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Drunk in Charge

Story Updates

21st February 2003: Interactive story outline posted
5th March 2003: Opening (475 words)
5th March 2003: Option One: Choice One (1764 words)
4th April 2003: Option Two: Choice One (1085 words)
4th April 2003: Option Two: Choice Two (1349 words)
2nd February 2004: Option Three: Choice One (1116 words)
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Interactive Story Outline

This is a fantasy, not a story as such, and doesn't belong in the canon. It is also interactive, as you will see.

There is a picture in Peter's huge collection of smut, a full page cartoon from some 'seventies magazine. It shows a pleasant rural scene, a hilltop church, a steep and winding country road, woods, fields ripe with corn. At a sharp bend in the road there is a hoarding, a light wooden framework supporting a huge poster. Behind the poster there is a group of monks, pitching hay. One is praying, his hands together, his eyes raised to heaven - "For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly thankful."

He is not about to eat his lunch. A girl on a bicycle has lost her brakes on the hill and crashed through the poster. She has landed upside down in the hay, her legs are kicking in the air and her light summer dress is spread out like a flower around her waist. Her pussy is showing. Are the monks going to help this poor girl?

No, they're not. The reason her pussy is showing is because one of the monks has removed her panties. The panties are small, and pink, and frilly, and he is holding them up for inspection. Two monks have pinned her arms down with their pitchforks. Others are lifting their habits. They're going to fuck her...

They're going to fuck her!

How outrageous is that!? This is a cartoon, remember, something intended to raise a smile before the reader wanks off over "Stephanie" stripping out of her hotpants. A girl has a bicycle accident and she gets stripped and raped by a load of monks? Hilarious!

Okay, so it's only a picture. Get down off the soapbox, Penny.

I have a dirty and overactive imagination. It's hard not to imagine it's me upside down in the hay. Let's assume I'm game, or at the least tipsy and horny, because no girl in her right mind would deliberately crash her bicycle through an advertising hoarding in the hope that the monks making hay on the far side would fuck her. She'd just stop the bicycle and ask them politely if they'd oblige.

So, let's embellish the picture a bit, and wind the time back a minute or two. There's the church, the road, the hoarding, the monks, a merry rural scene. There's also me, coming down the hill on my bicycle after a long and alcoholic lunch, too fast. Let's say I had a crab salad washed down with a whole bottle of Gewurztraminer. I'm pretty tipsy, and I'm also horny after watching a friend spanked by her husband that morning. I didn't get it myself, but I would like to have done.

Let's add a few details. The wife of the local vicar is walking up the road, a big, sturdy woman who disapproves of drink, short dresses, hills and probably even monks. There's a jolly, red-faced farmer leaning on a gate, watching the monks work, his pipe in his mouth, his trusty collie dog by his side. Further up the hill is the village policeman, who looks like Mr Plod, and no, he's not going to arrest the monks, whatever happens, this a fantasy, but he does have his handcuffs and a conveniently shaped truncheon.

So, what happens to me? Do you want me to take the corner successfully and cycle off happily into the distance?

No, I thought not...

The first book review has been written and so the story starts...

Opening

I'm drunk. I know I'm drunk, because I'm singing to myself, which is a always a sure sign. The song is "Perfect Day", and if it is all about drugs in the urban environment, I don't care. It's nice. So's the feel of the wind on my face as I cycle, and the smell of hay, and the feel of the summer sun on my skin, and everything...

It has been a perfect day too. I watched Vicky spanked at breakfast time, struggling and swearing across his knee as her nightie was hauled up, her panties popped down, and her sweet little bum spanked and spanked and spanked. I wish it had been me, so badly, and I feel so naughty, but that's nice too.

I've just got to the bit in the song about reaping what you sow when I pass the church. I can hear singing inside, and it's just so funny. There they all are, with their guilty thoughts and their stuffy little lives, singing away in praise of something that exists only in their own heads. There's me, drunk and free and happy, in my red summer dress and panties, not a stitch besides, thinking about how much I'd like my bottom smacked.

The road turns beyond the church, onto a steep hill. The whole countryside opens up below me, woods and fields and hedges, marred only by a huge poster advising me to brush my teeth with mint flavoured paste. I just let the brakes go, whizzing past a big fat policeman who's waddling down the road, and on, into the rushing air, faster, and faster, and faster...

Common sense finally manages to penetrate my drink-fogged head and I put my brakes on. Nothing happens. There's panic, a desperate sense of regret for my own stupidity, determination as I try to take the bend at the bottom of the hill, raw fear as I hit the bank. I know that it is the end as I'm hurled through the air, right at the enormous tube of mint toothpaste...

...and clean through it, the paper bursting open across my body, on, head first, and into the huge mound of hay on the far side.

Relief floods through me, then embarrassment. I'm upside down in the hay and my skirt has come up, leaving my legs in the air and my panties on show. I can't see a thing, but I did in the instant between hitting the poster and hitting the hay. I saw men, in brown dresses.

Option One: What do you want the monks to do?

Choice One: Tie me up, make me perform oral sex and stuff rosary beads up me.

I struggle to get up, my heart still hammering from the crash, in shock maybe. Someone grabs my arm and I'm pulled up, emerging from the hay with my hair and mouth full of it. There's no pain, no blood, but my dress is torn at the front, leaving one boob showing. As my vision clears I find myself smiling in a mixture of relief and embarrassment. The monks are looking down at me, six of them, with pitchforks. More are nearby. I want to cover myself, and to get up, but I can't. My muscles have turned to lead and my stomach is churning so badly I think I'm going to be sick. I can't even speak.

'Hide yourself!' the nearest of the monks snaps.

'I... I'm sorry... I crashed... I...'

'You're drunk,' he answers.

I nod, and shrug, unable to understand why he's being so nasty. There's another monk behind him who's being a lot nastier, but in a different way. He's short, fat and bald, his little piggy eyes on fixed on my thighs and his tiny mouth in set in a dirty grin. Affronted, I hastily pull my skirt down to cover as much of my legs as possible. That's not much. He laughs and squeezes his crotch through his habit.

'Hey!' I protest, an automatic reaction at his lewd behaviour. The tall monk's expression becomes sterner still.

I glance around, wishing I was elsewhere, and badly in need of some sympathy. The monks certainly aren't going to provide any. The fat one is leering at me and fiddling with a string of outsize rosary beads that hangs at his belt. There is a a little wizened one too, and another with a bald head and curiously pale eyes. A young one, sandy haired and with a vacant expression that suggests a mental disorder has an erection under his habit. He speaks, his voice oddly squeaky, full of lechery and satisfaction.

'I saw her knickers.'

'Do you mind!' I snap back.

He immediately goes coy, but the tall monk's brow wrinkles and his expression turns to thunder. He answers me.

'You would do well to remember who you are before taking such a tone.' 'What do you mean, who I am!?' I demand, outraged.

'A drunken tart, that's who you are,' the fat monk answers, and laughs.

'What...,' I begin, and stop dead. The young monk is nursing his erection through his habit.

'Can I take her behind the wain, Father Michael?' he asks, drool running from the edge of his mouth as he speaks.

'Now do you see what you have done!?' the tall monk demands. 'Flaunting yourself in your wanton stupidity!'

He turns to the young monk.

'There, Brother Jethro, you must seek to overcome your earthly needs.'

'I can't!' Jethro whines. 'She's... she's so roundy and all, and... and she smells.'

'Smells!?' I demand.

'Of cunt,' the fat monk answers me, relishing the word as if speaking in anticipation of a fine dinner, or of me.

Father Michael sighs. 'Such are the burdens of man.'

He makes a gesture, resigned, reluctant, but unmistakably acquiescence to the young one's filthy demand. It still takes a moment to sink in, and then I'm scrabbling back in the hay with my face burning crimson and my heart hammering again.

'No!' I protest. 'You can't! You just can't!'

'Do try to show some humility,' Father Michael answers.

'But you can't!' I wail as two of them take me by the arms, to drag me free of the hay.

Father Michael has begun to pray, and takes no notice of me at all as I'm dragged off the hay wain to the ground. I'm screaming and struggling, but my heart's not in it, betrayed by my own dirty, submissive sexuality. There is still my pride, far too strong to allow me to give in to their filthy suggestion without at least being asked. They don't know that, and they don't care anyway.

Still, I know the policeman is just up the hill. I could scream for him, but I don't. Instead I just spit and swear and beg as the two monks who've got me drag me into the shelter of the bank. They take no notice. Brother Jethro follows, making excited burbling noises in his throat and rubbing at his cock through his habit. He's drooling badly now, with a long strand of spit hanging from his chin and his mouth half open to reveal yellowing teeth.

They throw me against the bank, where a big wooden post supporting the hoarding comes down. I slump down, panting, struggling to find my voice and not knowing what I should say. Jethro approaches, the drool running down his face, babbling obscenities.

'Suck willy! Suck willy! I'm gonna make her suck my willy!'

The others greet this outrageous declaration with calm, indulgent smiles. I still can't find my voice to deny him, and simply look up, my lower lip trembling. My torn dress has fallen open at the front, this time baring both my boobs. He's staring. So are the others, but they're not lifting their habits. He is.

It comes up, and he's naked underneath. His legs are big, muscular, yet completely hairless, giving him a weird, androgynous look. Then his balls and cock are showing and I no longer care about his legs. He's huge, his balls two egg-sized shapes within a bulging, wrinkly scrotum the size of my two fists together, his cock a great, thick pillar of meat, turgid and ugly with veins, the head a fat, purple mushroom of flesh. There is not a hair to be seen.

The fat monk has climbed down from the wain and approaches me. The others are beyond, in a ring, maybe twelve of them, shielding me from view. Only Father Michael remains on the wain, looking down on me with an air of haughty disdain. The fat one comes close and leans down to whisper.

'Brother Jethro's not all there, if you get my meaning. Be nice to him.'

It is such an utterly outrageous thing to say, to demand that I show consideration to a man who is about to force me to fellate him. Yet all I manage in response is a wordless nod. The fat monk nods too, doubtfully, then his hands go to the thick belt of rope that encircles his massive gut.

'What are you doing?' I demand as his belt comes loose and the string of beads falls to the grass.

'Not sure I trust you,' he answers.

'I'll be good... I promise!' I stammer, but he shakes his head, holding the rope out. Beyond him, Jethro is masturbating.

'Kneel up,' the fat monk demands. 'Back to the post.'

I obey, woodenly, quite simply unable to do otherwise. Scrambling around, I press my back to the post, my bottom and shoulders touching the hard, cool wood. The fat monk bends down, taking my wrists. My arms are pulled back behind the post, hard enough to make me gasp. He takes no more notice than before, but simply holds my wrists in one hand as he lashes them together, twisting the cord around and between to secure me. Once he's finished I'm trapped.

He comes in front of me again, his fat red face now beaded with sweat and his little blubbery lips curved up into a smile. I look back, pleading with my eyes, but I'm no longer sure what for. His answer is to take a firm grip on my dress and tear it open down the front, all the way down, to leave me bound and kneeling in a puddle of scarlet cloth.

Suddenly everything is very clear; birdsong, the sound of a car in the distance, my ruined bicycle lying a little way to one side, the smell of hay, the smell of cock. I look up, to find them grinning at me, lecherous, amused, disdainful. Only Brother Jethro has his cock out, but there are suspicious bulges under several habits.

'Fancy drawers,' the fat one chuckles. 'Look what it says, Brothers, "Tradesmen's Entrance Around the Back"!'

Most laugh. One makes a crude joke.

'Shame you're not a tradesman, Brother Francis!'

'Oh but I am,' the fat monk chortles in response. 'Guiding souls to Heaven, that's my trade, and none more important.'

As I speak he has slid a hand around my back. I gasp as it goes down my panties, fumbling for my anus. I gasp again, louder, as my hole is rudely penetrated, but I moan as his podgy finger slides up into my rectum.

'You bastard!' I mumble, but I don't mean it.

For a moment he fingers me, then pulls it out and pops it into his mouth, to my disgust, and surprise. I thought it was going in mine. From the expression on his face it looks as if he is tasting a fine wine. I wonder if he will want to bugger me when Jethro has had his fun. He will, I'm sure, and that won't be all. I'm going to get cocks in every hole.

Not yet, I'm not, just my mouth, but fat Brother Francis is not finished with me. Still wearing his cherubic grin, he picks up his rosary beads. He undoes the knot. My panties are pulled open at the back. The beads are emptied down my pouch. They're big, the size of large marbles, and they hang heavy in my panties, making the seat bulge as if I've filled them. That makes the monks laugh, but that particular piece of humiliation is not all he has in store for me. As he beckons to Brother Jethro his hand goes back down my panty pouch, once more seeking out my bumhole.

Brother Jethro steps close, offering his huge and erect cock to my mouth. A finger invades my pussy. What is left of my pride just snaps. My mouth comes open. In goes the cock. A murmur of approval runs around the monks. Brother Francis speaks.

'Ah, warm cunt, how long it has been.'

As I begin to suck on Jethro's cock, so fat Francis begins to force the rosary beads into my anus and my pussy, one by one.

Option Two: What do you want the monks to do next?

Choice One: Continue, including coming in my face and fucking me.

Jethro takes me by the ears, making a joke of fucking my head as he looks round to the others for approval, grinning inanely. They respond with indulgent smiles, except fat Francis, who is far too busy feeding rosary beads up my bum, pushing each one well in with a podgy finger and chuckling obscenely as my rectum slowly swells inside.

I try to pull back, to take some control of the cock sucking, because Jethro's hurting my ears and jamming his cock so far in it's making me choke. He doesn't even seem to notice, and he's getting really excited, his mouth half open with drool running down his chin as he rams his cock in and out of my mouth. It seems to be going deeper with every thrust, and I'm sure I'm going to sick when he suddenly grunts, jerks it out, and comes, full in my face, in one eye, over my nose and across my cheek. I gasp in disgust, only to have my mouth filled once again for him to drain the rest of his sperm into, leaving me soiled and panting when he finally pulls away.

There is no sympathy, no remorse. The others are looking shifty, turning glances towards Father Michael, who is stood as he was before, cool and aloof, indifferent to what has been done to me, approving even. There is an exception though, Brother Francis, who is thoroughly enjoying himself with my bottom and doesn't seem to care about anything else. I've lost count of how many beads he had stuck up my bum, but I feel seriously bloated, and while I can certainly feel his hand as he rummages around down my panties, I can't feel many beads.

He stops, suddenly, and pulls his hand out. As my panties close I feel the remaining beads, just a few, now pressed between my cheeks where the string emerges from my bumhole like some absurd and obscene tail. I hear him grunt and look around, to find him with his hand up his habit and his red, sweaty face set in an eager leer. Then his habit is up, his cock is out and as he pulls at my body I realise I'm going to be fucked. With my one good eye I look up to Father Michael, pleading. He is not even looking at me, but at the ground, and muttering under his breath, a prayer.

I'm too far gone to know if I want it or not, but it's going to happen anyway. It hurts my bound arms as Francis pulls me sideways so he can get at my bottom. Others close in, their hesitancy evaporating as I don't even to try to stop it. I'm pulled back into his Francis' lap, my bottom squashing against his fat belly. My panties are pulled aside and his cock is probing for my hole, finding it and slipping up. He holds me by the hips, grunting as he fucks me in what surely must be as awkward a position for him as it is for me. Jethro has sat back against the wain, and is stroking his limp and slimy cock, grinning as he watches. The bald one with the pale eyes has his cassock up, revealing a big, white erection. He takes me by the hair and it is stuffed unceremoniously into my mouth. I start to suck immediately and the little wizened one gives a knowing cluck.

Fat Francis is really jamming his cock into me, and he's taken me around my chest, cupping and squeezing my boobs as he enjoys my pussy. I can feel the beads up my bum too, and I'm sure he can, their hard bulk evident through the flesh between rectum and vagina. It hurts, but not as much as my arms, or my mouth and hair, the bald monk now gripping me hard and masturbating himself as I suck him. Two others have their cocks out, waiting their turn, and I wonder how I'm going to feel by the time they've all had me, all twelve, or fifteen, however many it is...

Baldy comes, right down my throat, choking me and sending me into a fit of coughing and retching, spunk exploding from my nose and mouth to land wet and sticky in my cleavage. Francis is still fondling my boobs, and some goes on his hands. He doesn't care, scooping it up and smearing it over my nipples, still fucking merrily away all the while.

Another monk replaces Baldy in my mouth, I don't know which. I suck anyway, my mouth now thick with the taste of cock and sperm and my jaw beginning to go numb. Then fat Francis has changed his grip. His hand has gone down the front of my panties, hurting my arms more than ever and pressing hard to my full bladder, but he's playing with my pussy, his fat fingers rubbing Baldy's sperm into the crease of my pussy and over my clit. He's trying to make me come, on his cock, and it's going to happen too, whether I like it or not.

Still he's fucking me, his belly slapping on my panty-clad bottom, the rosary beads moving obscenely in my rectum, his cock jabbing in and out with a urgency no less than that of his fingers as he masturbates me, bringing me higher, and higher still. Soon I'm mouthing eagerly on the cock in my mouth and wriggling my bum in fat Francis' lap, utterly wanton, behaving like a demented little tart. I start to come, my pussy tightening on the cock inside me. The cock in my mouth is whipped out and I'm given a second load of sperm in my face and hair. Francis comes and I feel his sperm squash out around my hole, all over his fat, hairy balls as he jams himself into me to the very hilt.

I'm there, in ecstasy, my mouth gaping wide in the hope of a fresh cock as I come under Francis' fingers. He doesn't stop either, not until we've both come and I'm left gasping for breath, sperm running slowly from my pussy and down my face, a soiled, bedraggled mess. It isn't over though, far from it, and as I finally look up from my half-closed eye I find myself in a ring of erect cocks, all but one of them ready for my body, Father Michael.

'Common slut,' he remarks and steps forwards.

Option Two: What do you want the monks to do next?

Choice Two: Finish off, then leave me to the mercy of the vicar's wife.

There is no sympathy, no remorse. A gentle word from Father Michael and Jethro puts his cock away. Fat Francis stops feeding beads up my bottom, leaving just the last few hanging out into my panties, and gets up. They begin to leave, one or two turning glances to me, of lust, or regret or disgust as they stick their pitchforks in the hay. A big cart horse is led over from where he's been grazing in the field and put in harness on the wain, but only as the monks form an orderly line and start off across the field do I realise they're not going to untie me. Father Michael is still nearby, and the bald one with the pale eyes, who's job it is to lead the horse. I finally find my voice.

'Hey, aren't you going to untie me?'

'No,' Father Michael replies. 'It will do you good, I feel, to think on your sins for a while.'

With that he leaves, following the wain as Pale Eyes leads the horse after the others. I just sit gaping, with Jethro's sperm running slowly down my face. not a stitch on besides my panties, about a kilogram of large wooden beads stuffed up my bottom and tied to a post.

The real problem is being tied to the post. Fat Francis has done a good job and I can't get free. I wriggle and pull, trying to slip my wrists out, trying to get at the knot, all to no avail. All I succeed in doing is making myself sweaty. I need to pee too, and if I don't get loose soon I'm going to do it in my panties, yet I can't bear to call out for help. They positioned me well to have Jethro use me, because I'm right in under the hedge, out of sight of the road.

I sit there feeling sorry for myself for maybe five minutes before I decide that I'm just going to have to call out. Whoever finds me it is going to be extremely humiliating, yet there's no choice, so I might as well get it over and done with. I call out, quietly, then louder. There is no response and I call again. This time a voice answers, from above me. I look up to see a round, red female face peering down from the ruin of the poster. She does not look happy.

The face disappears, and a moment later its owner comes around into the field. She is a big woman, about fifty, florid of complexion, wearing tweeds and a hat with a pheasant feather stuck in the brim, brown brogues and thick tan stockings. I manage a weak smile.

'Disgusting?' she snaps, without waiting for an explanation. 'Playing your filthy games!'

'No!' I correct her hastily. 'I wasn't... I... I was tied up... by the monks.'

'The monks? From St Ambrose? How dare you make such an accusation to those Holy and pious men. I know what you've been doing, dirty stuff, filthy games with some boy!'

The way she says "boy" makes it very clear what she thinks of the male sex, youth, and probably just about everything else. I'm really not in the mood to argue.

'Please, could you just untie me?'

She doesn't answer, because she's realised what I've got on my face. With a look of absolute, comprehensive revulsion she steps close, muttering to herself about immorality and ungodly perversions as she works on my bonds. The fact that I'm tied with a monk's rope belt doesn't sink in, and I don't argue. I'm burning with humiliation and I just want to get away. My wrists come loose and she stands up, placing her massive fists on her hips as I rub the circulation back in.

'Thank you,' I manage weakly.

'That I doubt,' she answers. 'I've had quite enough of your sort around here, up to your dirty tricks.'

I make to answer, but she just reaches down and takes a firm grip on my ear. I squeal in pain, and slap at her hand as I'm hauled to my feet, but she is far, far stronger than I am and there is really nothing I can do. I think she's going to take me to the police, and I'm pleading and begging as I'm dragged along the side of the hedge, towards the gate, where a farmer is standing with his dog, looking on in surprise.

We never reach the gate. There is an area of flat grass where the bank comes down, just right to sit on. She does, and I realise what's in store for me an instant before I am hauled across her knee by the ear. I'm going to be spanked, normally the nicest possible thing, but now, unthinkable, an appalling piece of injustice and humiliation. I'm howling as I go over, protesting my innocence and begging to be let off, batting my hands on her huge legs in a pathetic attempt at fight, calling out to the farmer for help.

All the farmer does is adjust his position in order to get a better view. Then my arm has been twisted into the small of my back, my panties have been yanked firmly down and I'm getting it, slap after furious slap, sending me into an immediate dance of pain, with my legs kicking out behind and my hair flying out around my head. As she spanks, the woman lectures.

'Dirty, ungodly little tramp! This will teach you... teach you about your perverted goings on... teach you what happens to dirty women around these parts... teach you a thoroughly good lesson...'

I just burst into tears. It is so completely unfair. I've had a bicycle crash, I've been tied up, and stripped, and forced to suck cock, and had beads stuffed up my bum, and I'm the one with my panties down, getting a spanking...

My crying doesn't stop her. She carries on, hard, heavy swats with a hand that covers most of my bottom. My cheeks are burning, and I'm far too far gone to worry about my modesty, so the moment she adjusts my panties a little further down I'm showing off my bumhole, and the rosary beads. The spanking stops.

'What is this?' she demands. 'Why you filthy, little...'

I don't find out what I am, although I can guess. She takes the few beads hanging out of my bumhole and pulls. I scream as the full length of Fat Francis' beads are pulled out as one, my bumhole popping to each in quick succession, to leave me gasped and shaking my head, utterly broken, yet so close to orgasm a few touches would get me there. The spanking starts again, harder than before, and with my head reeling with emotion I wonder what she'd do if I tried to rub myself off on her leg.

Option Three: How do you want the vicar's wife to react?

Choice One: I'm taken into the vicarage for a thorough wash.

I never get a chance to find out. The spanking stops, suddenly, she lets go and I tumble off her lap to land hard in the grass. I squeal in shock, the farmer laughs and gets a dirty look from her for his trouble. She catches me by the ear again and hauls me to my feet. I'm still babbling protests and trying to explain what has happened, but apologies too. She takes no notice, except to slap my face, which shuts me up as I'm dragged towards the gate. The farmer opens it, and laughs again, louder still, as he sees first the spunk on my face and then my smacked behind with the beads still hanging out of my bumhole like a ridiculous tail. Only the last one is up me, and I'm in danger of tripping over them, and my panties, which have fallen down around my knees as I'm frog-marched along the road.

'Where... where are you taking me!?' I finally manage. 'What are you doing!?'

'Where am I taking you?' She echoes, her voice rich with anger. 'I'm taking you to the vicarage, young lady, that's where I'm taking you, and when you've had a good scrubbing you're going to speak to my husband, you filthy little tramp.'

'No! What for! Just let me go... let go, you horrible bully!'

We're on the road, and I can see the policeman, some way away, still waddling sedately along, his back to us. I try to call out, but he takes no notice whatsoever and I'm hauled off the other way, bent almost double, my ear in agony as, clutching at my dropped panties, the beads hanging obscenely from my wobbling bottom as she drags me behind her.

I'm pulled staggering up the hill, past the ruined billboard, to the top. A woman is standing outside the village shop counting her change, and she throws me a look of utter disgust before going on her way with her nose in the air. I find myself wanting to explain, desperately, but I'm dragged in at the gate of what is obviously the vicarage, to be bustled around the back and through a green painted door, to a scullery with a huge enamel bath to one side.

She shrugs off her tweed jacket and rolls up her sleeves, baring thick red arms. I stand miserably in the corner as she runs the bath, the cold tap only, all the while with her face set in a petulant scowl, as if it's my fault she's having to do extra work. With the bath half full she turns to me.

'Come along with you, out of those drawers, and take that... that thing out of your bottom. Disgusting!'

I just don't have the will power to resist, and I'm immediately struggling out of my panties as fast as I can, before extracting the beads. She watches impatiently, her eyes fixed on my body as if I'm something the cat had dragged in, which is how I feel. The mud has started to dry, the spunk too, making an unpleasant crust on my skin, which breaks as I climb into the bath under her watchful eye.

The water is cold and sets me shivering, but when I reached for the hot tap I get my hand slapped. There's a bar of green carbolic soap, and I reach for it instead, only for her to snatch it out of my hand and take up a huge, coarse bath brush from a nearby chair. The soap goes in the water, and she's muttering to herself as she twists it in her hand.

'...and I hope getting your behind smacked will be a lesson to you, not that I expect it will, dirty little whore that you are, why, if I had my proper way you'd be in the village stocks, and then we'd see about it, we would, wouldn't we? No, spanking's not enough for you, dirty little piece that you are, and all your sort...'

I squeal in pain as she starts to scrub my back, hard, the rough bristles scratching my skin, but only for an instant, and then the bar of soap has been pushed in my face and she's rubbing fore and back as I sputter and cough, with my mouth full of soap and my hands slapping pathetically at the surface of the bath.

'Hush your noise!' she snaps. 'Why, you make more fuss than pig at slaughter, and hold still!'

If I had an answer I wouldn't dare give it, and I can't anyway. She's rubbing the soap bar hard in my face, my mouth is so full of it there are bubbles coming out of my nose and it's gone in eyes too, making them sting like anything. The cold water had made my nipples pop out, and she gives a cluck of disgust as she notices, and slaps the soap between my tits.

'Dirty! Dirty little hussy!' she hisses, but I'm panting for breath, with a beard of soap bubbles hanging from my chin and the tears stream from my eyes and still have no answer.

She stops scrubbing and I gasp in relief, only to have the brush put straight to my tits. The bristles hurt on my back, but they're like fire on the sensitive skin of my breasts, and I try to protect myself, only to have my hands snatched away and pulled up above my head. I'm scrubbed down,screaming and pleading as my tits and tummy are worked over, leaving my skin stinging furiously when she finally stops.

'Stick up your behind,' she orders, 'and no nonsense.'

I obey, getting down on all fours as she releases my hands. Despite the agonising humiliation I lift my bottom up for scrubbing, weeping bitterly as the stiff brush is applied to my cheeks, scrubbing hard. My flesh still feels warm from the spanking, the flush brought out by the cool bath water, but it's nothing to the burning heat of the bath brush, and I'm sobbing and gasping as she does it, also trying to fight down the arousal of being so badly treated, but I can't.

The brush goes between my cheeks, scrubbing at my anus, then under my belly and between my legs, right on the swollen meat of my pussy, the bristles catching between my lips, on my clit. I try to resist, my teeth gritted, to think only of the pain. It's no good, I'm coming, gasping and panting in shame and ecstasy as I orgasm under the brush, her scream of fury as she realised only bringing my peak higher still.

... and there I must stop, at least until another review comes in.

Want to read more? Here's the deal...

What happens is up to you. Just give me a brief idea of where you'd like the story to go from the point described above. I promise to write at least a thousand words, and will include anything that leaves me in one piece and smiling, maybe ruefully, but smiling.

There is a catch, naturally. To give me an order you will need to have reviewed one of my books on either amazon.co.uk or amazon.com. This is free, anonymous and only takes a few minutes.

Send your ideas to story@pennybirch.co.uk and don't forget to tell me which book you've reviewed and where.