmed deliciously as he struggled to escape. Another man, not much older but with two stripes on his sleeves, produced a can of boot polish and a stiff brush, smeared the black mess liberally over his hapless companion's writhing buttocks and then rubbed it well in with the brush while the others laughed uproariously at their own humour.

They didn't take long and, when they had finished, they walked off through the woods laughing together and obviously in the best of humour. I climbed down from the tree and returned to the car, supposing I had witnessed some sort of initiation ceremony. There was no sign of the yobs, who presumably had never had the slightest intention of pursuing me. I drove on, and when I eventually got to Amber's, I gave her an only slightly abridged version of the story.

That should have been that, but the sight of the army boy getting his muscular little bum boot-blacked wouldn't go away. I masturbated over it until I was sore, first just over the memory and then over the fantasy of having it done to me.

I asked Amber to play out the fantasy, which she did with relish, first stripping me in the scullery and spanking me with the shoe brush. She then blacked my bum, rubbing it up to a glossy black ball, which she showed me in the mirror before rolling me over. She gave me a few seconds to squeal for mercy and then sat her glorious bottom squarely in my face, wriggling well in and laughing at my muffled protests. I knew exactly what she wanted, and was quickly licking her bottom-hole while she masturbated. She then made me do it to myself while I admired my bottom in the mirror. It was a great session, but it didn't really satisfy. Amber would have been hurt if I'd told her that it hadn't worked, so I was tactful and held my peace.

What I wanted to happen was for me to be out in the country one day, perhaps on Salisbury Plain, or Dartmoor, or any of the other places where the army train. I would be caught by a group of army boys out for a laugh. That was an essential part of the fantasy; they had to just think it was funny, something done for a bit of sport, regardless of my depth of shame and physical discomfort.

Once they caught me they'd strip me and make me suck their cocks one by one, maybe fuck me or even take me up the bum. When I was lying naked in the mud, covered in sperm and sore in both my pussy and bottom-hole, they would roll me over and black my bottom. Finally, they'd tie my hands behind my back, piss all over me and leave me there to be found in my filthy, degraded state. I'd rub myself off against a stone or something and eventually hit an orgasm that I just knew would be mind-blowing.

Of course, there was absolutely no chance whatever of it happening and, like all rape fantasies, I didn't really want it to. The problem was that, to get the best out of it, things had to be out of my control. In practice, that sort of fantasy only works when the one being molested is actually in control, at least at the start. I'd done some pretty dirty things in my time, most of them involving my own pain and humiliation, yet not once had I ever relinquished that final right to stop if I had to, or at the very least felt that I could really stop it if I wanted. Even when I'd lost my anal virginity, and the massively powerful Aran Ray had held me tight in his arms and forced his cock into my chocolate-smeared bumhole, I knew that if I'd screamed the place down he'd have stopped dead and been begging my forgiveness within seconds.

Not that my need to be boot-blacked was at all similar. Aran had been lucky that he'd found a dirty slut for a girlfriend, but if you try to bugger enough girls you'll eventually find a willing one. The boot-black fantasy was just far too specialised and, while I could meet any number of army boys, the chance of any one of them wanting to black my bum up was insignificantly small, never mind a group of them. True, they might try and chat me up but, from bitter experience, I knew that they'd all try and be nice to me and each would want me for himself, so I wouldn't even get gang-banged. Not only that, but in my fantasy the army boys were over-muscled, pea-brained Neanderthals driven entirely by testosterone. Of course, they're not really like that, or they'd never get into the army in the first place, and what I was most likely to meet was a bunch of jack-the-lad types, who really do nothing for me at all.

So I gave up, contenting myself with the fantasy and a pleasant memory of seeing the army cadet boot-blacked in the wood.

By the summer, I'd put the fantasy to the back of my mind. Amber and I, along with Vicky Belstone and her boyfriend Anderson Croom, had taken a cottage in Devon for a fortnight and I was looking forward to two weeks of good company, excellent food and even better sex. The cottage was called Manga Farm, and was well on to Dartmoor, which provided a degree of seclusion that was exactly what we wanted.

I went down ahead of the others, intending to get the cottage warm and generally sort things out. Having eventually found it, with the aid of a map and some local advice, I discovered that it was everything I could have hoped for. Tiny and set into a hillside, it contained just two bedrooms and a communal living room and kitchen. It had been renovated from little more than a ruin, and there was no other building in sight of it: just the wide open moor and a great tract of pine forest. I was delighted, and explored a little before starting to make things comfortable. Only when I opened the chest of drawers in the bedroom I had chosen for Amber and me did anything puncture my state of relaxed cheerfulness. In the top drawer, exactly in the centre of the middle compartment, was a tin of black boot-polish.

It had to be coincidence. Amber had booked the cottage by phone and, although she'd been at school only a few miles away, at the time it had only been a ruined farmhouse, so she'd never even seen it. Anderson had known about it as well, but I had no reason to think that he'd been there since we'd decided to hire it. Amber might well have told him and Vicky about my boot-black fantasy, yet I couldn't see them driving four hundred miles just to torment me. After all, if they wanted to boot-black me, they could do it at any time they wanted. I decided it probably was coincidence and that the polish must have been left by the previous occupants. I did remain suspicious, though, and it put me in a slightly nervous mood as I finished getting the cottage ready.

I masturbated over the fantasy again that night, and then slept like a log. I woke early, breakfasted and then went outside to see what the day promised. The sky was cloudless, the moor baking in the sun, a great sheet of pale yellow, dun and vivid green stretching up to the darker heather and bog of the higher hills. It was early and I was completely alone, tempting me to walk down to the river to wash. I went in naked, which was bliss, with the cold water making my skin tingle and popping my nipples out. I ran back up to the cottage naked as well, just for the devilment of it and, by the time I had dried and dressed, I was in a thoroughly naughty mood.

The others weren't due until lunch time, and so I struck out on to the high moor in order to stretch my legs and get an appetite up. The ground rose quite steeply behind the cottage, building up to a plateau of rough grass and bog pools which was the river's head. There was just me, the lonely moor and the sky. Only when I had crossed the worst of the bog to a cairn at the very peak of a hill did I see anybody else. A line of walkers were coming along the hillside below me, five of them, their details indistinct in the distance. Their path was going to intersect mine if I continued, and so I changed direction, feeling antipathetic to human company for no particular reason. I aimed for something that was marked as a ‘peat cut' on the map, curious as to what it might be.

I had gone no more than five hundred yards when I realised that they had subtly changed their direction as well, so that they would again intersect my path. Assuming them to have merely found a better path, I once more changed my route. Again they changed theirs and, as they were now closer, I could make out the pattern of camouflage markings on their clothes. Remembering the boot-black, I felt a twinge of suspicion, but dismissed it. There were five of them, not three, and to guess I was going to go for a walk and then pinpoint me on the open moor would have taken a lot of organising and luck. No, they had to be real army, but they were definitely aiming to cross my path. It suddenly occurred to me that I might have strayed into an area reserved for training and that I might be due a telling-off when they came up with me. Feeling rather embarrassed, I struck off at right angles, more or less back towards the cottage. The map showed another peat cut in front of me, and I made for it, hoping that it was some sort of path.

It was an obviously man-made gash in the peat, cut right down to the bare granite below. It was a good six feet deep and hid me completely, also enabling me to walk at full speed. Of course, it also meant that I could see nothing but the banks of peat and the sky, which made me nervous, perhaps unreasonably so. I didn't fancy being ticked off by some army type and hurried on.

The peat cut ended at the top of a gully where a stream had cut into the hillside. It was quite deep, and choked with boulders and rowan trees, making hard going but good cover. I jumped to the top of a boulder and looked back, finding my view of the higher ground cut off by the bulge of the hill. I could see nobody and was breathing a sigh of relief when I caught a flash of movement at the point where the peat cut crossed the skyline.

I began to move down the gully, telling myself not to be silly but with a rising feeling of panic in my stomach and throat all the same. About halfway down, I realised my mistake. Glancing behind me, I saw two of them emerge from the peat cut and move to either side, running along the side of the valley where bog gave way to firm ground. I would be trapped in a pincer, with two ahead of me and three behind.