Extract from Nights in White Cotton

As I teased myself my mind had gone back to how I’d been at seventeen, shy, not at all sure of myself. I hadn’t minded stripping off, not in front of Kate, but I’d been desperately embarrassed to discover we’d been seen. It had only been a glimpse, then, but now I knew the truth, and could imagine how I’d have felt if I’d known at the time. I’d have been mortified, so ashamed of myself and so guilty, even blaming myself rather than him.

He’d run away, no doubt feeling guiltier still, but I couldn’t help but speculate on what might have happened had he been bolder, perhaps had he somehow known how I felt about it. Maybe he’d even have had the courage to accost us in the lane, to tell us off for being so dirty, despite having a roll of film with our naked bodies well and truly captured. It would have been an incredibly arrogant thing to do, and hypocritical as well. Only I wouldn’t have known that. I’d have felt he had every right to tell me off for letting my knickers down in a public place.

Good girls didn’t do that sort of thing, and he’d tell me so, with a very clear implication, that I ought to be spanked. Maybe he’d even say it, relishing his words as he told us we ought to have our knickers taken down and our naughty bottoms smacked. Not that he’d expect us to submit to anything so undignified. He’d expect a stream of invective, even be ready to have his face slapped. We’d never have done it, not after all those apprehensive visits to his garden for illicit fruit. We’d have run.

Kate would have got clean away and I’d have been caught. It was just the sort of thing that happened to me. Maybe I’d have tripped over or twisted my ankle, because otherwise there was no way he could possibly have out run me. What ever happened, I’d have been caught, and in the excitement of getting his hands on me he’d have thrown caution to the wind and decided to do it.

He’d have had me by the ear, telling me to be a good girl and take my medicine, in that same stern, military bark he’d always had. I would not have been good, I’d have been an utter brat, yelling and screaming and making a truly pathetic fuss about it as I fought to stop myself getting the spanking I so obviously deserved. It would do me not good at all. I’d be bundled across his knee, squealing like a stuck pig as my bottom was exposed for punishment.

On the day I’d been in jeans shorts, really quite rude ones, showing a little cheek around the hems. By the time I’d been bent over his lap with my bottom thrust up in the air I’d have been showing a lot of cheek, plenty enough to spank me on. My shorts would have come down anyway, his hand fumbling under my tummy to get at the popper as I struggled to escape and begged him not to be done bare. My miserable wriggling and my wretched pleas would have only made him all the more determined to get me stripped.

I was right on the edge, my finger pressed to my clitoris and one nipple in a firm pinch, my mind focussed on the awful, wonderful sensation of having my bottom exposed for spanking. It would have been so easy to come, perhaps as I imagined the intense shame as my panties followed my shorts and I was laid bare, but I wanted more. In my head I was seventeen again, on that hot July day, only not splashing carelessly about with my cousin, but held down over old Colonel Aimsworth’s knee with my jeans shorts around my thighs and my panties about to follow.

My shorts would have been down, yes, well down, my hand slapped to make me let go and tugged clear to leave the seat of my panties on show, pink panties, ones he’d just photographed me taking down, and now he was able to do the same for himself. How I’d have fought to keep them up, both hands clutching at my waistband, kicking and screaming, struggling furiously to preserve my final shred of modesty. How I’d have fought, and lost. He’d have slapped my hands again, hard. I’d have let go, and my precious little panties would have been jerked straight down, showing off my bare bottom to world, to him, his horrid goggle eyes caressing my flesh, examining my pussy where my lips stuck out from between my thighs, plump and hairy and pouted, loitering on my anus as the little brown hole began to wink to the desperate jerking of my body and the agonising shame in my head.

It wouldn’t just be his eyes either. He’d have a good grope, making some lame excuse as he fondled my bottom cheeks, enjoying the feel of my flesh and my frenzied sobbing as he explored me. Maybe he’d tell me he needed to see if I’d wiped properly and would hold my cheeks apart to inspect my anus more closely. Maybe he’d ask if I was a virgin and spread my pussy open to see if I still had my hymen. Maybe he’d finger me, chuckling as he amused himself with my twin holes. Definitely he’d spank me, and hard.

He’d show no mercy at all, really laying in, my body contorted into a dozen ludicrous postures as I blubbered my way through it, a hard, purposeful spanking, to punish me, and to make me pliant for his dirty lust. To me it would be punishment, pure and simple, what was done to bad girls, down with their panties and smack, smack, smack, a firm hand applied to a bare, wriggling bottom. Not to him. To him it would be a turn on, making his cock hard in his pants.

By the time my bottom had been well and truly roasted I’d have given in, completely, lying passive across his knees, tear stained and snotty as I snivelled out my feelings and wondered how it was possible for my pussy to feel so desperately in need. I’d be lost, and he’d take advantage of me, full advantage. First he’d make me go down on him, sucking on his erection, my tear stained face full of cock, my panties still down behind, my bottom bare and rosy in the hot July sunlight, my cheeks well spread, my bumhole and pussy on show. Then he’d fuck me, on my knees in the long, warm grass, his thumbs peeling my bottom cheeks open to stretch out my anus as he slid his dirty old cock in up my pussy hole.

He have been only the second man to do it, which was a shame. Better still if he’d caught me a few months earlier, spanked me and fucked me, taking my virginity as I knelt for him, red bottomed and sobbing, not understanding why I felt so excited even as my precious hymen pushed in to his cock head. What a way to go, fucked on my knees by a dirty old man who’d just spanked me. How impossibly shameful, how impossibly nice…

I came, holding the picture in my head, of myself at seventeen, kneeling with my spanked bottom thrust up to Colonel Aimsworth’s cock, my hymen pushing in as he thrust, and tearing, my precious virginity gone, taken by a dirty old man, a dirty old bastard… a dirty old bastard who’d had the guts to smack my bottom for me and take me where no other man had dared.

The orgasm was every bit as long and as tight as I’d hoped it would be, and so much better for the slow build up before letting go. There was a touch of shame as I came down, for being such a slut, stripping off and masturbating over the memory of what a Peeping Tom had done, and what he might have done had circumstances been different and spanking young girls caught skinny dipping been an even remotely acceptable thing to do. Shame, yes, but there was a rueful smile on my face as I hurried back to where I’d left my clothes, to find Pippa Bassington-Smyth sitting cross-legged on the grass, my magazine open in her lap, the picture of me pulling down my panties to swim in her hands.

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