An English Rose
Today, just after lunch, I saw young Sally down by the old man's shed. Just hanging around I think. I watched her from my allotment, over the hedge. It must be a good ten years or so since they moved into the village. She's a good-looking girl, no doubt about that. Lovely shoulder-length curls of reddish hair, bobbing around as she turns her head this way and that. And she's grown quite tall since her earlier teenage years.
I wondered what she was doing, on her own, down by the shed. She definitely looked uneasy as though she hoped no-one was watching. She couldn't see me, though I was so close I swear I could feel her perfume on the sultry warm air. She was looking for something. First she stretched up, feeling along near the top of the door, and I saw her nipples pressing out against the taut material of her tee-shirt. I must confess I've often wondered what she looks like. I mean, beneath her clothes. That tee-shirt was so tantalising, somehow; not too tight, but very thin, allowing her gorgeous young shape to shine through; and now I know she wasn't wearing a bra. I suppose those firm little titties of hers just don't need one.
She was wearing shorts today. I think she looks really good in shorts. Actually, she looks good in anything. Put her in an old sack and she'd still look gorgeous. But those shorts. After she had stretched up, she bent down. Perhaps she'd dropped something, but anyhow, she bent right down, so those shorts of hers tightened right up around her bottom.
I wondered whether she was wearing any knickers, knowing how she likes the sunshine and likes to be so free and easy. Carefree and easy, to be exact. I couldn't see at first, but I reckon I saw the faintest outline of little panties underneath her shorts. My God! She looks so healthy. Alive. Brimming with spirit and energy, her skin so gently sun-tanned, though not in a vulgar way; and her limbs so firm and glowing with life. I can smell that scent even now, as it merged with the climbing roses on the terrace above Dick's Barn.
The roses reminded me of the Summer Fayre, and that lovely day in June last year. Sally led the parade, in that majorette uniform of hers. She's left the troupe now, so I've heard. But she was a picture. Her knickers that day were white and lacy, and very very tight; and she looked even taller in her short tunic and high heels.
Mind you, I heard a rumour, not so long ago, about her family. They say the parents are very strict with her. Don't stand for any messing about. I've always thought she's very well-behaved. Very charming. Always smiles at me when I pass her in the street. Sometimes I've imagined what it would be like if she was my niece. I suppose any spirited girl needs a firm hand; a touch of fair discipline. She'd appreciate it in the long run. Probably come back and see you, years later, to thank you for bringing her up right. They do say, you know, that her father actually smacks her bottom. Now there's a thought. How many nights I've sat out in the garden, thinking about that. Can't see how he could manage it, really. He's not as tall as his daughter. And she's a bit too big to be put across one's knee, isn't she. Mind you, that bottom of hers looks perfectly smackable; and to be honest, she has a very cheeky look on her face sometimes. I'm sure the occasional good hiding wouldn't do her any harm. If that's how he brings her up, she certainly looks good on it.
I must tell you about the time I found her in a dreadful state, over in the shed where the club keep their tools and things. Heaven only knows what she'd been doing. I never did find out the whole truth. But her father had caught her taking a short cut across Matthew Jones' patch. Old Jones saw her too, and complained about it, because she'd kicked up his seed-bed. Her father took quite a firm grip on his daughter. She protested, of course, but it made no difference. They disappeared, the two of them, father and daughter, into the shed. He came out about five minutes later saying he left his daughter to do some tidying up as a penance.
So that was when I came on the scene. Perhaps she'd tried to tidy the place up. I'm not sure, really. Some of us suspected she'd deliberately messed the shed up. It's all a bit blurred now, but I do remember her father coming back up the field, absolutely furious. My God. Any sane person would have withered, faced with that man's anger. Last thing we saw was young Sally, all nineteen years of her, being frog-marched off down the path towards her home.
Sally leaned against the open door of the lounge. 'You called?' There was more than a hint of sarcasm in her voice. Her mother, looking worried, as always, bustled off into the kitchen, taking her pinafore with her. The girl rounded on her father. 'What the hell do you think I am, showing me up like that?' She was addressing a frail-looking man who was sitting awkwardly in the centre of the settee. 'You showed me up, damn you.'
The man shook his head. 'Sally... I'm sorry...' His daughter threw back her head and laughed, insultingly. 'Jesus! You're sorry! Just trying to keep up the image, weren't you. Pretending to be the firm father, weren't you? Little do they know that you're pathetic.' She emphasised each syllable of the word. 'Call yourself a bloody father? You're just a bloody wally, that's all!' She strutted confidently out of the room into the hall. But she heard her father's voice, still talking to her. She stopped, and listened, assuming that he wouldn't know that she was still there. 'I'm sorry, Sally.' There was a period of silence, and the girl guessed her father had walked across the lounge into the kitchen. She was right. She crept further along the passage so that she could overhear their conversation. 'That girl!' It was still her father's voice. 'I know, dear. But James will be here, soon, I'm sure. He did say he might be held up.' James? Sally presumed they meant her Uncle James. He didn't live near here. In fact he taught at some starchy old private school in the North. She began to wonder why her Uncle James was visiting. It was still term-time, as far as she knew.
A few moments later, she heard her mother's voice. 'Sally. Your father and I are going out for a few hours. You won't mind, will you?' Sally never minded. She looked forward to gelling rid of her parents for an hour or so. For one thing, it gave her free access to the cocktail cabinet. 'OK. Don't worry about me.' Unknown to young Sally, her mother actually smiled. That evening of all evenings, she was certainly not going to worry about her daughter. For once, she knew her daughter would be in good hands. Her brother James was on his way. The only slight concern she had was that her daughter's bottom would survive the next hour or so.
It was only a matter of half an hour after Sally's parents left, that she heard the chimes of the front door. Her Uncle James was standing there, just as she had remembered him from some years ago. She invited him in. Sally suggested a cup of coffee, and disappeared into the kitchen to fill the kettle. On her return, she found her Uncle seated on the settee browsing through one of the family photograph albums. 'That was a few years' ago, wasn't it?' He pointed to a snap shot of Sally at the seaside in a little bikini. All frills, and covering nothing of much importance. 'That was the time you stayed out after dark, wasn't it?' The girl began to blush, deeply, remembering what had happened when she had finally come up off the beach to the family's holiday chalet. Her uncle seemed persistent. 'What happened, Sally?' She refuses to answer, suggesting that the kettle was about to boil. She made her escape, and returned a few moments later, smiling, with a tray and two mugs of coffee.
Uncle James drank his coffee in silence. Sally tried once or twice to strike up a conversation but finally gave up. Eventually, the man returned the coffee mug to the table and stood up. 'Sally'. She looked up at him. 'Your parents asked me to call tonight.' The girl was genuinely puzzled. 'But they planned to go out, so they told me...' Her uncle nodded. 'They did. Because they wanted to be away from here whilst you and I had a quiet chat.' Sally looked puzzled. In truth, she had a growing feeling that things weren't too right. 'I'm sorry. I don't understand.' Uncle James offered a slight smile as he looked down at his still-seated niece. 'Oh, you will, Sally. I assure you, you will.'
He frog-marched her upstairs that evening. 'You look and smell disgusting, Sally. What were you doing in that shed? Meddling around with things that didn't belong to you –' She had denied the charge, fervently. 'More likely deliberately trying to cause a mess?' He saw that she blushed at his accusation. He pushed her towards the bathroom. 'Get in there. Before I punish you, I will insist that you are clean.' He sat there, in the bathroom, and waited, insisting that she got undressed. First her shorts, right down to her ankles, removed and placed neatly over the radiator.
'Get that tee-shirt off!' He waited. She turned her back on him and pulled the garment up over her head. He watched as her breasts bobbed into view. 'Now get those knickers down and get into the shower.' He waited again. She tried to argue. He insisted. Finally, they fluttered down in a gesture of surrender. He pushed her into the shower. 'Get washed; and then I shall deal with you.'
The locals noted a change in young Sally's behaviour since that evening. Of course, they weren't to know how her Uncle James had caned her, while she was lying bottom-up across her bed, and how she had yelled her promise to behave in future as the cane kept arriving across her bared bottom-cheeks. And in the morning she had sat uncomfortably at the breakfast table while her Uncle James discussed the previous evening's events. 'I suggest she comes to stay with us for a week or so, seeing its the holiday season.' Her parents had agreed immediately. Sally began to wish she'd never known about her Uncle James.
One week later, young Sally was across another bed, face down, her knickers somewhere around her ankles. 'All my daughters used to get this treatment if they misbehaved.' It seemed little consolation for the nasty stinging feeling in her bottom. He stayed to apply a few more strokes to the girl's nether regions, watching as the cane made the girl's cheeks tighten on each impact. He made a mental count of the pale red marks. 'Six of the best never hurt anyone, so they say.'
Then, later, and most embarrassing of all, Sally was 'persuaded' to go through the dance routine she'd been learning for a part she had in the local Amateur Dramatic Society's forthcoming production. Lots of high kicks – stuff like that. One snag; the dancing was to be executed naked – Uncle James said he saw no reason why not, since the garden, where it was to be done, was perfectly secluded.
And there was, it turned out, another snag; there was to be an audience, comprising certain friends of Uncle James'. They sat outside in the sun, sipping cool drinks and listening to Sally's squeals and the crack of Uncle James' hand across her bottom as he dealt with the girl's last minute attack of 'stage fright'.
Just like Uncle James, to make a big performance out of everything.
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