Bad Penny (6 page)

I came, screaming and clutching at my pussy, bucking my hips and writhing my bottom on the hard rod that was pushed well into my back passage. He gripped hard, restraining my squirms, making me feel pathetic in his grip as I screamed and whimpered out my lust. He had already started to push harder while I was coming, increasing my ecstasy. As my orgasm subsided, he took hold of my hips again and really began to slam into me.

That hurt, and I was really squealing as he built towards his own orgasm. I couldn't talk, but only squeal and pant as he rammed his cock home in my behind. Then suddenly he was ripping down the bedclothes to expose our bodies. He pushed me forward, giving himself a view of my bare, chocolate-smeared bum and his erection protruding from my anus. His hand tightened in the flesh of my hips and he grunted, calling me a dirty bitch once more as he came up my bottom.

I was sobbing and whimpering on the bed, my anus a ring of fire around his shaft. He pulled out slowly, holding the condom on with his fingers. He slapped my bottom playfully, just once, and then rolled over and put his feet on the ground.

‘You've got a nice bum, Penny,' he said gloatingly, feeling my naked bottom in a possessive manner.

‘You're a bastard, Aran,' I managed.

‘Good, though, wasn't it?' he said.

‘Yes, I suppose so,' I admitted, rolling on to my front.

He continued to feel my bottom, rubbing the chocolate into my cheeks. I looked down, finding my bed absolutely filthy with brown and pink goo.

‘How am I going to get this clean?' I asked, realising that I was faced with an embarrassing trip to the hall laundry – unbearably embarrassing, in fact. I simply couldn't face it.

He just laughed and walked over to my sink to clean himself up. I stayed face down on the bed, naked and not caring that my legs, back and bottom were all covered in goo. I'd been buggered: tricked into expecting a fuck and then buggered. I'd been willing to give my virginity up and he'd put it up my bum. True, he didn't know I was a virgin, but the whole thing was still ever so humiliating.

When he'd gone, I masturbated – not once, but three times. He hadn't been in the least sympathetic about the mess we'd made, which I thought was a bit much after I'd been so nice to him about Tiffany. Despite that, there was something about the state I was in that made it irresistible. When he first left, I was in a flap because of the mess but, before I actually did anything about it, the urge to take another, slower orgasm had become overwhelming.

I locked the door and stripped, bundling my dirty pyjamas into the sink. Then I sat on my bed, opened my thighs and started to stroke my pussy. After a bit, I put my chocolate-flavoured fingers in my mouth, sucking and then going back to masturbating. My bottom-hole stung, not really painfully, but enough to keep me constantly aware of it. Aran had come into my room and buggered me. He'd tricked me into bed and then, when I'd offered him my pussy, he'd fucked my bottom instead. I reached down between my cheeks, touching the smarting flesh of my anus, thinking of how mercilessly hard he'd used me. It had hurt so much; the pain in my bottom had been like fire, but he'd just kept on until he came inside me, up my back passage.

I moaned in pleasure, the little sound reminding me of how I'd screamed at orgasm. It had been early, but my neighbours might well have heard; and if they had then they'd have known I was having sex. That would be the end of me as poor, innocent little Penny. I'd called out in helpless ecstasy during the night from a man's cock inside me, just like Tiffany did so often, and my other neighbour, Emma, not infrequently.

One finger was well up my bottom, my other hand rubbing my clit with the same side-to-side motions I'd used earlier. In front of me were the chocolates, still open, the brown humps of their tops peeping out of their little holes. I took one, a coffee cream, and popped it into my mouth. Next to its place was a mint ball, a big, round one. It was too tempting. I took the mint ball out, and, feeling deliciously dirty, pushed it into my aching bottom-hole. It hurt a bit going in, just like his cock had, and was then lost inside me.

I lay back, rubbing gently at my clit until the coffee cream in my mouth had melted to a rich, thick paste. My hand went to my mouth, extracting the chocolate. My eyes were shut in pleasure as I slapped it on my pussy and rubbed it in, deliberately smearing it all over my pubes and up my thighs. Both my hands were covered in chocolate as I put them to my breasts, cupping them, rubbing them and giving both a liberal coating of sweet brown goo. It felt truly gorgeous as I massaged it into my breasts, then my belly, then lifted my bottom to squeeze my cheeks and make sure they were really covered in it. I did my face last, rubbing at my pussy until I could feel my orgasm coming, then pulling away and dirtying my face. With my whole body dirty, I reached forward and grabbed three more chocolates, stuffing two in my mouth and the last in my pussy.

My hands went back between my legs, one finger probing my anus and tickling the sore flesh, another going to my clit for the final burst. As I opened my bumhole the mint cream began to ooze out, melted and sticky. I could feel the one I'd put in my vagina, still hard but moving as my body heat began to melt it. I slid a finger deep into my anus as I started to come, remembering Aran's cock and wondering what he'd think if he could see me in the state I was in. My orgasm peaked, subsided, peaked again and then dropped away, leaving me panting and happy on the bed.

I did feel a bit guilty about what I'd done, but more concerned for the mess I'd made. There was chocolate all over the bottom sheet and all over me. It was still early, and there was a fair chance I could get to the showers unobserved. Taking great care not to soil anything else, I washed my hands at the sink and tiptoed across the room. For once I was grateful for the paper-thin walls and bad acoustics of the hall. I couldn't hear anybody moving, so poked my head out and made a dash for the showers. I made it and, after a long session with a bar of soap and a scrubbing brush, I was clean and pink again.

Another quick streak and I was back in my room, mercifully undetected. The instant I came in the smell of chocolate hit me, and I realised that I had a lot of cleaning up to do. I didn't dare use the hall laundry, but there was a public one not too far away that would be safe. After drying myself and opening the window, I bundled the sheet into a ball and put it and my pyjamas into a plastic bag.

I was stark naked and constantly aware of the ache between my bottom-cheeks. It actually made me walk a bit strangely, which really brought home the implications of having been buggered. People use the word to describe something that no longer works, something which has been used too much, or misused. That was how I felt: misused, like a broken toy. As if having had a cock pushed up my bottom made me unfit for polite company. Of course, it was nonsense, because nobody else need know and physically I'd be fine, just as soon as the persistent throbbing ache in my anus went away. The idea of being good for nothing because I'd accepted buggery really got to me, though, a purely mental thrill that combined with my mild pain to make me desperate to come yet again.

I did it on my knees, overwhelmed by the whole concept, masturbating with my face to the carpet and my bare bottom stuck up in the air. It felt appropriate to be naked, as if it was no longer suitable for me to dress, as if I needed to be marked as a slut. I started to fantasise over how it would feel to be made to go naked for having done it. I'd be sent to a seedy tattoo parlour and have the word ‘SLUT' put across my bottom, indelibly. Women would turn their noses up at me in the street, or laugh at me. Men would use me at their leisure, tipping me over any time they felt like sliding an erection up my bottom, which I would have to keep permanently greased and ready. I came again, very quickly, and went back to cleaning up, feeling rather ashamed of myself for my dirty fantasy but rather proud of myself for coming three times in as many hours.

I made four in the end. When I was dressed and ready to go, the whole experience just got too much for me. I pulled down my jeans and panties and did it standing by my door. I didn't fantasise, but thought of Aran and the way he'd made me feel so fragile and helpless, of the chocolate and the sticky mess I'd covered myself in, of the way I'd been tricked into surrendering my bottom-hole to his cock, but most of all of the fact that, even though I'd been taken so rudely, I was still a virgin.

After my fourth orgasm, my pussy was as sore as my bottom and I forced myself to get on with it. I was pretty sure the laundrette I wanted opened on Saturdays and that my behaviour, or at least the details of it, would go undetected. Tiffany had gone out at some point between my third and fourth orgasms, and I had heard nothing whatever from Emma's room. She had a boyfriend in another hall, and might well have been out, which meant that Tiffany alone might guess more than the fact that I had had a man in my room. She, of course, would know that it had been Aran, but I didn't really care.

As I walked up the road, trying to look nonchalant, I started to wonder why Tiffany had been so aggressive to Aran. She was a bit of a bitch, but not normally that bad. Perhaps he had tried to give her the same treatment he had given me, a chocolate-smeared cock up the bottom. I couldn't see Tiffany accepting it – she was far too clean-cut – yet the idea amused me just because I knew how outraged she'd have been at the mere suggestion.

I reached the laundrette and went inside. There was a group of machines at the far end which were screened off, allowing an extra little bit of privacy. I decided to use one and, as I stepped around the screen, I realised that I wasn't the only one who'd had a chocolate surprise. She might have had second thoughts about it, but she'd done it. Tiffany was standing by a machine, a brown-stained sheet already in it while she inspected a heavily soiled nightie with a frown of consternation.

4

Purity

By the Easter term of my first year at university, I was beginning to acquire a quite unfair reputation as a bluestocking. After my brief and unsuccessful relationship with Aran Ray, I hadn't been out with anyone at all. Aran was a successful rower and considered among the most attractive men in the university, yet he and I had lasted under a week and then ended it with a very public argument in the hall canteen. I'd completely lost my temper, which is rare for me, and called him a variety of unflattering things before telling him to get stuffed. Possibly other men reasoned that, if I could treat the wonderful Aran Ray like that, then I was unlikely to be sympathetic to them, or possibly they just thought I was a bitch.

What they didn't know was that Aran's idea of sex was to lubricate my bottom and bugger me. He liked me on all fours and had a thing about, making a mess of my body first, generally with chocolate. I loved the idea of a big, strong man pushing his cock into my greasy bottom-hole, but he had two major faults. First, he always got carried away and hurt me before he came; and second, he just wasn't interested in pussy. He also left me in a filthy mess more often than not and never helped me clean up, but I would have put up with that. It was his refusal to compromise that I couldn't stand, especially as I badly wanted to be fucked and he wouldn't do it.

That was the mainstay of our argument, but the hundred-odd people who were listening got quite the wrong impression. Possibly I would have benefited from being even more graphic in my description of his shortcomings, because I quickly discovered that I had created the impression of being a virgin and wanting to stay that way. I was a virgin, but the last thing I wanted was to stay that way. That had been towards the end of the winter term, but it wasn't until two weeks into the following term that I realised how bad – or good, I suppose I should say – my reputation was.

I was in the library, immersed in the latest
Journal of Genetics,
when I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. I looked around to see a woman who I knew faintly as either Rachel or Raquel.

‘L P at five-thirty, my room, Bourne Hall, fifty-seven,' she said, and winked, leaving me completely mystified.

She turned away as if she had just imparted some deep secret. When she had tapped me on the shoulder, my immediate assumption was that she was going to ask to read the journal after me. She was a second year and a botanist, and the only thing we had in common to my knowledge was the same plant genetics tutor. As to what ‘L P' was, I had no idea whatever. If it was a departmental discussion group or something, then she had no reason to be so shifty. In fact, I could think of no reason for her to be shifty at all, unless . . .

Gay and lesbian societies were quite open in the university, yet neither were entirely de-stigmatised. Possibly Rachel, or Raquel, was a lesbian and wanted to sound me out. L P might well stand for Lesbian something or other, although nothing that I could think of. The main lesbian society was PURLS, a somewhat unfortunate acronym which I knew provided the lesser minds of the rowing club with endless trivial amusement. PURLS was pretty militant, and possibly L P was a more restrained splinter group.

I was intrigued in any case. I didn't see myself as a lesbian, and certainly not of the type who ran PURLS. On the other hand, I had long before come to terms with the fact that my cousin Kate attracted me sexually, and I couldn't deny finding other women's bodies intriguing. Female bottoms in particular got to me, their shape being somehow so much more satisfying than the male equivalent.

Raquel, or possibly Rachel, was tall and perhaps a little severe-looking, but that wasn't a problem for me. I'd always imagined Kate punishing me, and Rachel had her height, if not her beauty. Rachel wore long dresses, too, and kept her hair up in a bun, a style also followed by Kate's mother, who really had spanked me. It was easy to imagine her ordering me sternly to bend over her knee for punishment, or perhaps making me kneel in front of her to kiss her shoes . . .