Bad Penny

Contents

I was in disgrace, held tight over Vicky's lap with my bum showing, naked and vulnerable to the punishment that was about to be inflicted on me. She raised a knee, lifting my poor bottom so that my cheeks opened. The shame was unbearable, as I knew my sex would be showing in every detail of pink fleshy folds and hairy lips, as well as the centre of my bottom, the wrinkled pinkish-brown hole of my anus. I thought nothing could be worse, and then she started to spank me.

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Epub ISBN 9780753543603

Version 1.0

This book is a work of fiction.

In real life, make sure you practise safe sex.

First published in 1999 by

Nexus

Thames Wharf Studios

Rainville Road

London W6 9HT

Copyright © Penny Birch 1999

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.

Typeset by TW Typesetting, Plymouth, Devon

Printed and bound by

Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berks

ISBN 0 352 33335 9

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.

1

Opening the Garden

From the very first, my sexual fantasies always revolved around being helpless: powerless to prevent something rude being done to me. I also liked the idea of being put in an awkward, embarrassing sexual situation through no fault of my own. I had been brought up quite strictly, and having such naughty ideas made me guilty and ashamed; yet that very guilt and shame served as a spur to my excitement.

So when the other girls were drooling over the latest boy-wonder pop star, I'd be thinking about how it would feel to tear my skirt on a barbed-wire fence and have to walk home in my panties. I used to lie awake at night and play with my pussy while I thought about such things, although I was still a virgin and hadn't so much as touched a man's cock. Nor had I managed to reach orgasm, mainly because my worry about being caught masturbating never allowed me to really relax. The one about tearing my skirt off was typical of my fantasies, an imaginary scene in which my body was accidentally exposed and then taken advantage of by some great, brainless oaf of a man. The men were always like that in my imagination: huge, shambling brutes driven by lust they were quite incapable of controlling. Their cocks would be monstrous things, like small logs, gnarled and veined and capable of producing prodigious amounts of come.

Of course, this was all fantasy. The only time I'd even seen a cock was when my cousin Kate let me watch her pull her boyfriend off in the back of his car. I'd been terrified, but also fascinated, by the way it swelled to erection and then spurted come all over her hand when he came. The experience fired my imagination, but unfortunately imagination was as far as it went. Being small, quiet and studious, the sort of boys I attracted were the exact opposite of the men of my fantasies. Without exception they were gentle, considerate, insecure, shy, nice . . . and totally devoid of sex appeal. I didn't want a box of chocolates and a peck on the lips from a polite young gentleman. I wanted my blouse ripped open and my panties torn off by a man who could no more resist me than he could resist his own heartbeat.

To make matters worse, there was Kate. We were cousins and the best of friends, yet she had everything to attract the sort of man I wanted: a C-cup bra, for one thing. Inevitably I got left with the wet ones and, just to add extra frustration, Kate's rejects and exes would often confide their passion for her to me.

I finally broke my duck during a summer holiday, as I suppose so many people do. My mother and her sister had been taking a cottage in the Channel Islands every year since before we were born, and it had become a sort of tradition for both families. Kate and I knew all the locals and the other regular holiday-makers and, looking back on it, the social set-up was insular to the point of being incestuous. Everybody knew more or less how they related to everyone else, and God help the girl who fancied a boy who wasn't regarded as one of the attractive ones.

Kate, inevitably, was Little Miss Popular, and was regarded by the boys as
the
catch. Despite being a bit of a loner and getting teased for studying and reading more than was felt to be normal, I was by no means unpopular. This was mainly because boys tended to see me as a way of getting to Kate, but I put up with it and enjoyed myself most of the time. That year I had no boyfriend, as usual, while Kate was going out with a tall, swarthy lad called Carl.

Carl was a fisherman and about as close to rough trade as anyone on the island, which excited the disapproval of our parents and made Kate fancy him all the more. I didn't really like him, as he was too laddish, yet I had to admit he had a certain appeal, and I was more than a little jealous of Kate. He worked with his father, and their main income came from lobster, langouste and crab. He used to be out all day and then meet us at one of the island's many bars, where he and Kate would snog and fondle the evening away while I sat and talked to his friends.

It was one such evening that sparked off my experience. Carl and three of his friends came into the bar, laughing and joking. Kate asked what was up as they sat down with us. Carl was grinning from ear to ear as he pulled Kate towards him with the characteristic roughness that always made me jealous.

‘You know that bloke Ryan?' Carl asked.

Kate nodded. From the point of view of our social set, Ryan was the least desirable boy of all. Tall, red-haired, gangly and unable to dance; to even speak to him was to risk ostracisation. Personally I felt rather sorry for him, and was sure that whatever story Carl had to tell was not going to be to the unfortunate Ryan's advantage. I was right.

Carl described how he and his father had been lifting pots in one of the tiny bays beneath the cliffs to the south of the island. They had had the engine off and put the anchor down while they lunched. When they had finished, it had only been necessary to let out a little more chain to let the current take the boat on to the next pot. As they had drifted past an outcrop of rock they had come in sight of a gully that had previously been hidden. Ryan had been in the gully, stark naked, with his erect cock in his hand, masturbating.

‘. . . you should have seen the fucker,' Carl finished. ‘He had his eyes closed, his hand's going up and down like a fucking piston, his great hairy sac's going from side to side . . . fuck me, I thought he was going to explode. Then the old man calls out and asks him if he's having a good one. Fuck, you should have seen him move when he saw us.'

The story was greeted with more laughter from Carl's friends, even though it was probably the third or fourth time they'd heard it. Kate laughed too, mixing her giggles with a suitably ladylike measure of disgust. I smiled and grimaced at the appropriate places but my emotions were very different. For a start, I felt sorry for Ryan, whose life would now be unbearable. I also felt only some of the disgust that I was trying so hard to register in my expression. What he'd been doing struck me not only as a dirty act that only boys who were unable to get girlfriends did, but as something primitively masculine, something that he had done because he was unable to restrain his lust.

I didn't stay out late that evening, but excused myself on the grounds of feeling tired and walked back to town. It was dark and I was slightly drunk, with the unlit road barely discernible between the banks on either side. I could see were I was going, just, yet the darkness made me feel pleasantly detached. I wasn't really tired, but had wanted to let my mind run on the thought of Ryan masturbating without the distracting din of music and loud voices.

Knowing that I would see the headlights of any cars long before they got to me, I slipped my hand down the front of my jeans and began to stroke myself through my panties. My pussy was damp and felt wonderfully soft and sexy under my fingers. In my mind I was imagining Ryan's body, pale and sinewy with his swollen erection in his hands and his balls swaying beneath the shaft as he pulled at himself. Carl had said Ryan's balls had been large and covered with red hair, his cock long, white and with a red tip, a description that was supposed to shock and disgust us. It did shock me, but mainly because I wanted so badly to have seen it. My emotions were an odd mixture of shame and sexual need, and only the horror of chancing being caught in much the same way Ryan had been prevented me from going into the hedge and playing with myself.

When I got back I lay in bed, wide awake with my nightie up and my panties pushed down to my thighs so that I could pull them up quickly if anyone came in. I tried to bring myself off, rubbing at my clit with the little circular motions that always seemed to give the best sensation. Twice a really strange feeling crept up on me and I thought I was going to come, but all the time I was straining my ears for the sound of Kate's key in the front door. We shared a room and, despite our intimacy, I did not want to be caught by her. There was the feeling of shame at what I was doing and what I was thinking of as well, which made it even harder to concentrate.

Kate didn't get back until nearly three, yet I was still wide awake. She was absolutely glowing, and told me how she and Carl had driven out to one of the old quarries at the eastern end of the island and had sex in the cab of his pick-up. She had pulled her top up so that he could play with her boobs and had even sucked his cock. She was immensely proud of herself and I was glad for her, but also jealous and even more turned on than before. There I'd been, lying in bed desperately attempting to make myself come, while Kate had been having sex with the big, rough Carl.

Nobody saw anything of Ryan for about a week after that, and it began to be rumoured that he had left the island out of sheer embarrassment. Finally, the following weekend, he was spotted fishing on a particularly lonely piece of the shore. This led to a whole series of new jokes about his masturbatory habits, which I joined in with, despite having very different thoughts in my head.