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First published in 2001 by
Nexus
Thames Wharf Studios
Rainville Road
London W6 9HA
Copyright © Penny Birch 2001
The right of Penny Birch to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
www.nexus-books.co.uk
ISBN 0 352 33631 5
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Cover
Title Page
Also by Penny Birch
Six Faces of Correction
Pussy Pie
The Music Room
Getting that Spanking
Making an Impression
Builder’s Bum
Chastity
Flirt
Four Flavours
Going Bare
The Lady and the Tramp
Suction
Against the Book
Black Shuck
Damsels in Distress
Copyright
Also by Penny Birch
PENNY IN HARNESS
A TASTE OF AMBER
BAD PENNY
BRAT
IN FOR A PENNY
PLAYTHING
TIGHT WHITE COTTON
TIE AND TEASE
This book is a work of fiction.
In real life, make sure you practise safe sex.
Penny Pieces is a collection of short stories, opening and ending with filthy dirty essays from me, the rest told by characters from my books. Anybody who has read my stories before will know that these are going to be pretty naughty; anybody who hasn’t either has a treat in store or a big shock coming …
BEING SPANKED IS a pretty emotional experience for a girl, and that doesn’t go away, no matter how many times it happens. I’ve lost all count of the number of times I’ve been spanked, but it is still strong and I still crave more. Pleasure is the overriding feeling for me, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, both physically and mentally. The moment when my panties come down still fills me with an overwhelming sense of shame and exposure, and I’m not acting when I kick and squeal. Sometimes I even cry. Spanking hurts even when the victim is enjoying it, even when it is the thing she most wants, and some people seem to forget that. I want my arm twisted or my hair pulled to hold me in place; I want my bottom exposed and my cheeks spread to show off my pussy and bumhole; I want to be spanked until I howl. My emotions are real, and I hope that knowing that will be part of what makes my tormentor demand her pussy licked or his cock attended to once I’ve been thoroughly punished.
Punishment is the key, the idea being that however much I may want my spanking I am being given it because I deserve it. My first spanking actually came from my Aunt Elaine and was done strictly to punish me. She has no idea that afterwards I took myself to orgasm with a hairbrush in my pussy and a toothbrush up my bum. If she had known she’d have been horrified. Part of the thrill had come from the fact that I really had had no say in the matter, and ever since then the idea of having my control taken away from me has been important in my spanking fantasies.
In reality I’m a stickler for respect and consent, and nobody gets me across their knee unless I want them to. Fantasy is different, and I often think about how it would be if people would just take charge of me occasionally and give me a thoroughly good spanking and all the powerful emotions that come with it. Better still would be if I didn’t know how much I was going to enjoy it, an experience I’ve never had, because by the time Aunt Elaine got to my bottom I already knew I needed a spanking.
It might have been different though, in so many lovely ways, which I often fantasise over. I always like to imagine my mind in a welter of confusing emotions, but with one uppermost, whatever it might be. Pain is popular, and the anticipation of pain. To get the best out of it I’d have to know I was going to be spanked well in advance of the event. That way I’d be really nervous, with butterflies in my stomach and a desperation to go to the loo. I’d probably be in tears before the first smack fell, long before. It would have been at college, only I’d have been even more innocent and insecure than I really was, which was plenty. Maybe I wouldn’t even have understood the effect that an ever so slightly chubby bottom squeezed into a pair of snugly fitting jeans can have on men.
Generally I prefer girls, but for a spanking to really hurt it must come from a man; some great, hulking brute twice my weight with hands like hams. The rowing coach would have been perfect, a huge man running slightly to fat when I’d known him, well over six foot and probably weighing sixteen or seventeen stone. Mr Griffin had been his name. He’d had no respect for women at all, and I remember him pulling one of the female cox’s ponytails so that she stumbled into the Thames, then laughing as she came up choking and spluttering. It might have been me …
I was furious as I pulled myself out of the water. I was blushing too, my face red with embarrassment as they all laughed at me. To make it worse my clothes were soaked, with my top plastered to my breasts so that every contour showed. My nipples had gone hard from the chill of the river and were sticking out really blatantly. Mr Griffin cracked a joke about them, asking me if I’d been putting rabbit pellets down my bra.
By the time I’d managed to scrabble onto the towpath my wet shorts were half way down around my bum, showing even more. As I pulled them up the crew were laughing so hard some of them were having trouble standing up, and Mr Griffin was slapping his legs with delight. Even a curate who’d been walking by the river couldn’t keep his face straight.
I ran into the boat hut with their laughter and cruel comments following me. In the Ladies’ changing room my anger overtook my embarrassment and by the time I had dressed I was determined to give Mr Griffin a piece of my mind. He was in his office, whistling to himself as he filled in our times in the book. I already knew what I was going to say, but as he looked up my words died in my mouth. My courage failed me completely, and I ended up babbling something about our chances at Henley. His answer was matter of fact, and my ducking wasn’t mentioned, as if the way he had humiliated me in front of the crew was totally unimportant.
My revenge was pretty childish, but I just couldn’t bear to let him get away with it. That evening I walked down to the river with some vague ideas about getting into his office and making a few clever changes to his paper work. I knew where he kept the key and was just forging his signature on an order for thirty litres of bright pink paint when he walked in. He cut short my flood of apologies and excuses with one word and told me that I was to come to training an hour early the next day. Then came the shock. He told me, straight out. He was going to take me across his knee, pull down my shorts and panties, then spank me on my bare bottom, hard.
I was terrified, and I begged, raved and threatened, but to no avail. I was caught, and we both knew it. He didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was going to get a kick out of punishing me, and that made it worse. I could imagine him, the sweat starting on his red face as my buttocks danced under his hand, his laughter changing to a dirty chuckle as his cock hardened against my belly.
All the way back from the river I had an awful sick feeling in my stomach, thinking of the pain and indignity I was going to suffer the next day. I hate pain, and now I was going to have my bottom smacked. I was sure I wouldn’t be able to take it, that I would scream and cry and make a really undignified display of myself. With my bottom bare that meant showing off my pussy, even my bumhole. He’d see it all, and I made a mental note to shower properly before going. It was no good asking him to let me keep my shorts up for the sake of decency either. I’d heard the dirty, lecherous tone in his voice when he said they would need to be taken down.
I didn’t eat that evening, or do any work. It was impossible, with my mind running over and over on how stupid I’d been and what I’d let myself in for. I couldn’t sleep either, but lay there thinking of how much the spanking was going to hurt and what it was going to feel like having a man pull down my panties to punish me. In the end I pulled the bedclothes down and rolled onto my front. With my nightie up I eased my panties down and lay still with my bare bottom uppermost, trying vainly to overcome my fear of being in the same position over Mr Griffin’s lap.
In the end I slept, and woke rolled up in the embryo position, still with my panties around my thighs. I’d dreamed about my punishment, and it was awful to wake up and find that it was still to come. I dressed and forced myself to go into the canteen for breakfast. Lectures passed in a blur and by lunchtime the sick feeling in my stomach had returned so strongly that I couldn’t face food. I sat in the library after lunch, pretending to read Nature while my stomach fluttered and my buttocks twitched in anticipation of my coming pain.
Training was at four o’clock, which meant getting to him by three. There was a lecture at one, during which I found my eyes going to the clock above the whiteboard every few seconds. Two o’clock came and I hurried back to the hall. I showered thoroughly, making sure I was clean. I even powdered afterwards and inspected myself in the mirror, bent forwards with my cheeks held open to make sure that every little crevice was spick and span. It felt ridiculous, preparing my bottom for spanking, as if I wanted Mr Griffin to be impressed, but I just couldn’t bear the thought of not being perfectly clean. Looking at my spread bottom from the rear, with my hairy pussy and the wrinkly pink flesh of my vulva and bumhole showing really brought home what was happening to me. Mr Griffin was going to see it, all of it, and he was going to slap the little round bottom-cheeks, slap them pink.
Dressing was just as bad. The last thing I wanted to do was make a sexy show for him, but that didn’t stop me putting on fresh white panties and my tightest green rowing shorts. I even put on a new sports bra, in doing so accepting that my breasts were likely to be coming out at some stage of the proceedings. A white and green top, plimsolls and white socks completed my outfit. The white and green were university colours, as if we’d been racing instead of training. I looked smart and sporty, but once again I was cursing myself for getting dressed up for a man who was going to beat me.
I was on the edge of tears as I walked down to the river, with a heavy lump in my throat and the butterflies going crazy in my stomach. Excuses kept occurring to me, ways to get out of it, from saying I was on my period to setting fire to the boathouse. None were practical, and I found myself knocking on his office door with my heart in my mouth and a weak feeling in my bladder.
Mr Griffin greeted me with an oily, lecherous grin. Both of us glanced at the clock, which showed five minutes to three. He frowned, perhaps wishing he had longer to play with my body, while I was glad that the crew would probably turn up before he could go too far.
As he pushed his chair back from the desk and gave his lap a meaningful pat I found myself on automatic. I’d thought of lots of things to say, protests, pleas, even clever quips, but they went unsaid. Instead I walked around the desk and laid myself meekly across his lap, as if I actually deserved what was coming to me.
He chuckled as I got into position, wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me close in to his body. I could feel the warmth of his legs and the bulge of his cock through his trousers, just as I had imagined it. His right leg came up, lifting my bottom, his grip tightened and his hand closed in the waistband of my shorts.
I didn’t struggle. I didn’t protest. My emotions were just too strong, too overwhelming; my embarrassment, my horror of the coming exposure, but most of all my fear of the coming pain. All I could do was hang my head in shame and let the bastard pull down my clothes.
He didn’t do it. He hauled them up instead, tugging my shorts tight into my crease to spill the cheeks out at either side and pull the material hard against my pussy. It left him plenty to spank, and although my position was incredibly humiliating, at least my most private bits were covered. My relief lasted about a second and then he had pulled the other way and it was down, all of it, little green shorts, tight white panties, the lot. I gasped in shock as my bottom was laid bare, then again as he cocked his leg up higher still and my bum-cheeks came open.
My bumhole was showing, I just knew it. I’d expected him to want to see it, but the reality was far, far worse than anything I had imagined. I was bare, my cheeks were wide and I could feel the cool air on my anal skin and the warmth of his leg against my pussy. It was too much, and I burst into tears, only to have every other emotion blown away by pain as his huge hand came down across my bare bottom with all the force of his arm.
It hurt. It hurt so much that I lost all control of my body. I was shaking my head, gasping, sobbing and screaming for mercy. My fists were beating on his legs, my hair was flying around my head. I was kicking my legs and bucking my body under his arm, no longer caring about the lewd display of my anus and vagina. Nothing mattered but the agonising swats on my bottom, smack after smack, falling in a fast, relentless rhythm to the tune of my squeals.
I’d started crying from shame, but now I was really blubbering, with the tears making a wet patch on the concrete floor beneath my head. He knew, but he just laughed and went right on spanking, not even pausing as he tightened his grip around my waist. There was nothing I could do, only kick and wriggle and howl out my agony until I was dizzy with it and thought I would faint.
I didn’t think it could possibly get any worse, but as he once more shifted my body on his lap I found my pussy spread hard on his leg. The slaps began to jam my clit against him. I was going to come, I couldn’t help it. I was going to come, and he’d think I was turned on. I was, and I yelled out as it happened, begging for more, begging for it harder, unable to help myself while all the while a little voice in the back of my head was screaming that I didn’t want it, that it was the worst possible thing.
After I’d come I slumped across his lap. Mr Griffin laughed and went on with my spanking. He knew it had happened and he thought it was funny, which was the final indignity. Not that it mattered, because he soon had me kicking again by transferring his attention to the backs of my legs. There was a brief pause as my shorts and panties were pulled right down and off, which I did nothing to resist. He went back to work, methodically slapping my legs to the same state as my bottom, indifferent to my continued squealing and blubbering until once more I thought I would faint from the pain.
The spanking stopped as suddenly as it had begun, leaving me gasping for breath. My buttocks were stinging dreadfully, throbbing too, and so hot. My bottom was up and my legs were wide, showing everything, but I no longer cared. I’d been beaten by him, beaten into submission and I felt as if he had every right to see my most intimate parts.
I did it myself. I don’t know why, it just seemed as if I had to. His cock was hard against my tummy, and even as he let go of my waist and I slumped to the ground in a kneeling position my hands were going to his fly. He opened his knees and I shuffled forwards, popping the button of his trousers as I did so. His zip came down and I looked up to find surprise on his face, also lust. Still not knowing why I was doing it I took hold of my top and pulled it up, my sports bra with it, exposing my breasts to him. He smiled, a dirty, knowing leer, then closed his eyes in bliss as I pulled open the front of his underpants and took his stiff cock in my hand.
My bottom was stuck out as I masturbated him, hot and red, beaten and goose-pimpled, my cheeks wide to show my pussy and bumhole behind. Half of me wanted his cock inside me, slid up between my reddened buttocks, maybe even in my bottom-hole. I knew I’d do it, and I began to jerk frantically at his erection, desperate to make him come before my resolve snapped and I took him in my hole.
I think it would have happened if he hadn’t grabbed me by the hair and forced my head against his penis. He ordered me to suck, snarling out the command, only to come in my face as my lips touched the bulbous head of his cock. I tried to pull away and got an eyeful of semen for my trouble. He milked the rest out over my neck and breasts, soiling my top and wiping his slimy cock-head in my face. Even as he slumped back I was running for the Ladies where I locked myself in a cubicle, sat my hot bottom down on the lavatory seat and masturbated myself dizzy …
In reality, of course, I’d have threatened to report him for sexual harassment and I’d never have got my spanking. Getting the most out of sex often means swallowing my pride, and that’s never more true than when it comes to taking punishment.
Spankings should be painful for the victim, but from a psychological point of view the pain isn’t really necessary at all. What matters most is that the girl knows she has been punished, that she suffers all the humiliation and indignity of having her bottom bared and smacked. The idea of spanking as a degrading punishment is so deeply ingrained in society that the very knowledge that it has been done is enough to keep me on edge long after the pain has faded. The stinging goes, the marks go, but a spanked girl is a spanked girl, forever.
To feel that way before it had actually happened would be to really dread it, worse still if the girl knew that she would find it sexually exciting despite herself. I suppose a strict feminist with hidden spanking fantasies would be in the worst position, regarding it as unthinkable yet wanting it at the same time. Her overriding emotion would be humiliation.
Again, a man ought to give the virgin spanking, a man who represents the complete opposite of how she feels a man should be. He’d be a chauvinist pig for starters, a sexist and proud of it, also arrogant. He’d be small too, shorter than her and weedy, so that she couldn’t pretend to herself that she’d been forced or that she’d only done it because he was physically attractive.
If I wasn’t so obstinate and critical of popular fads I might have gone that way myself. Without the initial spanking from Aunt Elaine I might even have made it through university unspanked, coming out with my dirty little fantasies a hidden and embarrassing secret. As I’m only five foot two, the man to take me in hand would have to be the next thing to a midget, but I suppose a jockey might have had the right attributes. Jockeys mean horses and stables, some of my favourite things while, if I had embraced one trendy philosophy, then why not others …
It was a simple protest, just the six of us determined to demonstrate our right to roam on open land. Culver Down was nearly a thousand acres of chalk grassland and beech wood, and it was grossly unjust that it should be out of bounds to the public. Besides, all it was used for was exercising racehorses belonging to some city fat cat.
The Down was deserted when we arrived, and after the mild thrill of crossing a gate with a PRIVATE NO TRESPASSERS sign on it the whole thing began to be a bit of an anticlimax. We reached the ridge without incident, and it was there I made my mistake. I needed to pee, and the only cover was a beech hangar a couple of hundred yards back down the slope. Telling the others I’d catch them up, I nipped back. In among the trees I whipped down my jeans and panties, let it all out and was just tidying myself up when I heard voices raised in anger from up the slope. Looking up, I found the others in a confrontation with several men on horseback. I started towards them, only to see my friends turn tail and run, leaving me alone.
My courage failed me and I turned back. I was on open down and I knew they’d seen me, but I hoped that a hasty retreat would satisfy them. It did, most of them, but one detached himself from the group, a small man on a beautiful bay horse. I began to panic and ran, which was stupid against a racehorse, and they caught up with me on the far side of the beech hangar. He ordered me to stop and then dismounted, grinning.
He was a little man, in black and yellow check racing colours, obviously a jockey – actually shorter than me, but with all the cocksure arrogance that I hate in men. My friends were nowhere to be seen and the beech hangar hid the group he had been with, so I was more than a little apprehensive as he walked towards me, slapping his riding-whip against his boot. I was expecting a lecture, but he never said a word, just caught me by the hand, jerked me off balance and brought his whip down across the seat of my jeans. It was such a shock, and stung like fire. I yelped, outraged, demanding how he dared to do such a thing. He just laughed at me. I tried to pull away, but he held firm and gave me another cut, across my thighs.
A ridiculous little tableau started, with him at the centre, holding my wrist as I jumped and squeaked to cuts of his whip. It hurt crazily and I got into a whole series of ridiculous postures in my efforts to keep my bottom away from him, which only resulted in me getting my beating mainly on my legs. The pain wasn’t the worst thing, though, but the humiliation of being whacked. Me, a grown-up, liberated woman being punished by a man, and instead of taking it with anger and dignity I was squeaking with pain and getting into silly postures to avoid more. The trouble was, my reaction was just the same as it always was in the ridiculous fantasies of being spanked by a dominant male that I tried so hard to repress.
My hidden spanking fantasies had been the last thing on my mind, and it was the shock of having them brought so suddenly to the surface that betrayed me. Instead of just pain, the cuts started to feel warm, and to my utter horror I began to feel the urge to stick out my bottom and take it. I was going scarlet with blushes and he must have realised why, because he laughed, then pulled hard, twisting my wrist. I came off balance and in no time had been forced to my knees with my arm up high behind my back. He pushed down and my bottom came up, then the beating started again, now full across my bottom.
I was still squealing, panting too, my head burning with humiliation because I was excited by what was happening to me when I should have been furious. It hurt all right, and I was close to tears from the pain, with the vicious little whip smacking down across my seat, over and over again. In the end I did burst into tears, not from pain, but from the utter, unbearable humiliation of being punished by a man and finding it arousing. At the sight of my tears he stopped, threw down the whip and called me a baby. As his hand came down under my tummy and began to feel for my jeans button he said that if I was going to act like a baby then I would be spanked like a baby, on the bare bottom.
That was the final straw. I was beaten, all my defiance was gone, and even if he’d let go of my arm I’d have stayed put and let him do it. The tears were streaming from my eyes and I was shaking my head in broken dismay, but at the other end I was lifting my middle, making it easier for him as he popped my button and eased down my zip. His hand left my tummy and went to the waistband of my jeans. They were pulled down, jeans and panties too, tugged off my bottom to the tune of my sobbing and left down around my thighs. Then it was all showing, my full bare moon red with whip cuts, my pussy moist and glistening, my bumhole puckered and tight, my muscles twitching. I was bare, and I should have been angry, and I wasn’t, and despite the agony of my humiliation I found a sigh of pleasure escaping my lips.
He began to spank me, his fingertips slapping against my cheeks to make the skin tingle and warm. It wasn’t a punishment any more, and we both knew it, although he kept my arm twisted tight into the small of my back. He knew how to spank a girl for sex, warming my bottom until I was panting with pleasure and my pussy felt swollen and fat. I was ready for entry and I knew he could see it, with my hole moist and juicy between my rosy pink bum-cheeks.
If he’d just had me at least I’d have been left with some pride, knowing that I hadn’t been able to do anything about it. Instead he asked, politely, pointing out that I was obviously turned on and promising not to get me pregnant. I was sobbing hard and trying to stop myself from saying it, but it came out anyway, a soft, feeble mew of a ‘yes’.
He went right on spanking, covering my bottom with the little tingly pats, just hard enough to bring the blood to the surface. My arm was released and I went forwards, onto all fours with my back pulled in to lift and spread my bottom for entry. I cocked my knees apart, stretching my lowered panties taut, and at that the spanking finally stopped. As he pushed down his jodhpurs I was pulling up my blouse and bra, releasing my breasts to the warm sunlight. He got behind me as I went back on all fours. His hands came under my front to cup my dangling breasts, and he mounted me.
He was prodding at my hole, most of his weight on my back as his cock bumped between my smacked cheeks. Twice his erection slid down the crease of my pussy, rubbing my clit. Twice it nudged my bumhole and for one horrible moment I thought I was going to be buggered. Then it found my pussy and slid up, all the way up, filling me with hot, hard cock. He began to fuck me; his front was slapping on my beaten bottom, sending me to a heaven of beaten, submissive ecstasy I had never thought possible. The tears were still running down my cheeks, but I couldn’t deny it. I was a slut, the sort of girl who got off on being dominated by men, the sort I’d always despised. I was what I’d once heard described as a fuckpuppy.
It lasted a long time, his cock moving in me, faster and faster, until I was panting and mewling out my pleasure. He was good; he didn’t come up me, although I couldn’t have stopped him. Instead he pulled out at the last minute and came over my smacked cheeks, then rubbed it in with the head of his cock, smearing hot semen onto my skin. I was masturbating by then, with my fingers on my pussy, my self-respect gone completely as I came in front of him. The orgasm was superb, the best, far beyond anything I’d had before, but when it was over I just slumped down, lying still in the grass with my naked red bottom uppermost, the cheeks glistening with semen.
As he stepped away he laughed and I turned to see what he was doing. The horse had defecated, and he was scooping up a big double handful of steaming dung, which was obviously meant for me. I tried to get up, but my legs had gone. I was kneeling as he reached me and then it was too late. He dumped the lot into my lowered jeans, grabbed the sides and pulled them smartly up. I felt the dung squelch against my bottom and up between my legs and for the first time found my voice to call him a bastard. He just laughed, and I didn’t resist as he did up my jeans to hold it in and rubbed a handful in my face for good measure. Only then did I get my lecture about not trespassing. Finally he made me pose for a last swat across the now lumpy seat of my jeans and I was sent off the land with several pounds of horse-shit hanging heavy in my panties in addition to my spanked bottom …
I wish, but in practise very few men are capable of understanding my need for sexual humiliation, let alone getting it right without having to be told what to do. Wanting to be humiliated is even more politically incorrect than wanting to be spanked. Over the last decade sadomasochism has slowly become more acceptable, particularly male submission, as it’s a great way for women to show that they can be sexual and in control. Unfortunately it does nothing for me. It is just about OK for a girl to demand the right to be spanked and enjoy it, but the last two fantasies are not going to be appearing in any women’s magazines just yet.
So how should a girl go about getting spanked? It’s no good bullying some milksop of a ‘new man’ boyfriend into it, because it just wouldn’t be the same. Once or twice, at university, I tried to tease men into doing it, but it never worked. They’d get wound up, but instead of turning me across their knees for the spanking I so badly wanted they would get angry or go off and sulk. Even then, teasing someone isn’t really politically correct, because it’s unacceptable to comment on most of the things people are sensitive about.
One exception is fat. Criticising somebody for being overweight is seen as acceptable, even desirable, in a way that criticising somebody’s race or creed hasn’t been for years. Ideally it would be another woman, because I love plump, cuddly girls. The spanking would be pretty well pure pleasure, dominated by a sense of mischief for the way I’d got it …
I’d picked Rosa out as a spanker from the way she spoke. She used it to put men down if they made remarks about her weight, threatening to sit on them and spank them in front of their friends. It worked, not only because men found the threat so embarrassing, but because all but the strongest knew that she could probably actually do it.
Rosa was huge, six foot in her bare feet and over twenty stone. She was fat by any standards, with gigantic breasts, rolls at her waist and a big, lush bottom. There was a lot of muscle too, and we’d all seen her arm-wrestle the number eight in the university boat and come within an ace of winning. As is usually the way, most of the men who’d teased her had been the insecure ones, and by the beginning of our second term they’d stopped, fearful of being given the public spanking she had so often threatened. Personally, the idea set my nipples hard and sent a shiver the full length of my spine every time I thought of it.
The idea of it happening scared me, especially if it was done in front of other people, but I couldn’t help myself. I started to tease her, silly little jokes about chairs collapsing under her or her bicycle tyres popping when she rode it. She didn’t seem to mind at first, but the warning glitter soon appeared in her eyes. When she finally threatened to spank me I went back to my room and masturbated, face down on my bed with my bare bottom pushed up, eyes closed and imagining I was over her lap, being punished for my insolence.
It was a wonderful orgasm, building slowly in my head and travelling down my back until it burst. After that I got worse, deliberately tormenting her, all the while with a mischievous thrill inside me and my stomach knotting in a mixture of delightful anticipation and fear. Her threats became sterner, also more detailed, including how she was going to pull down my panties in front of everyone. The more she threatened the more I teased, until I’m sure she realised that I was actually desperate for it.
I’d always pictured it happening in the labs, perhaps in the coffee area with me across her knee on one of the big comfy seats, pants down and kicking while my colleagues looked on in horrified fascination. They’d have stopped it, but by then I’d have been spanked and I’d have the experience to masturbate over for ever and ever. As it was, Rosa had no intention of doing anything so risky, nor so likely to be broken up before she could get her full satisfaction out of my bottom.
She caught me in my room, one hot afternoon while I was finishing an essay and hardly anyone else was in the hall. I was lying on my bed, reading a paper and thinking vaguely about getting up for a pee when a knock sounded at the door. She came in without waiting for me to respond and my heart went straight into my throat. In her hand was a hairbrush, a big, wooden-handled affair that might have been designed for smacking naughty girls’ bottoms.
I barely got a yip of alarm out and she was on me, pushing me down onto the bed and climbing on to straddle me with her enormous thighs. As her weight settled onto my back I was left gasping, also completely helpless. She began to talk, telling me that she was fed up with my insults and was going to punish me. I struggled and begged, just for show. The thrill of being in her power and the anticipation of my coming spanking was rising rapidly and it was hard to hold back my giggles.
She took down my pants, which was so, so wonderful. All I had on was a little floaty dress and a pair of cotton knickers, and she stripped me with quick, matter-of-fact motions, lifting my dress by the hem and peeling down my knickers. With my bum bare in front of her it was impossible not to let out a sigh, but I don’t think she even noticed. The next thing she did was even better, pointing out that despite my tiny figure anyone with a bottom as fleshy as mine should think twice before laughing at others.
There was a pause while she let the helplessness and indignity of my position sink in, and then she laid the hairbrush purposefully across my buttocks. I pulled my pillow to my chest and gritted my teeth, knowing it was going to hurt however much it might turn me on, then braced myself as she gave my bottom two gentle pats and set to work.
God, it hurt! I’d expected her to use her hand, not to bring a hairbrush, and from the first blow I was kicking and squealing and yelling for mercy. The racket I was making was enough to raise the dead, never mind reach other students through the paper-thin walls, and she stopped abruptly. I experienced a strong flush of disappointment as she lifted her bottom off my back, but she hadn’t finished. Reaching up under her dress and lifting one leg then the other, she pulled off her knickers, a big, dark blue pair like old-fashioned school pants. She settled her bottom back onto me and reached round, ordering me to open my mouth. I did it, taking her huge panties into my mouth, right in, until I was choking on them with just a little tag of blue cotton hanging out between my lips. The taste of her sex was thick in my mouth too, adding to my excitement.
With me safely gagged she went back to the beating. As before I lost control immediately, only now I couldn’t utter a sound and I could only breathe by panting desperately through my nose. She laughed as she beat me, commenting on the appearance of my bottom and reminding me of all the cruel things I had said about her. My bottom was on fire and I knew I’d be bruised, but I didn’t care, it was lovely, and for all the pain it was exactly what I needed. I was sure she knew I was excited, and as pleasure rose through the pain I started to push up my bottom.
She shifted her weight and that was when I realised that I was in real trouble. The problem was my bladder, which was pretty full – in fact painfully full – while the pain of the spanking was making it hard to keep control. I was going to wet myself, which wasn’t part of the plan at all. My struggles abruptly became genuine, and as I jerked the gag from my mouth I was begging her to stop, demanding to be allowed to pee and promising that she could punish me any way she liked once my bladder was empty.
Rosa just laughed, wriggled her big bottom in my back and went right on spanking. I tried to get up, using all my strength in an effort to roll her off my back, but I might as well have tried to move a mountain. It was pointless – she wasn’t going to stop – and as the feeling in my bladder rose to a stabbing, agonising pain that put my burning bottom to shame, I just let go. I did it with a choking, miserable gasp as the pee burst from my hole. It went in my knickers and over my thighs, spraying about wildly as I bucked and writhed with the pain of my spanking.
I was screaming out my emotions, cursing her and calling her a fat bitch and worse as the contents of my bladder emptied out onto my clean bed. She only spanked the harder, laughing as she beat me and my pee sprayed out and splashed over my hot bottom. My panties were soaked, my dress too, and plenty must have gone on her. She didn’t seem to care, spanking gleefully away and bouncing on my back to knock the breath from my body and squeeze out the last few drops of urine onto the bed.
The spanking stopped with the flow of piddle, leaving us both panting and wet. The bed was soaking, my belly and pubes pressed to the wet coverlet, my lowered panties dripping with it. She had done what she came to do and I expected her to go, leaving me to shamefaced masturbation in a puddle of my own pee. I knew I’d do it, because the sense of mischief had returned, dirty and compelling, making me want to be just as rude as I possibly could be.
She didn’t go, she didn’t even get up, and she wasn’t talking any more either. In guilty silence she pulled open my bottom-cheeks and I let her do it, not even protesting when the hairbrush handle went between my legs and up inside me. Maybe she’d meant to leave me like that, spanked with a hairbrush protruding from my vagina, maybe not, because she didn’t leave it but began to fuck me slowly. I pushed my bum up, sighing my compliance to our guilty, dirty sex. Her hand slid down between my thighs, cupping my sex, her palm starting work on my clitoris.
I was brought to orgasm like that, wriggling, spanked and helpless on my wet bed, in absolute ecstasy as she fucked me and frigged me. As I came I called out her name, then sank down, apologising brokenly for all the names I’d called her and thanking her for the punishment. In response she finally climbed off my back, took me tenderly in her strong, heavy arms and pulled my head down between her massive thighs …
Actually, I could never be such a little bitch, it’s just not in my nature. Mischief is, although it is seldom my principal emotion during spankings. The sense of being rude goes with it, of doing something improper, something I’ve been brought up to regard as unthinkable. Well, no, something that I should regard as unthinkable. In fact, I think about that sort of thing a lot. Panty-wetting is like that. If you look at it from a completely objective point of view it’s really not such a big deal. It doesn’t hurt, and while it may be uncomfortable it’s really no worse than slipping in the mud. Try telling that to any girl who’s ever wet her panties!
What makes it strong is the social disapprobation, and that’s something that excites me a lot. Exhibitionism is the same, rude and daring, although with less of the delicious shame that panty-wetting brings. Ideally, of course, a girl who wets her knickers ought to feel guilty for such disgusting behaviour and expect a just punishment, during which her overriding emotion will be contrition.
An old-fashioned disciplinarian would argue that contrition is always the right attitude for a girl to bring to a punishment. After all, she has done wrong and she should expect to be chastised. If that chastisement happens to involve the exposure and beating of her bottom, then that is simply because it is the most practical way to punish an erring girl. The idea that it might turn him on? Ridiculous!
Gross hypocrisy, of course, and nowadays any girl who wets her panties is more likely to expect sympathy than a spanking, and to get it. Victorian double standards are not for me, and I loathe people who preach against promiscuity and so forth, then get caught with their pants down on top of their secretaries. Still, sometimes I do feel I deserve a beating for my behaviour, and it might be nice to be caught by someone who not only didn’t know that I like it but expected me to think that they didn’t either. Nor should they think that it was something they should do despite the risks, but something they felt they had a perfect right to do …
I was perfectly aware that if I went into town I was supposed to cover up; after all, the holiday reps had drummed it into our heads firmly enough. My argument was that if I was prepared to accept their culture, then so should they be prepared to accept mine. Besides, I was a tourist, and without tourism the town would have been little more than a cluster of run-down huts.
So I put on a knee-length yellow sundress, sandals and a wide-brimmed hat. Looking at myself in the mirror, I decided that no reasonable person could possibly consider me indecent. There was no cleavage showing, and no thigh, while the loose material barely hinted at the outlines of my panties and bra. Anyway, if they didn’t want to see they didn’t have to look.
I got to the market with no more than an occasional disapproving glance. Not many people were about in the midday heat, and most of those were women. I felt sorry for them in their robes and veils, covered from head to toe. It seemed obscene that women should be so cowed in the modern world. I imagined their envy and respect for my freedom and it made me feel proud that I had come out in defiance of the conventions forced on them by the men.
At least I felt that way until one of them spat on the ground as I passed. The act was like a signal. Two women began to follow me, then a man, never touching but always close, so that I had to go deeper into the market. I tried to move down an alley, only to find it blocked by two men, lounging idly against the walls, their expressions making it quite clear that they were not going to let me past.
I was getting scared, and began to stammer out protestations, even threats, pointing out that I was a tourist and had a perfect right to be there and to dress as I pleased. If they understood they took no notice, but continued to move slowly forwards, allowing me to move only towards the centre of the market. I reached it to find every exit blocked, as if it had all been worked out in advance. Maybe sixty or seventy people were there, standing around the little raised platform at the centre of the market square. Their faces were hostile, aggressive, the sort of expression that in England would have been reserved for somebody who’d done something really offensive, like kicking a dog.
Maybe they just wanted to scare me, maybe worse, but fortunately I was rescued. The man was an official of some sort, maybe a priest, in long black robes and a hat that I would have found comic in any less threatening situation. He told the crowd to disperse and they obeyed with respectful inclinations of their heads. I was already babbling out my gratitude when he spoke to me in perfect English, telling me to come with him. I obeyed, far too scared to do anything else.
We walked some little way up the hill, to the old town, under an arch of weathered yellow stone and through a door. Beyond was a courtyard, cool and green in the shade of some tree with feathery leaves and with a fountain in the middle. I was feeling pretty awkward, also stupid, and had been mumbling out apologies and trying to explain that I hadn’t understood the strength of feeling about women’s clothes among the locals. I expected sympathy, perhaps tempered by mild disapproval or a wry amusement at my ignorance. What I got was a lecture, explaining the full idiocy of what I had done, rebuking me for both disrespect and immorality.