My own legs came up, as ordered, and she quickly pulled my shorts down properly, then right off, leaving me bare and more vulnerable than ever, with my cunt spread to the windscreen.
‘Make sure to keep a lookout, Juliette.’
‘I can see right down the track, and anyway, do you think I care if anyone sees your cunt? Do you think it matters? Don’t be so fucking precious, Lucy.’
I knew she was only tormenting me, but it worked, leaving me imagining myself spread out in front of an audience, just as she’d had me in front of Emily and Claire, everything on show while nobody else had so much as a stitch out of place. Not that Juliette was planning to stay covered, her hands working her skirt up over her hips to expose the tops of her hold-ups and a pair of white satin panties that clung to her bottom as if they’d been painted on. With her skirt rucked up around her waist she pushed her thumbs into her panties, speaking as she began to push them slowly down.
‘Take a good look, Lucy, because my bum is going right in your pretty face.’
She’d exposed herself as she spoke, baring the full globe of her bottom and the slit between, her anus a dark wrinkle between her cheeks, her pussy lips pouted and puffy with excitement. I was going to get her bare bottom in my face, a thought that filled me with panic, almost horror, but even as she sat down my tongue had poked out, to lick between the softness of her cheeks and at the velvet-smooth dimple of her anus. She sat down, wriggling herself into my face as I began to lick harder, her voice a sigh.
‘That’s my Lucy, that’s right, lick my bottom hole, darling. Put your tongue in … that’s right, that’s my Lucy …’
I’d pushed my tongue as deep in up her bottom as it would go, lost to all sense of decency and restraint. She gave another wriggle, delighting in my surrender. My hands had gone between my legs and I was masturbating as I licked her anus. I rolled up my legs, deliberately showing off the red flesh where I’d had the tuck of my cheeks smacked as well as my own bottom hole and my cunt, eager to show Juliette how completely she’d made me hers. She took hold of my thighs, spreading me wider still, until it hurt, with her bottom squirming in my face to a slow, lewd rhythm and my tongue as far up her hole as I could get it. That was enough, my humiliation complete, and Juliette was laughing as I started to come.
Chapter Three
Juliette and I made it back with the drink, and the excitement of sneaking it in even went some way towards keeping down my embarrassment and guilt for the way I’d let myself go in the car. I couldn’t bring myself to look Stacey in the eyes over lunch, for all that I was promising myself I’d tell her the truth and hope that she’d give me some humiliating punishment but wouldn’t really be cross. Our relationship was completely open, in theory, but I couldn’t help feeling I’d betrayed her, not for what I’d done so much as for whom I’d done it with, and because after five years of separation I’d allowed myself to be turned back into Juliette’s obedient little slut within a matter of minutes.
There was no opportunity to confess for the rest of the day, or that night. Parker and his minions kept us busy, first with arranging the camp, then an inspection and a lecture on teamwork and what was expected of us. I’d guessed he would be picking on me from the moment I saw him, and not just because of what had happened the night before. For all his talk of teamwork he was very much the type to play favourites and victims, while I always seem to be the girl who gets picked on, whether it’s for good or for bad. Sure enough, he mentioned ‘Girl O’ almost twice as much as any other person, while his favourites seemed to be Daniel and the brash American, Chad.
After the inspirational lecture came what I’d been dreading all day, a run on the assault course, and not only because of the cold and the mud, but because completing it meant getting into all sorts of undignified positions that risked showing off the tuck of my bottom cheeks and revealing to all the world that I’d been spanked. It seemed inevitable that somebody would notice, especially with the team going one by one, which meant having fourteen no doubt highly sexed young men watch as Stacey, Juliette, Wendy and myself went over the course. I could think of only one way out, and pretended to slip at the start so that I could deliberately sit my bottom down in the first mud puddle, which drew a sarcastic remark from Parker, left the rest of the men laughing and set me blushing hot, but if I was going to be showing off a pair of red cheeks I much preferred them to be the upper ones.
With the assault course complete we were obliged to form a dishevelled, muddy line while we listened to another of Parker’s talks and were given an initial assessment of our ability. Girl O got another roasting, both for being timid and not supporting my teammates, both completely unfair charges. I said nothing, standing meekly to attention as I was given what I was sure would be the first dressing down of many, then making straight for the showers. Unfortunately the arrangement of the camp created an embarrassing situation, quite possibly intentional, but made worse by the brevity of my robe. The laundry was separate from the shower block. My clothes were filthy with mud and so was my skin. If I went back to our hut to fetch my robe, stripped off and carried my dirty clothes to the laundry I’d have to squat to avoid showing my bare bottom as I put my things into the machine. On the other hand, if I stripped off in the showers I’d end up naked and wet, with only the hopelessly inadequate camp towels to cover my modesty as I visited the laundry before retreating to the hut. I didn’t want to get my robe wet either, which would be inevitable if I took it into the baking, steamy shower block. The only conceivable alternative to my robe would have been my mac, except that it was a retro seventies-style one in transparent plastic.
The only chance of preserving any dignity at all was to get into the shower fully dressed, wash myself down, then strip and rinse my clothes as best I could before putting them back on, allowing me to make a dash for the hut in wet running kit. That way I managed to dry off and freshen up in peace, leaving me feeling at least vaguely human. Dinner followed, a brief social hour and then bed, with lights out at nine o’clock prompt. I’d been hoping, but also dreading, that the evening might allow what were obviously interesting possibilities between the four of us to develop, but we were all too tired to think of anything but sleep.
I was woken by the clamour of a bell, mistook it for the office fire alarm, fell out of bed, realised that there wasn’t a fire but that it was six o’clock, and once more found myself cursing Mr Scott, along with Parker and everybody else who’d been involved in landing me in the situation. My entire body ached from the exertions of the day before, while if my two spankings had left me bruised it was no longer possible to distinguish the marks from the ones I’d picked up on the assault course. That only went so far to reduce the embarrassing ritual of visiting the showers, made worse because I’d expected a private bathroom and decided to sleep in panties and a top rather than a proper nightie or PJs.
Breakfast was served in Mess, with the sun still only just up, and followed by a parade, with the four teams now stood separately, each with the leader to the right and a little in front. We were team A, just as Juliette was Girl A, with three all-male teams stood beside us. It was obvious at a glance how Parker had divided us, and who he expected to win, and to lose. Team B included Alastair Renton and three other competent young men, but it was clear that Team C were intended to be the cream, with just three members, including Chad as team leader, Daniel Chambers and Roy Karsen, who looked like Captain America but didn’t seem to speak much. If Team C were the cream, then Team D were the dregs. The leader was Graham Boothe, a big, awkward man who seemed to be all legs and arms, another man who was not only the shortest but the oldest among us all, a boy who looked like Billy Bunter and, inevitably, Paul Yates.
The temptation to step out of line and ask Parker whether he felt that classic bullying tactics were appropriate for a management course was considerable, but I knew he wouldn’t understand, for all that the answer was undoubtedly yes. I didn’t have the guts anyway, but stood as before,
