Pony-Girl Tales - Annabelle , livre ebook

Andrews UK - Penny Birch Peter &

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25 pages

English

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When Annabelle Kitteridge hides in an attic to escape the shame of a spanking she finds an old cart. Unable to resist playing with it, she soon has her brest friend in harness, but what starts out as a playful game leads to all sorts of trouble, most of it involving the application of implements to her bare bottom, and it gets worse.

Sujets

Erotic literature

Informations

Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	07 juillet 2011
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781849894999
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0224€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Title Page

PONY-GIRL TALES – ANNABELLE: PART 1

By
Peter & Penny Birch

Publisher Information

Digital edition converted and
Distributed in 2011 by
Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.com

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

Copyright ©
Peter & Penny Birch

The right of Peter & Penny Birch to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Annabelle - Part 1

1985, in an England that never was, but perhaps should have been . . .

Annabelle Kitteridge had just been spanked.
As she walked quickly along the corridor, the cheeks of her face blushed as hot as the cheeks of her bottom. She had made the mistake of cheeking Caroline Ward-Russell, the head of house. Caroline had taken her by the ear and put her across her knee. It had been in the middle of the common room, and fifteen of her fellow students had watched in amused delight as her big white pants were pulled off and her skirt turned up to reveal her well rounded bottom. Caroline had taken no notice of her squeals and kicks, but set about spanking her, using first her hand and then a convenient ruler that had hurt like anything. Worst of all, the head girl had wedged one knee between Annabelle’s thighs in such a way that her cheeks parted and the audience had been given a fine view of furry pussy and puckered, pink bottom-hole.
When Caroline had finished, Annabelle had scampered sobbing from the room, recently stripped-off panties trailing from her right hand as she massaged a smarting bum-cheek with the left. The laughter of her colleagues still rang in her ears as she ran up the stairs, intending to go and sulk in her bedsit. As she reached the second floor landing and looked down the corridor, she saw two of her friends standing outside the bathroom. With her flushed, tear-streaked face and the little knot of white material clutched in her hand, they were bound to ask questions, questions which she didn’t feel she could face. Instead of making for her bedsit, she ran on up the stairs, stopping on the top landing outside a door that led to a cluster of little flats where some of the staff lived.
Annabelle stopped and caught her breath, wiping a strand of her mop of tawny hair out of her eyes, only to freeze at the sound of voices from beyond the door. Any mistress who found her as she was would automatically assume she had been sent upstairs for another spanking, no matter what explanation she came up with, while she couldn’t bear the thought of going back down to face her friend’s inquisitive remarks or the obligatory inspection of her smacked cheeks.
Above her was a trap door, presumably leading into the space under the roof. Pausing only to put her knickers back on, Annabelle balanced herself with one foot on the banister and one foot on a fire extinguisher. The trap door obviously hadn’t been opened in years, it was even painted in, and she couldn’t remember the last time the college’s ubiquitous magnolia coloured paint had been renewed. Flakes of it fell on her shoulders and into her hair as she pushed, a little crack appearing and then the trap opening with a groan. A moment later she was standing on a dusty floor, her fear and humiliation pushed to the back of her mind as she looked around in wonder.
The college, Annabelle knew, had been founded in 1917. Before that it had been a country house, but the last squire had died early in the Great War. It had passed to a distant relative, who, lacking the means or the will to keep it up as a private estate, had founded Longmead Ladies College. The attic in which she stood was filled with the relicts of the last years before the Great War. “The golden afternoon of the British Empire”, she remembered Miss Yates, who taught history and the piano, calling it. Dusty sunlight from dirty windows in the roof illuminated a great congregation of trunks, tea-chests and boxes, among which stood a fantastic assortment of paraphernalia. Near her was a great harp, it’s gold leaf almost invisible under the dust, beyond that a painting of a round faced man in a red hunting coat lent drunkenly against one of the chests, further still, under the next skylight, a beautifully made rocking-horse stood, waiting for children who would never return.

Annabelle made for the rocking-horse, picking her way carefully to avoid being heard by anyone in the flats below. She reached it and brushed the thick dust away before mounting. As she shifted her weight, the unoiled springs squeaked in protest, and she dismounted reluctantly, patting the horse’s neck and moving on to other treasures. A particularly fine chest caught her eye, the heavy catch lying invitingly open. The lid came up reluctantly, revealing carefully folded dresses. Annabelle touched one, her fingers trembling at the feel of the delicate blue-white silk. She lifted it from the chest, holding it against herself. The fabric was brittle, but not hopelessly so, and it was more than she could resist not to put it on.
Stripping off her skirt and blouse, she stepped into the dress, wrestled with the complex system of hooks and eyes to fasten it and smoothed the silk down around her body. The fit was a little tight, but it felt delightful and she added a hat and long white gloves before stepping away to look for a mirror. In the light from the fifth, and furthest window, she could see exactly what she needed, a full length mirror set in an ornate frame. After working her way carefully to the end, she brushed the dust from the mirror and moved it to get better light, then stood to admire herself. Other than the unruly tawny curls spilling out under the hat she looked every inch the reserved Edwardian lady. A few alterations and the addition of a parasol perfected the image, though she wondered if a real Edwardian woman might not have thought the tautness of the material across her big breasts rather indecent.
As she posed, the gaudy box against which the mirror had been leaning drew her attention. She knelt down to inspect the picture. “The Fife Car” the heading announced, and beneath it was a colourful illustration of the car itself. It was a little carriage, perfect in every detail, with a boy in immaculate tweeds seated in the driving seat, a smirk of pleasure on his face, a bone handled riding crop in one hand and the reins in the other. However, it wasn’t a pony that was hitched between the shafts, but a beautiful golden haired girl, presumably his sister or a young nanny. Two dogs were also hitched to the cart and a pair of girls were helping to push. Annabelle giggled as she admired the scene, then froze at the sound of the trap door being pushed up.
“There, I told you it had been opened,” a high pitched voice carried to Annabelle’s ears. “I could tell from the flakes of paint underneath”

“Probably just the caretaker,” a much rougher voice replied.
Annabelle recognised the first voice as belonging to Phaedra Mace, the unworldly and superstitious arts mistress and the second as Miss Abbot, who took maths and coached most of the sports teams. She peeped around a box as the arts mistress’s head appeared through the trap.
“Good heavens,” Phaedra Mace exclaimed, “how extraordinary! You must see this, Heather, it’s like a museum. Push me up, I just have to investigate this.”
“Probably just a load of old junk,” came the gruff reply. “Hurry up, you’re getting heavy.”
Annabelle sighed, realising that she was certain to be caught. It would probably mean another spanking, but Phaedra Mace was nice was might let her off if she didn’t try to hide. She rose slowly to her feet.
No sooner had the arts mistress’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, than a white figure in Edwardian dress rose slowly from among the boxes at the far end of the attic. At the sight of the ghostly girl she let out a piercing scream and released her hold on the trap just as Miss Abbot let go of her legs. The two women landed in an undignified heap on the landing, Miss Abbot cursing as Phaedra Mace gesticulated wildly at the open trap door.
“A Ghost!” she exclaimed. “I saw it! The ghost of a woman, chalk white, with a hat and a parasol! “
“Nonsense!” Miss Abbot replied as she picked herself up from the floor. “Probably a mannequin or something.”
“I tell you!” the arts mistress insisted. “It a ghost! It rose up from the floor! “
“Well I’m going up to look,” Miss Abbot announced. “Here, give me a leg up.”
Annabelle, listening to the conversation from above, had reasoned that while Phaedra Mace might have let her off or at worst given her a light spanking, Miss Abbot would undoubtedly take the cane to her. She had once had the experience of Miss Abbot laying a cane across her plump eighteen year-old bottom and didn’t want to repeat the experience. Her only chance of escape lay across the roof, but even as she forced the nearest skylight open, she remembered the tell-tale name tags on her discarded skirt and blouse, she had to go back.
“For goodness sake, I’m not that heavy,” Miss Abbot was saying as Annabelle reached her clothes. “I’ll get a chair then, honestly.”
Grateful for her respite, Annabelle grabbed her clothes and went back to the open