Seven Scarlet Tales Read online

  Poppy raised her eyes to Allyson. That hard face, that professional-bitch attitude. Did she want to be one of them? She wasn’t sure about that, but she did want to bend to Allyson’s will, to feel the punishment she had earned. Allyson was strong, and strong people made her feel safe, no matter what dodgy business they might be tangled up in.

  ‘Everything’ll be all right, love, once you’ve got your stripes,’ Allyson said.

  She smacked Emma’s bum loudly.

  ‘Down you get,’ she ordered.

  Emma clambered stiffly off the desk and stood on the carpet, head down, looking as if she wanted to hide the ball gag from sight. Her leather hotpants were still around her ankles.

  ‘Get in the corner, slut, now.’

  Emma shuffled to the corner she had occupied before, and stayed there.

  Poppy couldn’t have told anything from her face. She didn’t look distraught, nor did she look happy. She was a perfect blank. Had she learned that? Did Allyson insist upon it?

  ‘Right, Poppy, let’s have your jeans off.’

  She put the cane down on the desk and Poppy’s heart began to lurch chaotically in her ribcage. She looked at the door, one eye on escape, but she knew there was none.

  Why not, though?

  Surely she could just say, ‘Sorry, but I’ll pass,’ and leave. Nothing was stopping her. It would mean losing the job, but at this stage, the job was low on her list of priorities, a long way after survival and sex.

  Poppy unzipped and dropped her jeans, then realised that she would have difficulty pulling them over her boots.

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Allyson. ‘You can leave them like that.’

  She pointed at the chair Poppy had been sitting on.

  ‘Bend over it, hands gripping the sides of the seat, bum up.’

  Poppy obeyed, feeling the cotton of her knickers stretch over her rump.

  Allyson walked up behind her and caressed her bottom cheeks, sending furious, itchy heat to her pussy.

  ‘Miss Sensible-Knickers,’ she teased. ‘Pack of seven, was it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes, what?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am?’ Was that what Emma had called her?

  ‘Good. Fast learner. Let’s see what you learn from this. Hold tight.’

  At least Allyson wasn’t going to make her take her knickers down, thought Poppy. They might give her a tiny bit of protection.

  But when the cane swished down and bit into her, she realised how misguided this assumption had been.

  She leapt to her feet, clutching her behind, wailing in pain and confusion.

  ‘Hurts, doesn’t it?’ said Allyson, with steely satisfaction. ‘Five more. Back down now.’

  ‘I can’t,’ pleaded Poppy.

  ‘No? Then you know what you have to do. Emma!’

  ‘No! No, I’ll try.’

  Even as she bent back down, Poppy wondered if she’d gone mad. That first stroke had been purest agony. Five more couldn’t possibly be tolerated.

  She didn’t take them well.

  She jumped up each time, and even made for the door at one point, but something kept bringing her back, something kept her bent over the chair, waiting for another bar of exquisite pain to be laid across her bottom.

  Marks of war. Marks of shame. Marks of pride.

  It felt like a rite of passage.

  ‘That’s five. One more, sweetheart. You’re doing well. I didn’t take more than three, my first time. And Em screamed the place down, didn’t you, darling? Oh, sorry, I forgot. Anyway. Speaking of Emma – come out of the corner, love. I want you to give the sixth stroke.’

  Emma wouldn’t hurt her. Emma was her friend.

  ‘And I think we’ll take down her knickers, just for this last one. Ooh, look.’

  Allyson pulled the garment free of Poppy’s bum, exposing the marks to view.

  Emma made a garbled sound that Poppy interpreted as ‘very nice’.

  ‘I haven’t lost the touch, have I?’ said Allyson with satisfaction. ‘So neat. Right. All yours, Em. And make it a good one.’

  The final slice cut into Poppy’s bottom. She screamed and jumped up, grabbing great handfuls of flesh. Surely there must be blood?

  But no. Allyson and Emma were laughing.

  ‘She’s a screamer,’ said Allyson. ‘I’ll have to put that in her notes. Some of the gents love a screamer.’

  Poppy was trembling all over, but she scarcely realised it until Emma took her into her arms and hugged her tight.

  ‘Well done, love,’ said Allyson. ‘Well done. You’re on our side. You’re one of us. I think you’ve earned a reward. I’ll slip a little something extra in your pay packet this week.’

  The other two women fussed and made much of Poppy so enthusiastically that, before long, she forgot the shock and pain, regardless of the continuing throb of her welts. Besides, they were starting to feel different now, a kind of afterglow.

  She relaxed into their attentions, breathing in their complementary perfumes, snuggling against their softnesses, until she was drowning in a new sensuality.

  ‘Now you just go to the corner, love,’ whispered Allyson, ‘and watch the show.’

  The corner? Poppy allowed Allyson to steer her over to the spot so lately vacated by Emma, but she was allowed to face into the room from her vantage point, and she saw what followed through a kind of haze.

  She saw the ball gag removed from her friend’s mouth and then Emma was on her knees in front of Allyson’s desk chair, her face up inside Allyson’s tight skirt while lapping, snuffling noises emitted from within.

  Allyson’s complexion went from too-much-sunbed to flushed, her eyes from watchful to blank, as Emma worked away with loving patience.

  ‘That’s it, slut, that’s it,’ she panted and then there was one quick outward kick of Allyson’s legs and a pained whimper before her body crumpled inwards, depleted by orgasm.

  Emma’s head bobbed back up, her chin shiny with Allyson’s juices, her face impishly bright.

  ‘You gorgeous little bitch,’ muttered Allyson, her neck lolling on the chair back. ‘Get those shorts back on and take Poppy for a coffee. Go on. Get out of my sight.’

  Poppy watched Emma pull the tight hotpants over her still-crimson flesh with some difficulty. They hadn’t been the greatest choice of outfit, she thought, but perhaps Allyson had ordered her to wear them.

  It was only then that she realised she ought to be engaged in the same struggle with her knickers and jeans. The thought of anything rubbing or making frictive contact with her cane marks made her want to suck breath in through her teeth, but she made a sterling effort, holding the knicker elastic out as far as it would stretch before bringing it gently to rest above the danger zone. The added heat on her bottom wasn’t exactly welcome, but the jeans would be the true test.

  She gritted her teeth through the ordeal, hating the process of zipping them back up for the way it brought the rough denim into contact with the burning stripes. The rest of the day promised much in the way of discomfort.

  ‘It’ll be a reminder to you,’ said Allyson, as if reading her thoughts. ‘Stay away from the punters until you’re ready for that kind of thing. You’re too green for it, whether Emma or one of the other girls is with you or not.’

  Poppy nodded.

  ‘What shall I do about work?’ she asked hesitantly. ‘I’m on the roster for tonight, but …’

  ‘Come in,’ said Allyson. ‘Lots of our gents like to spank a girl with cane marks. Gives them more of the “naughty girl” feel, if you know what I mean. You’ll be popular.’

  ‘Oh.’ She heard this with some dismay. Getting spanked while she felt this tender and sore wasn’t exactly a delightful prospect.

  ‘Lesson learned?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Good.’

  She went to hold the door open for them, but before they left, she grabbed hold of Emma and pulled her into a passionate snog.

 
‘Mmm, the taste of me.’ Allyson held Emma’s head against her bosom for a moment, then let her go.

  Around the corner, in an Italian coffee place, the girls elected to stand at the counter, rather than sit to drink their cappuccinos.

  ‘Are you OK?’ asked Emma. ‘Ally’s a bit full-on but she’s protective of her girls. She’d stand up for you if it came down to it. She’s been brilliant with loads of the girls. Paid Sharlie’s court costs when she had to fight an eviction, sorted out private healthcare when Lia thought she had cancer, all sorts. She’s great like that.’

  ‘Are you in love with her?’

  ‘Nah, I wouldn’t say I was in love with her, but I do fancy her rotten. She’s fucking hardcore, that girl. I like a bit of both, so I wouldn’t commit, but yeah. I like her. You’re going to stay, aren’t you?’

  Emma looked anxious and she reached over and put her hand on Poppy’s.

  ‘I tried to keep you out of it. I thought Ally would be happy to take it out on me alone. But she is what she is. Are you traumatised?’

  ‘No,’ said Poppy. ‘I think my bum is. But I’m not.’

  Emma grinned. ‘Our arses go through a lot in this game. We should get them steel-plated or something.’

  And do the same for our hearts, thought Poppy, thinking of Bruno.

  She put her hand in her pocket and stroked the slim outline of her mobile phone.

  Which way should she jump?

  Two Tops One Crop

  The brochure hadn’t lied. The cottage was as isolated and rustic as promised, with an Aga in the kitchen, a log fire in the living room and a septic tank out in the back yard.

  Standing on the front step, Lucy looked out over a vista of purple and green, doing all that rolling hill stuff, with white dots that must be sheep spaced here and there. Behind and above it all, a sky like the bruises she often found on her bum the morning after a good session: dark, violet and grey, fading to yellow.

  A storm was a-coming.

  Oh yes.

  She took her mobile from her pocket and saw, for the eighteenth time, that there was no signal for her network here. Perhaps she’d have to climb to the top of that hill if she wanted to make sure her companions weren’t tailgating on the M4 or hopelessly lost in some nexus of unpronounceable villages with names that began with ‘Ll’.

  She should go inside, make a brew, enjoy the peace and quiet while it lasted, because once Rob and Richard were here, there would be precious little of it.

  Richard and Rob had been ‘TopoftheCrops’ and ‘ChiefWhip76’ when she’d first got to know them. She opened her laptop and left it to boot up while she sorted out a cup of tea. The mobile signal might be non-existent, but the broadband connection was surprisingly good. If she logged on to MasterMe.com, she might find a message or two on there.

  But there was nothing except the usual chancers, ignoring the fact that she’d set her status as ‘taken’. No, she wasn’t interested in a piercing party in Newark and neither did she want to meet a man who looked like the Incredible Hulk for ‘kinky fun’.

  She was quite happy as things stood, thank you.

  Or at least, she’d thought she was. But if that was true, would she have agreed to this weekend away à trois?

  For ten months, she’d seen Richard one week and Rob the next, both knowing about the other, everything as civilised and happy as can be. She’d ricocheted between the two of them like a ping-pong ball between paddles – not an inapt simile, given their joint love of the wooden bat. A love her bottom did not share.

  And then things had started to change, slowly and subtly at first. Richard started to ask about Rob. Rob wanted to see her more often. Their activities in bed, after the spankings, grew more adventurous and filthier.

  ‘Does Rob do this to you?’

  ‘Has Richard ever touched you here?’

  ‘Bet Rob hasn’t got a set of these?’

  ‘Fuck Richard, this arse is mine, oh fuck, yes, ohh, yes.’

  Somehow, a discussion of what the other man did with Lucy became an integral part of their sexual dynamic, a spicy sauce without which the main dish seemed blandly lacking.

  Then the rivalry grew and developed. Lucy spent more time with both of them and, as the gaps between rendezvous narrowed, it became less easy to turn up without marks on her bottom or a lovebite on her breast.

  Each man tried to outdo the other, sending her to his rival with a neater set of cane stripes, or a prettier cluster of needleprick bruises, or a sorer pair of nipples than the other.

  Lucy became accustomed to the initial inspection when her lovers arrived at her flat. Almost before they were through the door they would order her to strip, or show them her bottom, and she would spend some time being thoroughly examined for signs of the Other.

  Two Wednesdays beforehand, she had waited for Rob after work, dressed in the short wine-red skater dress she knew he liked, no knickers underneath, sheer stockings and suspenders her only concession to lingerie. As she always did before he called, she had laid out her collection of straps and paddles and the rest on the bed ready, but instead of sitting demurely on the sofa, she paced up and down, looking periodically out to the street for signs of him.

  Sitting down wasn’t an option, because Richard had birched her three days earlier, and it hadn’t stopped stinging like buggery. Speaking of which, he’d been more than usually enthusiastic in his commandeering of her arse afterwards and she felt the rawness of it still.

  Rob was going to have to take it easy tonight, and he wouldn’t be best pleased.

  She watched him turn the corner of the street and cross towards her building, the collar of his tan leather jacket turned up against the blustering wind. He was long and lean and fine-featured where Richard was squarer, darker and more rugged, but she still couldn’t acknowledge a preference. Either one would do. Either or both.

  Besides, she was tired of comparing and contrasting. Rob more sensitive, Richard playing the brute with such effective menace. Rob funnier, Richard cleverer. Rob younger and more open-minded, Richard with his wealth of experience.

  Rob rang the bell and she buzzed him up, then headed for the fridge and the bottle of chablis, readying it on the coffee table with the big fishbowl glasses.

  That was another one – Rob white, Richard red. Like the chess pieces in Through The Looking Glass. The red king and the white king. And she was Alice. It certainly felt as if everything was topsy-turvy back-to-front often enough in her life.

  Rob called her from the hallway and she went to greet him, putting her arms about his neck and pressing herself against the deliciously cold leather of his jacket for a taste of his deliciously warm lips.

  ‘Mmm,’ he said, patting her bottom. She tried not to wince or clench. ‘My favourite dress.’

  He was barely through the door, still wearing his coat, but it didn’t stop him from sliding a hand beneath the flippy skirt and seeking Lucy’s grazed cheeks.

  He felt the birch marks straight away, his stroking fingers chafing her skin.

  ‘What’s he done now?’ he exclaimed, stepping back. ‘Turn around, lift up your skirt. How the hell did he do that? What was it, some kind of whip?’

  Lucy, facing away from her interlocuter, patiently held her skirt up for him to get the best view of her welted bottom.

  ‘Birch,’ she said.

  ‘Birch? This is the middle of London. Where did he find a fucking birch rod?’

  ‘We drove out to the countryside, Sunday afternoon.’

  ‘So now he’s taking you out and about?’ Rob huffed. ‘I’m going to have to up my game. He’s taking the piss now.’

  ‘Rob, calm down. Come and have a glass of wine. How was your day? How have you been this week?’

  His face was still pale and his eyes overcast when he took his place on the sofa for their traditional inhibition-loosener.

  ‘I’m good, thanks, fine. I missed you. I wish you’d come out with me, to the movies or something. Have you seen the Jam
es Bond? We could go this weekend.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  She smiled, too brightly. Things were getting out of hand. She poured the glasses of wine, hovering over the coffee table.

  ‘Maybe, maybe.’ He raised the glass to his lips and took a gulp, then shrugged off his jacket and dumped it over the arm of the sofa. ‘Sit down.’

  His voice had lost the grumpy, whiny edge. He was in role, quicker than a fingerclick.

  ‘It hurts,’ she said apologetically.

  ‘Sit. Down. And then you can tell me exactly what Richard did to you.’

  Lucy had to plump up a cushion and place herself slowly and gingerly atop it. Work had been hell these last three days. She was a PE teacher, so at least she didn’t have to do much sitting, but the running up and down the hockey pitch, even in her loosest tracksuit trousers, had still been a mite uncomfortable.

  ‘Alcohol’s an analgesic, isn’t it?’ she said ruefully, taking a big mouthful of wine.

  ‘You’d better hope so, because you’re going to need a bucket of it by the time I’m finished with you.’

  Rob put down his glass and folded his arms.

  ‘So? I’m waiting.’

  ‘I wasn’t planning on seeing him on Sunday. We were meant to have a date Friday night, but he got stuck at this conference, and couldn’t make it back to town in time.’

  Rob mock-pouted. ‘Shame,’ he said.

  ‘But then he showed up in church! I turned around to offer the sign of peace and there he was! I nearly screamed. He’s never said anything about being religious.’

  ‘Money’s his religion, isn’t it? Fucking accountant.’

  ‘Stop it. He’s not an accountant.’

  ‘Accountant, banker, whatevs.’

  ‘Do you want to hear this story?’

  ‘Do you want to use that tone with me?’

  Hard stare.

  She swallowed.

  ‘No, sir,’ she said softly and he smiled for the first time.

  ‘Go on, then. What happened next?’

  ‘We left together at the end of the service, and he offered to drive us out to the country, for a nice pub lunch somewhere. Well, I didn’t have anything planned, apart from marking my year 11 coursework folders, so I took him up on it.’