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Andrews UK - Penny Birch Peter &

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31 pages

English

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Description

After a humiliating punsihment in the village pillory, Annabelle and Bobbie are determined to revenge themselves on their tormentors. To do this, they enlist the aid of the thoroughly debauched Anderson Croom, and if his help comes at a price, then the reults are well worth a little rude attention to their bodies.

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Erotic literature

Informations

Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	08 juillet 2011
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781849895033
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0150€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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PONY-GIRL TALES - SUSANNA’S RUN

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.

Chapter 1

In Which We Meet the Evil Uncle.

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

“Go on then, smack it,” Susanna teased, dipping her back to give Jeremy the best possible view of her rounded little bottom. She knew how tempting her bum looked in skin tight jeans and hoped that her offer would bring her husband out of the black mood that he had been in all day.
Jeremy smiled weakly but didn’t respond. She crossed the room and began to stroke his hair soothingly.
“I wonder what the old bastard wants this time,” he said after a while. Susanna didn’t reply. The old bastard was Jeremy’s uncle, Sir Osmond Cranstone-Vine, a retired financier with a streak of malicious cunning that had made him very rich indeed and which he now mainly employed to makes his nephew’s life a misery. It wasn’t that Jeremy was weak, Susanna told herself, but more that he had been in awe of his uncle his entire life. It was Sir Osmond who had ensured that he got into one of the top public schools, Sir Osmond who had paid the bills and Sir Osmond who had hushed up the potential scandal when Jeremy was caught naked in a bath with the French master’s daughter.
Ever since that fateful day, Jeremy had found his life directed by his uncle. He had been told which university to select, which subjects to study, even which clubs to join, until he came to dread each meeting with the old man. When Jeremy married Susanna fresh out of school, his uncle had been geniality itself, providing lavish presents and insisting on paying for the honeymoon. Since then he had been quiet, ominously quiet. Then the bomb had dropped. A letter had arrived summoning them both to Sir Osmond’s house for the weekend, a summons that Jeremy was unable to ignore. With characteristic arrogance Sir Osmond had stipulated that Susanna should wear a red dress that ended above the knee to set off her jet-black hair, a stipulation that she had only acceded to when Jeremy was on the verge of tears.
“Oh well,” Jeremy sighed as he rose from his seat, “we may as well get it over with.”
Susanna followed him, feeling concerned for his misery and angry at the old man. It was Jeremy’s very gentleness that had attracted to him. She had been eighteen at the time, and a model English public school girl, perfectly mannered and socially graceful yet innocent in a way only possible to someone who had spent ten years in a single sex school. Jeremy, three years her senior and a friend of her brother’s, had an easy charm and boyish good looks that had impressed her immediately and they had become engaged while she was still at school. Jeremy in turn had found her strength of character supportive, while delighting in the open pleasure she took in sex. Susanna had little experience, but she also had few inhibitions, never having had the opportunity to acquire either.
After an hour’s drive they arrived at Sir Osmond’s ample house in rural Oxfordshire. He met them at the door, a withered, dwarfish figure in sharp contrast to his nephew. His face was the colour of fish paste, with quick, mobile eyes set in deep sockets and a broad mouth at present twisted into a calculating grin.
“Come in, come in,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “I see you’ve dressed as I asked, my dear, very fetching, yes, very fetching.”
Susanna blushed, suddenly very aware of the gentle curves of her breasts and bottom as the old gnome eyed her unashamedly.
“Hmm,” he said thoughtfully, “yes, come into the study. Cognac my dear? No, no Jeremy, you wouldn’t appreciate it. Have some sweet sherry, I always keep a little in case the vicar or someone calls.”
For a few minutes Sir Osmond asked casual questions, somehow managing to be extremely disconcerting.
“Well,” he said finally, “to business. As you know, I am not one to beat about the bush. Have you ever heard of Pony-Girls? No? Well, essentially a suitably pretty girl is harnessed to a cart, nude of course, except for her harness and perhaps shoes. She pulls the cart, along with one or more riders. Now. . .”
“Err. . .” Jeremy broke in.
“Don’t interrupt,” his uncle snapped. “As I was saying, Pony-Girls can be raced, or made to go through dressage or obedience routines. I prefer racing myself, it’s so much more of a challenge. Now, there’s a fellow at my club who’s taken the sport up recently and was boasting that he could beat anyone who’d care to take the bet. Perhaps I’d had a Cognac or two too many, but I wasn’t going to let the young whippersnapper get away with it, so I accepted. Twenty-thousand pounds each, the full pot to go to the winner over a five mile odd course, steeple chase rules. Of course I know a couple of fine ponies, but they’re not really the athletic sort. So I immediately thought of you, Susanna dear. School hockey captain, long legs, firm, muscular bottom, just the ticket. . .”
“What!” Susanna exclaimed. “I won’t do it! ”
“Ah but I think you will,” Sir Osmond continued. “Remember Jeremy is my sole heir. Then again, I understand that cat’s homes are always in need of money. . .”
“We don’t need your filthy money!”
“No? Well, perhaps not, though I would have thought the prospect of becoming wealthy instead of spending your life as a wage slave would have been worth exposing your body for a while. Then again there was that distressing matter with that slip of a girl at school wasn’t there Jeremy? I’m sure the ministry would be fascinated. Watersports they call it, don’t they? ”
“We did not!” Jeremy protested. “We were just cuddling, I didn’t even. . .”
“No? Old Lord Farthingbridge at the department might prefer to believe the word of one of his oldest friends over that of a young employee though, wouldn’t you think? He’s a Presbyterian you know, very strict.”
“But this is blackmail! ”

“Really, Jeremy, accusing your kind old uncle of blackmail, that’ll never do,” Sir Osmund laughed, then his expression turned to ice and when he spoke again his tone was cold and hard. “Now listen, you’ve heard my terms. I’ll have your answer by the end of dinner and you better be sure it’s the right answer.”
They looked at him across the breadth of the massive study table, Jeremy nervously licking his lips, Susanna wearing a rebellious pout. Sir Osmond’s features returned to their normal set of faintly amused malice.
“But we mustn’t keep cook waiting, must we? ” he said, his pale, frog face once more all smiles. “She has prepared Langouste à mode du Pays d’Auge and it wouldn’t do to let it cool now, would it? ”
They rose to leave, Sir Osmond favouring Susanna’s bottom with a gentle pat as they filed out and getting a look of frozen contempt in return. Dinner was a subdued affair, at least for Jeremy and Susanna. Sir Osmond prattled merrily of this and that, his conversation ranging from descriptions of how he had brought various business rivals to ruin over the years to unabashed praise of the way Susanna’s breasts filled out the front of her gown. Eventually they reached the coffee stage, the old man leaning back in his chair and fixing his malign gaze on his two young guests.
Jeremy gulped, steeling himself to tell his uncle to go to hell, then his resolve faltered and he stammered something about needing time to think it over. Sir Osmond didn’t reply, but his smile broadened to a contemptuous smirk. For a while there was silence, while the old man selected a twelve inch cigar from the sideboard humidor, lit it with a lighter carved from a single block of turquoise and began to smoke in a meditative fashion.
“All right, I’ll do it,” Susanna blurted. Jeremy gasped but was silenced with a motion.
“Good girl, good girl,” Sir Osmond purred. “I knew you’d see sense, and I must say, I look forward to the event with keen anticipation. In fact, I think a little preview might be in order. It wouldn’t do at all to find that my carefully selected pony was out of condition, would it now? ”
Jeremy sat open mouthed, his ability to speak, let alone remonstrate, lost in front of his uncle’s unbelievable arrogance. Susanna however stood up, her face a mask of haughty dislike, only the faintest of flushes betraying the fluttering of her insides. She took a step back so that Sir Osmond could see her from shoes to hair, reached behind her for her zip and with one elegant motion let her dress slide to the floor. Her bare breasts stood out proudly, the nipples erect despite herself, the soft flesh of her midriff and the firmer muscles of her legs showing a warm gold in the candle-light. She tossed her shiny black hair back over her shoulders and stood still for inspection.
“Come on girl, off with the panties,” Sir Osmond growled impatiently.
A darker flush coloured Susanna’s cheeks, but she didn’t hesitate for mor