Being a Girl (3 page)

Mr Cartier held my thighs and looked up at me with a small smile.

‘Now, Milly, over you go,' he said.

I didn't know what he meant. Over where? He was turning me sideways, a hand on my stomach, another on the small of my back. He applied pressure and my bones turned to sponge as my thin body folded over his knees. I spread my hands flat on the floor and realised that I was revealing myself in a way I never imagined I would reveal myself to anyone.

He stroked my bottom for a long time. It was terrifying but it was nice at the same time. He dipped the tip of his finger into my pussy, not far, just enough to make it wet, and then he did something so rude I can't believe I let it happen. I wriggled and squirmed but not so much. I didn't scream out. I felt new things, new sensations. He was making his finger wet and pushing it against my bottom, right over the hole, pushing just softly back and forth and I heard soft popping noises and fidgeted with shame.

‘Don't,' I said weakly.

‘Shush,' he replied.

And he kept on, dipping his finger into my pussy, then tapping it against the hole in my bottom. I would never in a million years have imagined anything like this happening, being stark naked, stretched over a man's knees, my breasts full and swinging, my pink nipples tingling and hard. I had gone beyond remorse or embarrassment. My body was singing. I pushed myself up and out. The golden key turned and I sucked his finger inside my bottom.

He moved in a spiral, round and round, back and forth, slowly, smoothly, teasing all the nerve endings, the pressure touching my magic button and bringing me back to that oozy feeling that had ebbed away. I
panted for breath, his finger greased with my own juice running up inside this dark exquisite place, in and out, in and out. I was naked, naked, my breasts pounding, my bottom in the air. I was coming. I could feel contractions. I could feel a wave inside building up, rolling through my body . . .

Then, just as I was on the point of making it, he slid his finger out, clean out of my bum, and I just wished he'd have kept going for another few seconds. The wave retreated and Mr Cartier now did something that shocked me more than anything else.

He spanked me.

He removed his finger from my bottom, lifted his hand, and brought it down on my soft skin. I screamed and wriggled. But he was strong and the more I wriggled the tighter he held me. He lifted his big hand back in the air and brought it down with a thunderous clap that made me gasp.

‘No, no, no,' I cried.

‘Yes, yes, yes,' he replied, and smacked me again, three hard smacks one after the other.

I was panting. Tears were streaming from my eyes, snot fell from my nose. His left hand was pressed down on my back. I writhed and yelped as his right hand came down again and again, spanking my soft cheeks and sending tremors of unknown pain and unexpected pleasure coursing through me. I could feel the heat in my bottom spreading down my thighs and up my spine.

He stopped to massage the globes of my bottom, pounding the cheeks like dough and, when the smarting began to ease, he smacked me again, and it didn't feel so hard now. The pain had gone. I was numb. I was all sensation. I was alive. I gasped for breath and waited for the next one, a loud hefty
wallop, and as he lifted his hand from my burning flesh the wave inside me started to rise again. The heat on my poor bottom was warming all the liquids inside me. It was like all the taps in a house had been turned on and the juices rolled and tumbled through all the channels and passages of my body, building in volume, and I started to gasp for breath. The gasp became a scream. I screamed and kept screaming, and as another great spank came scolding across my bottom I screamed through the tide of an incredible orgasm.

My first.

And it was glorious. It was better than anything the girls at school had described because it is really indescribable. It is as if you have lost your physical form and become pure essence, pure feeling. You are one with the universe. For just a moment it is like you are flying through space on your way to heaven.

That big wonderful orgasm, my very first, pulsed down through my loins and reverberated through my body like an echo. I rocked and quaked. I shifted and squirmed across Mr Cartier's knees. I pushed out my bottom and I swivelled my hips and felt ashamed, so ashamed, and so pleased with what I had done. I was naked on a strange man's lap and I loved it. I had let him spank me. I had wriggled and writhed and, although my first impulse had been to try and get away from having my backside spanked, a deeper instinct yearned to feel the weight of his hand on my bare flesh. That first spank had been painful and shocking, but with each roaring thunderclap across my bottom the pain just became pleasure and the pleasure just grew and grew until it all erupted in that bounteous climax.

I was still wriggling like an eel and slithered slowly
to a stop. I hung over Mr Cartier's knees, spent and exhausted. My breasts were hanging heavily with their own weight, and I raised my two hands from the floor to give them a good hard pinch. I groaned. I was wet and warm and my bottom was like the mouth of a volcano pulsing with hot lava. Mr Cartier stroked my back from the nape of my neck, down over my waist, over the rising hill of my tender bottom and I kept thinking: I've done it, I've had an orgasm, I've had an orgasm, and I was dying to tell Binky I'd got the job.

Now it was over I did feel ashamed. I dragged myself shakily to my feet and Mr Cartier held my bottom, pulled me towards him, and I felt so embarrassed as he rubbed his face over my drenched pussy. He then stood and really smiled for the first time.

‘
C'est colossal. Magnifique
,' he said, and I wanted him to kiss me, but he didn't.

He retrieved my knickers. I rested my hands on his shoulders as he pulled them up. He pulled at the front to take a last peek at my drenched pussy and let the elastic snap back. He did up the bra at the back and then watched with what I thought was a look of encouragement while I buttoned my blouse right up to my throat. I zipped myself into my skirt and grabbed my blazer. I was waiting for him to tell me that I'd got the job but even when we walked upstairs he didn't mention it. He lifted my backpack for me and I slid my arms under the straps.

‘Did I, you know . . .'

‘No,' he said. ‘I'd already promised the job to, what's her name . . .'

‘Binky?' I gasped.

‘No. No. No. The other one.'

‘Virginia Ward?'

He nodded. ‘She'll be perfect around the office.'

‘But what about me?'

‘I'd never get any work done,' he said. ‘Once a girl has been spanked she is never satisfied. She just wants more and more and more.'

‘That's not true.'

‘How do you know?'

I didn't answer. I didn't know.

Mr Cartier went to a drawer and took out a business card which he tucked into the top pocket of my blazer.

‘Just in case.'

‘In case of what?' I said impatiently.

‘The right part comes along for a young actress.'

I SUPPOSE BINKY
and I have always had a strange relationship. My mother died shortly after I was born and her father died shortly after she was born. Our two stray parents getting married and Binky taking our family name must have seemed like the perfect solution, but Daddy I'm sure had no idea Binky was going to shoot up like a tree with killer legs and the shortest skirts in London. We were born to be rivals and, in our race into the adult world, she had taken the lead. At least, that's what she wanted everyone to think.

Added to her porcelain skin and classic good looks, my step-sister had the self-confidence of those who
always
get their own way. She was
a real cutie
. That's what her driving instructor said when he called her and spoke to me by accident. I thought she was an awful driver but she had managed to pass her test first time after only five lessons and had acquired a pink VW beetle with ‘African violet trim' from a friend of the driving examiner. The plot thickens.

Anyway, she hunted me down in Notting Hill one Saturday when I was supposed to be looking for a summer job and almost crashed into an elderly gent in an electric wheelchair. Binky zoomed into a vacant
parking spot, gestured hopelessly towards the poor old gentleman and rushed me into the King's Head for a buck's fizz, her latest discovery.

She strolled up to the bar in her pink Doc Martens and behaved as if she wasn't enjoying the heads turning to watch the sway of her perfectly round bottom. If anyone was a little tart it was my sister Binky.

She turned her shoulder to one side as she cast her green eyes on the barman.

‘Two buck's fizz, please,' she said in her plummy accent.

‘Here, you old enough, darling?' I heard the barman say.

‘What a cheek,' she replied, and the barman grinned as he added orange juice to the champagne flutes.

Binky since the start of the summer hols had gone retro with her gelled hair, a slashed T-shirt and a little skirt that would have made our poor matron turn in her grave, if she were dead of course.

‘You're becoming such a slut, Binky,' I hissed as she set the glasses on a vacant table.

‘You can talk,' she said, and I blushed.

I had told Binky
everything
that had happened that day in Monsieur Cartier's office and I wasn't sure whether she believed me or not. When I looked back, I didn't quite believe it myself, although a rosy glow had stained my bottom for ages and when I closed my eyes and pictured myself wriggling naked on his lap my insides went all watery.

While I was squirming on the hard wooden seat, Binky was pressing a finger to her lips and I could almost visualise all the little cogs whirring around in her mind. She leaned forward and looked deadly serious.

‘Have you found a job yet?' she asked.

‘No,' I answered.

Her eyes grew big. ‘We're going to go away for a holiday,' she said, ‘and if you don't come, Milly, I'll never speak to you again.'

I took another sip of champagne and the bubbles made me giggle as they went up my nose.

‘I don't want to speak to you anyway,' I said, and she drummed her nails on the tabletop until I continued. ‘All right,' I added, ‘where?'

‘As far away as possible,' she said breathlessly. ‘Let's go to Scotland.'

‘Scotland?'

‘Yes, Scotland. We've never been there,' she said. ‘You like doing things you've never done before, don't you?'

She turned sideways in her seat and slapped the side of her bottom.

‘Only if it's fun.'

‘Well, you never know unless you try.'

‘I don't know . . .'

‘Please, Milly, please. I'm dying to try out my car . . .'

‘Have you had it serviced?' I asked. I was the practical one.

‘Yes, matron, everything's ticketyboo.'

She placed her pink boots up on the bench beside me and her skirt slipped over her thighs.

‘Everyone can see your knickers,' I said and she sighed contentedly.

‘They're new,' she replied, and sipped her buck's fizz.

We were supposed to be looking for summer jobs, but Daddy had gone back to whatever it was he did for the EU in Brussels; Mummy was having an affair,
and in the midst of these passions she didn't mind what we did as long as we didn't make any noise. Anyway, I deserved a break after the exams and raised my glass in a toast.

‘To Scotland.'

We finished our drinks and I felt quite tipsy as I watched Binky skip between the cars back across the road to her pink Volkswagen. I had an interview for a job in a shoe shop and thought I'd let the
fickle finger of fate
decide on my future: if I got the job I would stay in London and, if I didn't, I would go on an adventure with my little sister.

I wandered off to the tube thinking about smelly feet. I was ten minutes late for the interview and was told by the woman who called herself Madame Dubarry that I was obviously ‘spoiled' from having gone to boarding school and didn't have the right ‘attitude' to devote myself to the shoe trade.

She was shaking her head and peering unpleasantly at my chest. ‘Selling shoes requires a certain discipline,' she said. ‘You are clearly cut out for other,
better
things.'

‘I'm sure I am,' I said sullenly and had a real spring in my step as I marched off to the map shop in Long Acre.

During the coming days, I plotted the route, and Binky acquired a pair of pink flares to go with her Doc Martens. We set off the following weekend from Chelsea, up the motorway, and over the sea to Skye, which really was as beautiful as I'd imagined. We had a two-man tent and planned to camp, although I did have my doubts about Binky roughing it with her long nails and creamy white skin, much of which was on display in her Che Guevara T-shirt.

I had dressed appropriately in walking shoes and a heavy sweater. Binky had made fun of my get-up on
the long drive, but it turned out that I had made the right choice. We had left London early to avoid the jams and crossed to Skye just before six. It had been warm and sunny all day, but Scotland, we discovered, had its own way of doing things.

We were driving west between high stone walls, the narrow lanes curvy and deserted. The sky grew darker and when the clouds ripped apart in a flash of lightning, we screamed as great hailstones the size of tennis balls started beating on the windscreen. The car misted up. The wipers were slowing and, when the engine conked out, the wipers froze solid and we couldn't see a thing.

We sat there for an hour. Binky wriggled into her sleeping bag and we watched the hail turning gradually to rain. The storm was passing, but when my sister went to start the car, it was dead. We got out and peered at the engine, the jumble of wires and rubber tubes sitting there all wet and cold, a complete and absolute mystery.