Wednesday Practice

Story from Uniform Girls 21.

Wednesday Practice

High in the church tower the bell tolls out the hours: One... Two... Three... Nine O'Clock. An owl hoots in accompaniement: a warning to small creatures to lie low, stay close to their nests. As we may assume most human inhabitants of the village are staying close to theirs. The telly of course; the lives of most of them nowadays will revolve around the telly. The Nine O'Clock News. Some others will naturally be in the pub, The Cock Pheasant, but for those individuals, most of them, this will be their normal evening habitat. But one or two are not at home or in the Pheasant.

Delia Greenaway for one.

In spite of her spouse's protests. 'Your choir night's Mondays. Why every Wednesday as well?'

The Greenaways, Delia and Raymond, 21 and 23 respectively, have been joined in holy wedlock for less than a year. It is perhaps little wonder therefore that Raymond, no chorister himself, feels some annoyance at this loss of connubial evenings. He complains but of course he knows the answer.

'You know why, Raymond. I need the practice. You know Mr Plummer says I've got talent and it needs developing. I wish you wouldn't try to make me feel guilty all the time.'

The talents of Delia which interest Raymond lie in another direction: though if he says something along these lines he will be accused of being crude and never thinking of anything else. 'And anyway...'

Anyway those talents are displayed, practised, in the Greenaways solid double bed and Delia is not reluctant in that respect. It is only that Raymond does like to refer to it in a way Delia finds embarrassing, and does seem always to be thinking about it. There are other things to be thinking about. The choir, singing, for instance.

So on this Wednesday evening Delia is not at home, Summertime Cottage, where a disgruntled Raymond is glowering alone at the Nine O'Clock News presenter. Delia is at Mr Plummer's. Mr Plummer, Oswald, is choir-master at St. Margaret's.

They are in the cosy sitting room. Just Delia and Mr Plummer. It is of course a private lesson. Others in the choir are not deemed to need this extra tuition. But then others do not look like Delia. Not at all. Stunningly yellow-blonde, violet-blue eyed, with handsome, firmly chiselled features. And of course the rest of her. A stunning figure too, mouth-watering, which no doubt at this moment, were she at home at Summertime Cottage, Raymond the insatiable spouse would be grappling to get at even though it is only nine o'clock and what he wants is not proper for the lounge sofa (even, such is Raymond's depravity, the lounge floor) at nine o'clock in the evening.

This stunning form is not clothed as when Delia left home this evening. No, it is not in that neat blouse and skirt she was wearing when saying goodbye to irate Raymond ('I won't be late.') It is not actually an outfit Raymond has seen. Raymond, Delia is quite sure, would not understand. It is... well, it is just a little thing between chorister and choirmaster. A jokey little thing you could say. Well, a sort of joke. Mr Plummer said it was his little joke when he first produced it. Because it is a sort of variant of the normal chorister's robe — but this particular variant is not one a young lady chorister would think to wear in church. Or anywhere else in public. For the skirt of the robe is extremely short. The hem mid-thigh high. To show off sexy white, lacy-patterned stockings. Proper stockings, not tights, their tops fastened to the slim straps of a white suspender belt. The skirt of the chorister's robe is sufficiently short that these suspender straps, and bare thigh, can be seen in any slight bending movement Delia makes.

Not that Delia is bending at this moment. She is standing at Mr Plummer's side, in the white high-heeled courts which are also part of this outfit, while Mr Plummer discusses something: one of the works they are to practise. As Mr Plummer speaks...

One hesitates to say this, especially when one is mindful of Raymond Greenaway back at their home morosely watching the news. But still, he is not likely to find out and what the eye does not see, etc. Mr Plummer, then, has his hand up Delia's skirt. Up the back of that short skirt and it is fondling Delia's bottom which is clad — more accurately partially clad — in a vestigal pair of cobwebby white knickers. (These knickers are part of Mr Plummer's special outfit too.) The hand is fondling Delia's partially bare bottom and she is not struggling to get away; she is standing there accepting it.

All of this — Mr Plummer's groping hand and Delia's apparently meek acceptance of it, and also her special chorister's outfit — is quite a surprise. It would certainly be a surprise to Raymond Greenaway or to any of the young Greenaways' acquaintances who know Delia as a somewhat prim and proper young woman. Hands up skirts? How can this be? How can Oswald Plummer have managed to get to this stage — and indeed he has got further. If the evening progresses as most recent Wednesday evenings have we shall see him go further. How...?

It is all to do with the singing lessons. And with a certain gullibility on Delia's part. She has fallen first of all for Mr Plummer's line that she has a gem of a voice, an un-cut diamond which he can cut and polish if Delia will only place herself in his hands. In fact Delia Greenaway's voice is nothing special. Pleasant enough but it can only become special if you consider the rest of her: the face, the dazzling hair, and of course that womanly shape. (For Oswald Plummer it is Delia's bottom that is of especial interest — as evidenced by the fact that his hand is at present handling it — but we will come to that.)

So gullibility and credulity get Delia to Mr Plummer's house on Wednesday evenings and once there he works even further on her credulity. Oswald Plummer might be an ordinary looking gentleman but he has a persuasive way with him. Persuading Delia to accept... well, first of all this outfit. 'Of course you won't wear it anywhere else, Delia dear. Only here at our private lessons. It is merely my little joke. I'm sure you won't begrudge an old gentleman his little joke.'

No, not when this old gentleman is telling her she has what is basically one of the most marvellous voices he has ever heard. It lacks only work and training. Mr Plummer incidentally is not that old. In his 50s. Old enough, though, and sufficiently innocuous seeming for Raymond Greenaway easily to dismiss any thoughts he might harbour that there could be an ulterior motive in the Wednesday singing lessons.

Once Delia has accepted this unexpected outfit which Mr Plummer produces the choirmaster's next move is not that difficult. His hand up the back of the short skirt. Delia has unfortunately shown that she is gullible. And that she can't, or won't, oppose his will.

'Stand quite still, my dear. I want you to show you can concentrate. Put other distractions out of your mind. All the great singers have the ability to concentrate.'

It is of course awful for Delia. Her mind knows that Mr Plummer is doing an outrageous thing. His hand stroking the bare flesh high up on her thighs. It is the sort of thing that Delia's straight-laced mind utterly rejects. Mr Plummer is feeling her up in a particularly disgusting manner. Her mind screams that at her. In any other circumstances... but now... well, it is Mr Plummer. Who has got himself into this very special position. Her private singing instructor. She can't object. She can't slap his face, spit out that he's a dirty old man. As she did when old Mr Merrydrew, another village worthy who has eyed Delia, attempted the same sort of thing one evening in a corner of the Cock Pleasant. No...

So for several Wednesday evenings now, at least, that hand of Mr Plummer's... lessons in concentration. He does not necessarily make her sing whilst he is doing it, though. He mostly does it while he is talking. So really that business about learning to concentrate on her singing... No, Delia knows really that Mr Plummer simply likes doing it. As Mr Merrydrew would like doing it if he got half a chance. This totally abhorrent thing. It makes her perspire to think about it. When she is at home with Raymond for instance. Delia can scarcely believe she can do this: stand here and let Mr Plummer do it. But she can, she does. And this is not all. Oh no. There is the rest of it.

Unbelievable but there is more. Which is even worse. In fact very shortly now... Mr Plummer will say... he will take his hand away from Delia's bottom, which is something, but it is only a temporary respite, and he will say...

'Let me see then, Delia dear. Lift up.'

Yes. Today is no different.

At home, reliving this awful business in her mind, Delia tells herself that next time she won't. She will speak simply but firmly to Mr Plummer, not getting excited... 'Look. Please Mr Plummer. I really don't think this is necessary. I can practise concentration and discipline in some other way. This doesn't help me, it simply makes me nervous, so that I can't sing properly.' And Mr Plummer will say, 'Yes, you're probably right. OK. We'll stop all that business.'

But today, as on those other days, Delia cannot make herself say this. Even if she could she knows that Mr Plummer would probably take no notice and make her anyway. So she doesn't speak. Trembling from that hand at her bottom Delia meekly does what she has to. It is another test: supposedly self-discipline rather than concentration this time. She must raise her skirt, up round her waist. Standing quite still and straight, high heels together, she must lift the short skirt up to her waist and thereby display what is underneath. Which is only that suspender belt plus the brief web-like knickers.

Could Raymond or Delia's friends imagine this?

How many times has she broken out in little beads of perspiration at the very thought!

It is dreadful — but there is more. For these last three Wednesdays there has been more, diabolically so, and there is to be tonight. Delia's bottom, which from the very start Mr Plummer showed an especial interest in. Those delectable rear divisions which he has had his hand on up her skirt. Yes...

'Very good, my dear. And now we will do the other. After that you can try the first piece.'

Yes, any actual singing on these evenings takes second place to these other exercises. Correction; discipline, etc. This final exercise is also in the interests of disciplinary training according to our choirmaster. It is nothing less than a hard and stinging spanking of Delia's bare bottom.

Over his lap. Chorister's robe pulled high over her back. Brief little knickers slid down to the region of her knees. (Mr Plummer sometimes requires his pupil to reach behind her when she is in place on his lap and take them down herself). Legs extended, knees kept straight. And then... but perhaps we should pass over the final desperate, humiliating business in silence.

Not that Oswald Plummer's sitting room, curtains drawn against the soft and vibrant evening world, is silent. The sounds are of flesh sharply meeting flesh. And consequent feminine yelps and half-muffled cries. Well, a girl does her best not to cry out.

Delia is not late back. Not later than normal, certainly. Her lesson with Mr Plummer occupies two hours, which has come to be the norm. Part of this time has been spent in singing. 'Making excellent progress,' is the verdict of Delia's mentor.

It is of course time for bed when Delia gets back. A cup of cocoa first and then bed. Bed at least takes the edge off of Raymond's acute annoyance. And as it happens Delia is more responsive than usual after an evening with Mr Plummer. Thinking of it, the enormity of it, that she can allow herself to be party to such a thing, and moreover the heart-stopping possibility that perhaps Raymond might find out... All of this does tend to make a young woman more active and responsive in the marital bed. Sex is a release, a relief, after all.

A Matter Of Communication

Story from Uniform Girls 32.

A Matter Of Communication

A big girl in thin football shorts. As the seawash sprays against her, it is apparent that she is wearing little else, save a simple cotton teeshirt. She holds a brightly-coloured triangle of fabric in each hand. The offshore wind has ruffled through her hair, but her recent exertions have given her a glowing healthy sheen upon her bare young limbs. The Island Master sits a few feet away, on an old wooden bench. Dee is undergoing instruction. And she is achieving very little success. As yet.

He checks her stance. 'Feet together, young lady. Stand up straight. Hands by your side. Hold your stomach muscles in. Pull your shoulders back. Come on. Sort yourself out! You will not be slovenly in MY presence!' Susanne jumps to attention. In her hands she grasps the two brightly-coloured triangles of fabric. 'Now face the sea and send your message, young lady.' She turns, so that she looks out towards the soft blue rolling sea. The Island Master is watching her intently. Watching her strong healthy limbs being buffetted by the crisp breeze, rippling through her thin tee-shirt. She raises her arms. The tee-shirt pulls away from her shorts and he sees the thin band of smooth girlish flesh exposed to the wind and the seawash. The salty mist lights up the thin light-coloured fuzz where her bottom curves begin to jut out. 'No. No. No! That is NOT right. You know that is not right!' She turns to face him again, arms by her side, coloured scarves dropping from her fingers, a look of exasperation written across her young face. 'It's no use. I just can't remember.' She shrugs her shoulders. The Island Master's anger is ignited by her attitude. He rises to his feet. 'How dare you! How dare you, young lady! You WILL learn. I promise you. I have excellent ways of teaching the likes of you!'

The seawash is turning to rain. The man wraps his heavy coat around him. But Susanne has no protection. She awaits his orders, and then scampers ahead of him, back towards the Master's Cottage, the rain now soaking her thin clothes, and her windblown hair. 'Wait for me in the front room,' he shouts after her, watching her delightfully-rounded bottom bobbing as she runs, the wetness of her tight shorts ensuring that every subtle intimate curve of her bottom is outlined for his consideration. He follows her over to the building, takes off his coat and hangs it behind the kitchen door. With the heavy door locked and bolted against the intruding bad weather, he turns up the hissing gas fire. And then he joins his young charge in the front room, ready to teach her a lesson she will remember.

'Please. Can I go and get dry?' she asks him. He shakes his head. 'You'll soon get dry. Physical exercise. That's what you need.' She pleads with him. 'But my tee-shirt. It's wet and cold...' He interrupts her. 'Then take it off, young lady. Take it off. And hurry up about it...' Susanne hesitates for a moment, wondering whether he was offering a suggestion or issuing an order. He repeats his words, making it quite clear. 'Take your shirt off!' She drops her coloured scarves and quickly tugs the sodden fabric up over her head. Her young breasts are firm, hardened by the wind and the coldness of the rain. The little rosy-red nipples are standing erect and proud. He walks into the kitchen and returns with a towel, warmed over the hob. 'Rub yourself dry. And hurry up about it.' She turns away from him, coyly, as she dries her upper body, the soft fluffy towel gently warming, soothing away the coldness and the damp. Of course, her shorts are still wet, still dripping, and her legs feel cold. Thank heavens it's warm in the house. He removes the towel from her clutches. She still looks so very pink. A glowing silky texture to her skin. 'Now. We must begin our lessons... again...' He takes his place, sealed on the old sofa by the side of the room. 'Stand up straight! Feet together. Keep still.' Susanne is out of breath with the exertions. Her bobbing breasts rise and fall. She finds it difficult to control her breathing. 'Arms and wrists in a straight line. Come on! You know the drill.' He hands her the coloured scarves. 'Now face me, and send the message 'C'.' She turns full square, so that he can see her clearly. She lowers her left arm, right down in front of her, the scarf dangling between her thighs. Her right arm she raises high above her shoulder. 'Good. Good. Now send the message 'A'.' Susanne keeps her left hand low and lowers also her right hand, until her wrist is level with the waistband of her shorts. The Island Master nods. 'Good. So you can do it, can't you. If you concentrate.'

'N' is the next letter she is given. She hesitates, staring at him. 'Come on, young lady. Come on... ' She lifts both arms, as if describing a cross. 'No. No. No! You stupid child!' She is corrected and shown the correct sign. 'Now do it again. Come on.' He persists, repeating each letter. Over and over again. ' 'E' is the opposite of 'C'. Now do it. 'C' with your left arm raised. 'E' with your right arm raised.' The Master orders her to repeat the four letters he has told her. C-A-N-E. She looks worried, attempting to remember his instructions. She immediately gets it wrong. 'No! 'C' not 'E'! You stupid child!' He stands up. 'Go to your room and revise! I shall test you again in one hour from now!' Suzanne quickly takes her leave, scampering along the hallway, her pretty breasts bobbing as she runs, her bottom, still encased in damp shorts, wobbling as she moves.

The man pours himself a stiff drink. He smiles to himself. These young recruits! They're all the same, these days. No application. No powers of concentration. Not until he applied his own very special methods. They always worked! The last girl had been just as bad. Slightly fat, and well-rounded. Melanie had been her name. She really had problems learning Morse code. Until the Island Master sat down with her and made her learn each letter. Then it really was quite easy. He sat down, on his old settee. And young Melanie was placed across his knee. Minus her skirt and knickers. And then each letter of the alphabet was tapped out across her bottom. Gently at first, just to remind her. Melanie would repeat each letter. And all dots or dashes spoken incorrectly were immediately pointed out to her. Forcibly! By the firm application of a smooth hairbrush across her blushing bare cheeks. Before long, poor Melanie had been beating out a distress signal with her bare toes against the flooring, as the man had been drumming certain other letters into her bare bottom. And between the dots and dashes there were yells and squeaks and ooohs and aaaghs... Melanie was word-perfect within the week. Each and every letter of the alphabet had been drummed into her. The rosy hue of crimson which adorned her bottom cheeks for the remainder of her stay was enough to ensure absolute perfection and full marks when it came to the final test.

He had devised a simple and perfect memory aid, employing a thin whippy cane and a round table-tennis bat. When a 'dot' was required, the bat would be applied, prompting a rounded rash of pain upon the victim's poor bottom. And when a dash was required, a line would be provided, courtesy of the cane. By the combined application of the bat and the cane, any letter of the alphabet could be spelt out. SPLATT! Melanie would shriek in response and then shout out the answer. 'Dot, sir, dot...' SPLATT!! Another impromptu yell. 'Another dot... OH Sir!' CRACKKK! That wicked cane would whip down and wrap itself around her upended bottom curves. Aggggh! 'What is it, Melanie? What is it?' She would drum her feet into the ground, desperately trying to rid herself of the sting of the bamboo. 'It's the cane, sir,' she would sob, loudly, until realising that he didn't require that answer. CRACCKK! 'I know it's the cane, you stupid girl!' She would sob away, and wriggle around across his knee, desperately trying to concentrate. The Island Master's lessons were always very energetic. Very tiring. And very effective. He even fancied young Melanie had lost a little weight when she finally skipped aboard the weekly ferry link to the mainland. But now, the problem was Susanne. It was time to make her work.

The girl had found another pair of shorts and a loose-fitting blouse. She was sitting on her bed, cross-legged, absrobed in the Semaphore Primer. As he entered her room, she stood up. 'Right, Susanne. Let us see how much you have absorbed.' He told her to remove her shorts. Earlier in the week, the instruction would have met with protest and refusal. But Susanne now knew better. Blushing pink, she quickly slipped them down, lifted them away from her bare feet and placed them on the bedclothes. 'And your blouse, young lady. Be quick about it.' He ensured there was nothing to get in the way of a period of intense instruction. And on this remote island, there was certainly no need for false modesty. 'Stand up. Feet together. Take hold of your scarves...' He stood by her side, the cane quivering in his hand. 'Now send the message as I instructed you.'

Susanne shivered as she saw the cane. She knew how and why it would be used. Any where. Her bottom was still tender from the exposure to the rain and wind. That cane would really hurt. Really bite into her tender flesh. She raised her arms and attempted the letter 'C'. It was wrong again. 'Bend over,' he told her. She sighed, and touched her toes, the scarves still wrapped around her hands. CRACCKKK! The cane sped down. She yelled as the pain shot through her, urgently wishing she could soothe the pain away. 'Stand up. Now send the message again...' This time, she got the first letter right. But then the 'A' was wrong. Again she was ordered to touch her toes. Again, the three feet of thin flexing bamboo whistled down and across her bottom cheeks. She shrieked, her feet pounding the carpet as she danced a little dance, right there in front of the Master. She was told to stand up. To compose herself. And then it was back to the message. C-A-N-E. Finally, after many cane-strokes, many tears and much exertion, the message was correct. Young Susanne had learned at least four letters. There were only 22 other letters to go. And then the numbers. And the special signs as well!

The Outfit

Story from Uniform Girls 39.

The Outfit

Bathed and perfumed, Vanessa studied herself carefully in her bedroom mirror, turning this way and that self-critically, but unable to suppress a smile at what her reflection showed.

It was four years since she had last worn her Sixth-Form outfit, and her further development since then was shown by the way her bottom more proudly filled-out the short, dark-blue pleated skirt which she had managed with just a little difficulty to clip around her waist. Her old striped tie had been a bit scruffy and she had had to wash and iron it the day before. It looked all right now, lying in the valley between her firm tits whose peaks thrust through the cotton of her blouse.

And that, too, was tight, but she had expected it to be. A few twisty movements and a couple of buttons at least would soon burst. Like they had been made to four summers ago, but that was a blush-making thought, causing her bottom to stir with the reminiscences that returned to her, but which she always tried to blot out.

If she had never told David about that, then she wouldn't be wearing what she so saucily was now. With each twirl, her abbreviated skirt floated above her tightly-rimmed stocking tops. Pale rims of thighs – now plumper than they used to be. Suspender clips. At fifteen she had changed from white socks to nylons. At times they had seemed to her to become an even greater and more bottom-stinging attraction than her spotless socks had been.

At seventeen – so Vanessa could not help remembering now – she had had her first caning. 'Friday nights are caning nights', she had been told, and not all her edging away, her clutching at the hem of her skirt, her hoarsely-whispered pleas had stopped her panties from coming down. Right off even, once. Oh! – and that time... that was what she had told her husband about, soon after their wedding night two months ago.

Eighteen and a half was too young to marry, her mother had said, but Vanessa hadn't listened. And as for David, he had gone on and on at her to put on her old school outfit again.

'You'll cane me', Vanessa had pouted – pouted as she had once used to do. – 'I won't. Don't be silly. We haven't got a cane. I just want to see you in it – how you look. Cute, I imagine. After all, your figure and your height...' – 'Yes, I know', Vanessa had interrupted hurriedly. She had heard the same before... when her outfit had been new. How that could have been an excuse for caning her, she couldn't imagine.

'Well, then...' David had said. He was a bit weak, Vanessa thought. An older man would have simply told her to put it on and not have discussed it. It was that sort of obedience that the cane had taught her; she knew that deep inside herself. David might just spank her, though. After all, it was all so tight and revealing and she had even taken the trouble to go to the local school-outfitters and get a pair of blue knicks into which (truth to tell) she had only just managed to squeeze. The crutch rubbed her as she walked – rubbed and cuddled at the same time.

Perhaps she should put her hair in a bow, too – at the back. There was one somewhere in one of her drawers. Even as she opened it to look, the doorbell rang and Vanessa shot upright and stood very still. Oh god, she couldn't go down to answer the door dressed like this!

Twenty seconds and then it rang again, more persistently, making her squeeze up her eyes as if she didn't even want to see herself. Not knowing who it might be, she waited. The master bedroom faced out on to the rear garden and she daren't creep down and look. Footsteps... faintly going. Phew! Whoever it was had gone and she could free herself from her momentary tenseness. Then with an awful start she heard the back door into the kitchen open and called nervously, 'Who's there?'

'Me, Vanessa', came a deep voice which she recognised, half with relief, as that of David's father, Ralph. Footsteps again – but this time coming up the stairs! – 'No, wait!', Vanessa called desperately, but the sounds did not cease. – 'Why? Aren't you dressed?', he asked and then – a few feet as he by then was from the bedroom door – Vanessa put her hands up to her face like a little girl and gritted out, 'Yes, but...'.

Ralph ignored that. The bedroom door was ajar and he opened it. – 'Why didn't you...?', he began and stopped as Vanessa bit her lower lip and clipped her legs together, standing almost exactly as she used to do on Friday nights. Their eyes met and snagged like thorns before Vanessa dropped her gaze, feeling his attention like an electrical charge all round her curves. But to her amazement he said nothing about her abbreviated and school-girlish attire. – 'I asked you why you didn't open the door, Vanessa, Come here!' he barked. And it was a bark, and the memories quivered in her all anew. Half slouching, she dragged her feet towards him across the deep-pile carpet – wondering why she did and yet knowing why.

'I d...didn't know it was you', she stammered. – 'Which is a poor excuse. General lack of politeness, Vanessa. I have been wondering about you lately, and that's why I came round. You have a broody look about you sometimes, do you not?'

Vanessa hung her head, was silent first, then shook it slowly. – 'If... if I'd known it was y...you I w...would have answered the door'. – 'Dressed like this?' Ralph queried. He had said it at last, and he knew he was going to make her answer. – 'Well...', Vanessa began, but then feeling a strain of silent impatience in him, forced her to say, 'yes'. He was so much older than herself that she knew somehow she had to say it. They demanded it of one: obedience.

His hand touched her hair, making her start a little. It slid down, fondled the back of her neck and then trailed down her back. There was no bra-clips, no straps – and in any case the fulsome thrusting of her jellied tits told him that the blouse was her sole garment above her waist. – 'You almost fibbed then, Vanessa, did you not?' he asked, producing a sudden inward trembling in her and a sense of apprehension.

'Didn't', she mumbled, and then a quick, anxious 'No!' burst from her lips as his hands toyed beneath her skirt-hem at the front and fingers slid around her stocking tops. But at that cry, his hands encompassed the backs of her thighs, gripping the firmly-fleshed columns just below the bulge of her bottom and rammed her body into him so that she uttered a little 'Ah!'.

'What?', Ralph asked sternly. – 'All right, all right, I almost fibbed, but...' — 'There are no buts, Vanessa, and you know it', he answered, gripping her so firmly that despite all her surreptitious efforts and a little wriggling of her hips she was unable to draw the lower part of her body back from his, her tits bulbing into his shirt-front. – 'Oh no, please don't', she murmured all too quickly, the words forming such a confession – coded as they were – that he instinctively knew her meaning.

'But I have to, don't I? And you know I do. I have to do something about your broodiness and your fib'.

'No! No, you don't', Vanessa choked and tried to make it a sobbing sound, but did not quite succeed. And he was moving her now, moving her until her back came against the wall. – 'No, please look. David...', she began with a panicky tremor in her voice, only to be cut off by his sharp response. – 'David will be late tonight, Vanessa. He was going to call you but I told him that I would tell you instead. Very late, and now I have to get you ready for what you need, don't I?'

'Ah, no!' Her cry – her cry again too late. One hand of his had cupped itself beneath the ripe peach of her bottom while the other fondled up her lovelips through her tightly-knickered crotch. – 'Get you ready', Ralph repeated amid the little whining sounds that issued from her lips, 'Somebody has to see to you now, don't they'. – 'St...stop it!', Vanessa whimpered. The easing of his finger, the growing of the moisture beneath which seeped through the blue serge was making her knees wobbly. Pressing her moist palms against the wall, she averted her face from him, blushing and yet not daring any longer to resist.

Slowly, very slowly, her father-in-law brushed aside her dangling tie with his free hand and commenced unsnicking the near-bursting buttons of her blouse one by one, causing Vanessa's fingers to press tighter to the wallpaper and her breath to hiss out. Tugging her top out from within the tight confines of the waistband of her school skirt, he unfastened the last two and let the sides fall away, bringing her tie to hang between her bared tits whose brown nipples showed their prominence.

'I... mer... mer... mer... mustn't' she whimpered, this bringing from him such a stern and demanding 'what?' that Vanessa knew she daren't say it again. It had never been any good, anyway, saying that. His fingers fondled the luscious melons, causing her nipples to tingle.

'I have three things to spank you for now, Vanessa. What are they? quickly, or your bottom will burn even hotter than I mean it to. Look at me when you speak, please!'

Meeting his eyes then – her own slightly glazed, her knees flexing despite herself, Vanessa blurted, 'Because I nearly fibbed and because...' – 'Yes, Vanessa go on'. His forefinger up between her thighs stayed its movements then save for a subtle brushing back and forth of the tip which made her feel just as quivery. – 'Broody – you s...said I was broody, and... oh, I can't think!'

'Can't? But it's easy. What is the opposite of 'must'? Didn't you say the opposite to me just now?' His voice coaxed; his fingertip, moving like a metronome, coaxed. The sticky, liquid seeping through her knicks was too obvious for either to hide their awareness of it. – 'Yes', Vanessa whispered. It was a submissive 'Yes'.

'Good. You have learned; I thought you had. On the bed, my dear with your knickers off. You have precisely thirty seconds to do this or I shall fetch a cane. From my car, yes. I do have a cane. In a way it has been waiting for your bottom, Vanessa, so quickly please – and counting now!'

'Ow!', Vanessa gasped. There was something that told her he was speaking the truth. 'All right, all right!' Her words were as hurried as her actions, wrestling down her school knicks as she had to and clambering up on to the bed, though clamping her thighs together as she flipped her skirt up to reveal her naked bottom to his view.

'Suspenders. I like your suspenders', she heard him say as if they were the only thing he was looking at. Then came such a slap on the backs of her thighs as made her screech and jerk her head up even as he said, 'Legs, Vanessa, legs! We do not keep them close together, do we now?'

Choking back a sob, Vanessa mutinously shifted them apart, but far too gingerly for her father-in-law who – knowing that he had to quell every sign of rebellion in her now – placed his hands on the backs of her bent knees and pulled them apart, producing thereby to his view the appealing fruit of love that nestled underneath her bottom's bulge.

'Fibs. We don't want fibs, do we, Vanessa?' smack! His palm rebounded from her out-thrust globe, bringing a stricken cry from her. 'Nor do we...' – smack! – 'want you to remain in broodiness, Vanessa, eh? Did you speak? Did you?' smack – smack – smack!

'Yah-haaar! Oh no, please, I won't be, I won't be!', she babled while Ralph longed to caress her now hard-nippled tits and feel her honeypot again. Not yet, he told himself, not yet. Laying his open hand against her cleft, he could feel already the heat he had induced, the subtle throbbing underneath the silky skin. – 'What else do we not want, today or in the future, Vanessa? Come, you can remember now'. Splatt-smack!

"Don't, don't – oh don't!', Vanessa sobbed. There were real tears now, the pearls upon her cheeks. She was crying for her yesterdays, he thought, and smack! – he made her supple hips to jolt again. – 'I said, I said... oh, please... I mean, I said mustn't, and I mustn't – ' 'Ah, there's the conundrum you see', he laughed, 'for you must, Vanessa, and you know you must. Naughty girls flaunting their school ties between their tits are often spanked, sometimes for being naughty and sometimes because they are going to... what?'

'Oh-woh!', Vanessa sobbed. She knew what he wanted her to say, and – ah! – oh god, another burning smack that made her bottom feel on fire. 'Be...because they are g...going to be naught-tee!', she blubbered, feeling her salt tears upon her lips.

'Sometimes even before they are caned, yes. Not always, but sometimes. Sometimes, sometimes, sometimes', repeated Ralph and with each smacked hard into her bulbing cheeks bringing a long howling cry from her. One leg kicked back and almost caught his thigh, and then she fell, fell flat upon her tummy, scrabbling with bent fingers at the quilt. Her hips squirmed and her bush rubbed furiously upon the smooth material – then she was still, eyes closed, her breathing soft. At the first new touch of his hand upon her bottom, Vanessa quivered visibly and then was still again, hiding her face, her fingers clenched while lazily his thumb trailed up and down her cleft where the red cheeks inrolled.

'I would like tea now, Vanessa. Remove your skirt, tidy your hair, button up your blouse and come down thus. Five minutes, girl that is all'.

'But D...David!' Such a tearful little cry.

'David will not be home tonight, my dear. You forget that I am his father and his boss. I sent him up to Manchester. He won't be back tonight and you – you naughty girl – have wasted precious seconds. I am going down. I expect you right on time, Vanessa. Hurry, please'.

'Oh-wer!' Her cry followed him but he ignored it. Within another half a minute he heard her scuttling into the bathroom and smiled. The cane was in the kitchen where he had left it when he entered. Marvellous of her to dress like this. Love's play – but there were other ways. He had to make it real for her and would. Those timorous footsteps that he finally heard made him sit down and pick the local evening paper up, not even glancing at her as she hurriedly walked by and vanished with a twinkling of her heated bottom into the kitchen.

Ralph felt even cosier then. Tight black stockings, peaking at the front and back where her suspenders clipped. The blouse that would flare around her waist, the gently-swinging tie. Upon her equally hesitant entry after the kettle had whistled its song, Ralph continued reading that which he did not really care about, looked at her briefly once and said, 'Kneel down before me, Vanessa, while I drink my tea. Hold this'.

'Oh no! But you said...', gasped his young daughter-in-law as she found herself grasping the dreaded cane. Equally awful was the fact that he could look down between her legs and see her crisp triangle there – and did, as if reflectively. Receiving no reply, she asked timidly, 'Aren't you? I mean...'

'Am I going home tonight? No, Vanessa. Stand now, hands behind your back, holding the cane. I may not have to use it, of course'. He placed his cup on a side table by the sofa as he spoke. – 'May not have to – not yet', he said and beckoned her with his hand until once more Vanessa half-blindly shuffled forward and stood with downcast head between his legs. 'Do you think I will have to?', he asked, and Vanessa shook her head dumbly, unable to look straight at him. – 'Well?', he asked sharply. His hands reached behind her, carving the resplendent and still very warm cheeks, feeling and fondling the deeper bulge of flesh beneath.

'D...d...dunno', Vanessa mumbled. She wanted it to be finished with and over. She wanted it never to happen. He held her springy cheeks apart for a moment, causing her to suck in her lower lip, then let them spring together again. Deliberately his hands fell away. To see if she would move. Vanessa did not move. But then words burst from her that she never knew she meant to speak. – 'I know you're going to cane me, I know you are!', she burst wildly and fell to her knees, pressing her cheek upon his thigh as if seeking protection.

'Yes. I have to, don't I', Ralph said quietly and stroked the back of her head, causing her to sob again. He waited and allowed the blubbering, glubbing sounds to die away. 'Have to', he repeated, 'Perhaps now, Vanessa, perhaps now'.

'Oh, no! no! 'Something stark and stiff was pulsing close against her cheek. She did not want to think about it, did not want.

'It doesn't take long. You know it doesn't take long. Up now – come on – up, girl, up!'

Drawn up, Vanessa wanted to cuddle into him. That had worked sometimes – had almost worked, hands stroking her bared, waiting bottom as she stood, head buried in a shoulder and room so quiet.

'If... if I...', she began and stopped. – 'If you what, Vanessa?' But she merely shook her head. She couldn't say it – not to him. Though if he caned her... Oh god, now they were going out – the stairs a mountain that she had to climb, his hand beneath her orb, her every movement mastered as they went.

The bed looked as if it waited for her – but they always did. – 'Take your tie off Vanessa and undo your blouse'. The cane fell from his hand on to the bed, its end a finger pointing in between her legs. Amid the fumbling of her fingers he walked out. The dusk was like a cloud within the room. A lawnmower whirred somewhere; a young child, screaming, had a tantrum, then was quiet.

Vanessa could hear the soft movements in the bathroom. It had never been this way before – had always been more quick before. Hearing the bathroom door open and the padding of his bare feet, Vanessa quickly turned her back though not before she had glimpsed that he was naked, stiffly armed.

'Why I have to cane you, Vanessa. You know why', Ralph said cryptically and admired her naked girlhood as she stood, her fingers slightly clenching as she stood. – 'I asked you', he said slowly as if she had difficulty in comprehending English, 'I asked you if you know why'. Her tie lay crinkled on the floor, her pleated school-skirt, the blue knickers that would still be faintly moist.

'It st...stings me', Vanessa whimpered. In the mirror – she could see him in the mirror, oh so stiff!

'Why you have to be caned – to be caned first. You know why?', he asked her once again and closed the door, picked up the cane and stood again behind her back. The skin there rippled and was still. – 'You have a superb young bottom, Vanessa', Ralph said with deliberation, and then added, 'Bend, please. Bend right over, legs apart'.

'I don't...', began Vanessa all too defensively as she so unwillingly paraded her cleft cheeks up to him again – and then immediately, hooo-wittt!, and 'yah!' she screamed and cupped her buried face. The red streak showed: a thin line full across her offered peach.

'Once again – just once again we'll try, Vanessa, now. You know why I have to cane you first?' – 'Yeh-esss! I do!' – swooo-ish! Her ardent, pleading cry again that bounced from off the walls and fell like a discarded sheet. – 'And tomorrow, Vanessa, when I return again tomorrow afternoon and finding you wearing your school clothes, you will know again then, won't you?' – hooo-wittt!

'Ah, don't! I do know, yes, I do know – honestly!'

'Three more, Vanessa. Stick your bottom out'. And the room was whirling, whirling all around. Her legs apart, her bottom urging out, mind screaming no, and yet... yet afterwards...

Trials of a parlourmaid

Story from Uniform Girls 32.

Trials of a parlourmaid

It is dusk on a pleasant September evening. It has been one of those lovely Indian Summer days, hot and golden, which autumn sometimes brings to England's shires and it is still warm now as the mellow stone of Hartgrove Manor nestles in its rolling acres against a darkening sky. Light shows from various of its many windows, some with drapes drawn and others not, as the house and its occupants go about their business. The business of dinner mostly at this hour, preparing it or preparing for it; activity, some bustling and other more leisurely, above stairs and below. Not all is action, though. There is also waiting. Anticipation. There is waiting for dinner which is of course generally pleasant anticipation. But there can also be waiting for other things.

From the stable block at the rear of the house a young man glances up at a window on the first floor. The lights are on but the drapes are closed so that nothing can be seen of the inside. And in any case from his angle he wouldn't be able to see much beyond the immediate vicinity of the window itself even if the drapes were drawn back. But... he can nonetheless see something in his mind. A young woman standing there. Waiting. She will still be waiting at this moment. He glances at his watch. Yes. The master is a man of strict routine... Sir George Hartgrove.

The young man (he is 22) with the keenly watching eyes is called Arthur Tradwell. He is tall and pleasant-looking, clean-shaven, but his clothing — corduroys and a cheap cloth jacket — indicate that he is not a member of the family but one of the outside staff on the estate. He lives in the village with his parents and does not need to be here at this hour of the evening except... for that young woman he knows, or believes, to be at present in that room opposite on the first floor. She is close to being his fiancee; certainly they are walking out as the expression is. Her name is Jane Linnet. She is 19 and a parlourmaid at the Manor.

Arthur knows Jane is in that room because she has told him. Most days before dinner she has to go there. He has known this now for a week. Does anyone else know? Arthur has desperately asked himself this question ever since Jane told him. Not willingly but somehow, a week ago, when they were out for a walk... it had somehow come out, partly forced out of Jane once she had begun. The dark secret that came haltingly out... to leave him devastated. 'I didn't want to tell you,' she said, blinking tears afterwards. He had wanted to tell her she must leave, but of course he knew she couldn't do that. Sir George wouldn't let her.

Perhaps no one else did know? But he knew that wasn't likely. They would know the other inside servants. Cook (Mrs Hagley). Mr Jermyn, the butler. Also the other maids? Did the other girls have to go and see Sir George in that room? 'S...Sarah does,' Jane had whispered. Sarah was the other parlourmaid, a pretty girl but not in Arthur's eyes half as pretty as Jane. Sarah had to go at lunch time Jane muttered.

'Does he do it? To Sarah?' Arthur had asked. Jane wouldn't answer — but he knew the answer was yes. But Arthur wasn't concerned about Sarah. It was Jane. Every evening before dinner. Or almost every evening. Almost, so there was a chance it wasn't tonight. Arthur tried to tell himself that. Yesterday and tomorrow but maybe not right now. That would be something, that it wasn't happening, or about to happen now. Arthur's eyes are intent, straining... as if somehow they could pierce the drapes... and see that Jane wasn't there. He looks again at his watch. 7.45...

* * *

7.45. That is what the clock on the mantelpiece shows when Jane gives it a quick glance. Then a glance at the door. It will open without warning because the carpet outside will deaden the sound of footsteps. Unconsciously she smooths a nervous hand over her white pinafore. She should perhaps be used to it now, and not bother, not get agitated. But she isn't.


The room is mostly empty except for a brocaded chair and a full-length bevel mirror. Jane is standing away from the bay window with its closed drapes that looks out over the rear of the house. Standing in front of the mirror. Its reflection shows a very pretty girl, her russet-brown hair piled-high on her head with a little lace cap pinned on the top. She is tallish and evidently shapely in her long black high-heeled pumps. In front the dress is almost completely covered by a full-length white pinafore, the bodice of which shows the swell of full, firm breasts. Behind, the black material of the dress is not tight about her flanks but its folds nonetheless indicate full, womanly hindquarters.

Yes, a pretty and voluptuously-bodied young woman. One of Sir George's two parlourmaids. The one he likes to see in the evenings, before dinner. Sarah who is blonde but equally well-built is usually before lunch. Sir George Hartgrove is a man of habit. A man who likes routine in his pleasures as in other areas of his life. And now...

The door opens. Without warning, but then you do not need warning with Sir George, if you know his routine. It is 7.47. You could almost set a clock by Sir George Hartgrove. He is in his fifties, a biggish man with ruddy complexion and thick black moustache though his hair is greying. He is dressed for dinner because he will go straight down when he has finished here with Jane. When he has had his aperitif as it were...

He closes the door after him. Jane, heart all at once thudding as it always does, does a quick curtsy. Her hands grip the material of the pinafore at her sides. He is coming close, with those gleaming eyes. A word of greeting. Jane stands still, though shaking, as his two large hands take hold of her large, firm breasts through the layers of clothing.

'A lovely day, Jane.'

'Yes Sir.' The hands are squeezing, mounding.

'A hot day for September. Get's a girl hot, does it, weather like this?'

The remark is ambiguous, no doubt by intention. Jane colours slightly but tells herself to keep calm. 'It... it was a lovely day, Sir.'

'I know that, Jane, but I asked you something else. Does this weather get you hot? Hot down here I mean.' As Sir George speaks one hand has slid down. Through the pinafore and dress and what is underneath it takes hold of the mound of Jane's sex. 'This. Does it get this hot?'

A little whinnying sound pops from her soft mouth as the hand takes hold. Jane is trembling... but she must stand meekly still. 'No... No... Sir.'

'No? Not hot for that Arthur? Eh?'

'N...No Sir.' Sir George's other hand has left Jane's boobs now. It is yanking up the various layers: pinafore and skirt and petticoat. So that his right hand came dip in underneath. To her thighs in the flimsy white drawers... And not only her thighs. His hand sliding up to where it was before. Jane's pussy. She makes a little sobbing sound.

'I hope not, my girl. I don't want you giving it to him. Whatever the weather. And no one else either. Not Jermyn. Nor to anyone who comes to the house. Is that understood?'

Jane stutters a desperate 'Yes Sir.' The hand is there with just the single layer of her drawers now protecting her. Sir George's hand that has pushed her thighs apart and is right there. Holding Jane's pussy.

'You and Arthur Tradwell, Jane. Nothing planned yet?' Frantic-eyed Jane shakes her head.

'Good. Well, see that you discuss it with me before you make any plans. I won't necessarily object. Perhaps you're getting to the age when you need to be wed. Eh? A big, ripe girl. Maybe you need a young man in bed at night giving it to you. Tupping you. We'll see, eh? But until then... I want you still a virgin, my girl. Is that understood?'

Sir George is not always as bad as this. There is not infrequently the hand up her skirt; and of course what is shortly to follow, there is always that. But these things he is saying... Jane desperately nods her head.

Sir George grunts. He is finally taking his hand away. 'As long as that's clear. Now then. Let's have something that a girl certainly needs, eh? Get your skirts up.'

Sir George turns to sit clown on the chair. Jane's skirts have fallen back into position but she now has to lift them again. Right up this time, round her waist, and get down over Sir George's lap. For what she somehow found herself telling Arthur about a week ago. Telling him what Sir George did virtually every day before dinner here in this room overlooking the stables. Jane hadn't meant to tell him. She hadn't told him before although Sir George has been doing it ever since she came here as parlourmaid. In a way it was a relief to have told him, to no longer have that secret from him. But at the same time it is dreadful that he knows...

Jane hoists up her skirts. Naturally there is no thought of refusal, of argument. Jane is a parlourmaid. Sir George Hartgrove's parlourmaid. He is her master and as such can do virtually what he wants with her. And if he wants to spank her bare bottom every day before dinner...

Jane's skirts are up. There are white stockings and white cotton knee-length drawers which are tight over her bottom to reveal the voluptuous swell of the cheeks. She would not choose to wear drawers as tight as this but they are what Sir George insists on. Jane is now lowering herself over Sir George's lap. Right over so that the ripe curves of her bottom cheeks in the tight cotton are squarely across his thighs. Jane's head is down close to the carpet. She grimaces. Sir George's hand is playing with her bottom. Squeezing and patting, rolling the ripe flesh under his palm. And then the hands are tugging down the tight trousers...

Outside... the silent watcher waits. He has no means of knowing if anything is happening behind those closed curtains. But from what Jane has reluctantly told him the chances are very high. Most days, she said. And when pressed further that apparently meant whenever Sir George had no more urgent duties at this hour — and he usually doesn't. So... it probably is. It is ten to 8. The probability is very high that Jane at this moment is over Sir George's lap. With her skirt and petticoats up and her drawers down. And for the next 10 minutes — or maybe longer because Sir George, master in his own house, can delay the dinner hour if he so wishes — for the next 10, 15, 20 minutes or however long he wants. Sir George's large hand will be cracking down onto Jane's bared bottom.

Arthur turns away as a figure crosses the courtyard. It is Jack Slaper, head groom, a man of 50 or so. Arthur doesn't want to be seen gazing desperately up at the window. Does Jack Slaper know? Arthur has no way of knowing but it is quite possible. He tries to push that possibility out of his mind as Jack greets him.

'Not home yet then, young Arthur? Waiting for that Jane? I reckon you'll have to wait a bit yet. She won't be through till after dinner.'

Does Jack know? Is there perhaps a slight grin on his face? It is dark now apart from the light coming from the house, it is probably Arthur's imagination. But grin or not Jack Slaper may be picturing what Arthur Tradwell himself is unhappily picturing: Jane over Sir George's lap. Her ripe bottom red from the repeated impact of her master's hand.

* * *

'Stand up then.'


Sir George is red in the face now. Jane's face is red and tearful as well. Having your bare bottom spanked really hard for 10 or 12 minutes is a shaking experience. Even if it is something you routinely get most days. Jane's bottom of course is even redder than her face. She has struggled to her feet, to stand with her skirts still held high round her waist. The drawers remain lowered round her white-stockinged legs. The stockings are fastened by a white suspender belt and its taut straps frame the quivering flesh of haunches and thighs. Her red-hot bottom is away from Sir George's view now as she has to stand facing him. Making herself stand straight like this, showing everything, in particular the thick brown bush of her pussy...


It is that that Sir George's hot eyes are on. His eyes... and then his hand...

'You'll remember what I said, my girl? A bit earlier. About this. Eh?'

Jane makes a gasping sound of assent. The hand is cupping the hot, moist bush. The dreadful spanking... and now this. She feels sick.

'You're serious, eh. You and young Tradwell?'

'Y...Y...Yes sir...'

Two fingers between Jane's legs push apart the moist lips of her quim. 'We'll have a chat then, when you're thinking about something. I don't expect I'll have any objections, as I say. Alright?'

More gasping sounds from Jane. Her legs are like rubber. This is worse than usual, a lot worse than usual. The fierce spanking... and now this. One of the fingers has found her tight entrance. It pushes up inside her.

'But nothing until then, my girl. Not young Arthur Tradwell or anyone else. Jermyn: I have the idea he's sniffing after it. Is that right...?'

* * *

Arthur's lonely vigil is finally rewarded later in the evening when after dinner Jane is able to slip outside for a moment. 'You're still here,' she says softly, her hand taking his, her bright eyes shining in the dark. 'I thought you would have gone home.'

Arthur gives her a quick, fierce hug. He wants to ask but at the same time he doesn't. His mind demands details but at the same time it would be made sick by them. 'I can't be out long,' she tells him. 'Mr Jermyn wants me back.'

Ronald Jermyn, the butler. As such he has as much authority over Jane as Sir George. More in a way because Jermyn is in day-to-day charge of Jane's duties. He is the one she is answerable to throughout the day. 'I need you in the house,' he told her a few minutes ago. 'I can't have you mooning around outside with that Arthur Tradwell.'

Jane hasn't told Arthur about Jermyn. Arthur has asked about him, suspecting that the butler might fancy Jane, but she has denied there is anything. Sir George and Jermyn would be too much to tell him. But the truth is that Jermyn does fancy her. He is always trying to get her into little corners about the house, to press up against her, grabbing her body, while he makes his hot suggestions. Sir George knows this, or some of it at least. And others in the house know it as well. Jermyn also fancies Sarah, but Jane is the one he is really after. And as with Sir George there is not a lot she can do about it. Mr Jermyn is in charge of Jane. She has to obey. So when he says he wants her back in the house shortly she will have to comply.

In the dark Jane kisses Arthur, then breaks her mouth away. 'I've got to go in. Go home now. I can see you tomorrow.' Tomorrow, Saturday, is a half day for Jane and Arthur has Saturday afternoons off too. They can perhaps take a bus trip to the town. 'Are you sure?' Arthur asks. Because sometimes Mr Jermyn can be awkward. Telling Jane he needs her on Saturday afternoon, she can have another afternoon off. Mr Jermyn is not concerned that this may wreck all Jane's plans — in fact this may well be the reason if he suspects she has something arranged with Arthur. Jane is aware that this is sometimes the reason Mr Jermyn does it, though she hasn't said so specifically to Arthur. 'Yes. It'll he alright,' she tells him now. 'And now I've got to go.'

Neither of them has mentioned Jane's pre-dinner session with Sir George. It is of course in Arthur's mind: he would desperately like to ask and be told that this at least is one evening she hasn't had it — but on the other hand to have it confirmed that Jane has would make things much worse. It is very much in Jane's mind still too — it was worse this evening, one of the worst she has had. Arthur doesn't know that. He also doesn't know about Mr Jermyn — who will probably be waiting for her when she gets back inside...

Yes. The butler is there, hovering, as soon as Jane is in the house. 'I want to see you,' he tells her, and heads for his room. Jane has to follow. In his room with the door closed Jermyn pushes the pretty parlourmaid up against the wall. 'Been out canoodling then, young Jane? That Arthur been getting you all hot and excited?'

Mr Jermyn is grabbing her, grabbing at Jane's boobs. She makes little sounds of protest but there is not a lot she can do about it. Mr Jermyn is her boss, he can make life pretty dreadful for her if he wishes. He could arrange things so that she couldn't see Arthur at all. So Jane can't do anything other than accept these hands. Which are not only at her boobs but at her pussy, and reaching round at her bottom as well.

'What were you two at? Did you let him get your drawers down?'

Jane gaspingly denies that they did anything at all. 'I don't believe it, young woman. You're hot, I can tell. What about the master? Did he give you a good going over earlier?'

Mr Jermyn is still all over Jane. One hand has gone up the front of her skirts. 'Yes!' she hisses, while making some sort of effort to stop the hand.

'Ah. At least the master knows what you need then. A girl who's hot needs her bottom hotting up regularly. And as you've been out again now, getting all hot and steamy between these thighs... I reckon you could do with another dose. Come on. Get your drawers down.'

Mr Jermyn lets go of Jane. To stride over to the door and lock it. She gives a despairing look but there is nothing she can do. If Mr Jermyn wants to spank her bottom, like Sir George, there is nothing Jane can do about it. In theory there is something of course. If she let the butler have something else, something that he desires much more than spanking her bottom... doubtless then he wouldn't insist on a spanking. But as Jane is certainly not going to agree to that and it is something Mr Jermyn cannot insist on (indeed Sir George has specifically instructed Jane today and on earlier occasions not to allow it) then... there remains Mr Jermyn's next best pleasure. Which Jane cannot refuse. Sir George has no objection to his butler spanking his parlourmaid's bare bottom, as he does himself.

So Jane has no choice and she knows there is no point in pleading. If Mr Jermyn is in the mood for spanking her bottom then he is going to do it. Just like Sir George. What is happening is not a particularly rare occurrence. It doesn't happen every day as it virtually does with the master, but it is not infrequent. Sometimes she can keep out of Mr Jermyn's way, or he may have other things occupying him (including getting at Sarah). But... it is not infrequent. Arthur doesn't know...

Arthur Tradwell, walking home on this starlit September evening, is picturing Jane doing her final duties of the evening before retiring to the little room she shares with Sarah. The fact that they share a room is reassuring. With the two of them together Arthur doesn't have to imagine Sir George going in there at night and getting at Jane in bed. If a gentleman is randy and inclined that way then there is nothing a girl, a helpless parlourmaid, can do about it. But Sir George at least does not have the urge in that direction — otherwise he would have the two girls in separate rooms. In a way, perhaps, Arthur thinks he should be thankful he doesn't have that worse thing to worry, about: Sir George getting in Jane's bed, on top of her, when the fancy takes him. No, there is not that... but nonetheless he is not able to view the spanking she gets virtually every day without a sick feeling in his stomach. But at least it is now over, she will be in there with Sarah...

As Arthur strides along the road from the Manor, though, the steel of his heels ringing in the still night, Jane in fact is not yet in the little room with Sarah. She is in Jermyn's room. Over his lap. Her skirts up round her waist, her drawers down around her knees. Her magnificent bare bottom, the ripe flesh spanned by the taut white suspender straps, in the same position it was when earlier Arthur was gazing up at the window. The splendid cheeks bared across a man's thighs. And a man's hand splatting hard down. And then pausing to do a spot of fondling. Sliding in between the squirming thighs. ('You're hot there, aren't you, young woman?') And then splatting hard down again...

* * *

Today, Saturday, has been another of those glorious Indian Summer days; and today Jane and Arthur, it being their half day off, have been able to get out and enjoy it. A bus ride into the nearby town where they have done some shopping, had tea in the tea shop, etc: a very pleasant break. But Jane was able to get away only after the problems with Mr Jermyn.

Perhaps she shouldn't have told him, when he asked, that she planned to go out with Arthur; Jane could have lied, said she was seeing her mother or something like that. But there was always the chance of the lie being detected, because other people in the house would probably know. So Jane had told him, hoping against hope... Mr Jermyn of course had been awkward. He couldn't let her go, he said, he needed Jane for some extra work. Sir George's nephew was visiting. However... he could perhaps let her go as a favour... if Jane would stop being silly about a certain matter. She was a big girl and didn't need to continue being silly about that particular thing.

Jane was in no doubt what this thing was. Red-faced she said she couldn't. For one thing Sir George had expressly forbidden it. Mr Jermyn, hands groping, as they usually were when he had Jane in the privacy of his room, said hotly in her ear that Sir George didn't have to know. No one needed to know.

Hot and flustered from the hands, Jane shook her head. She wasn't going to let him. She would never be able to face Arthur again if she did — or even for that matter face Sir George. Jermyn wouldn't at first accept her refusal. He kept on, and his hands kept on. But eventually he did seem to accept that he wasn't going to get it — or not on this occasion at least.

'All right. If you insist on being a silly girl, Jane. But silly girls need their bottoms dealt with, don't they? I'll let you have the afternoon off — but if I do I'm going to give you something else first. I'm going to give you the cane, my girl. If you agree to that you can get your skirts up and your drawers down. And if you don't agree you'll stay here.'

So Jane on her afternoon off had four red stripes across that sumptuous bottom. It was the first time she has been caned. The pain... as the cane impacted onto her bare nates, bent over Mr Jermyn's chair... had been quite unbelievable. And there was the thought as well now, on this otherwise lovely afternoon out: that Mr Jermyn could be planning to do it again. Waiting for her with the cane when she got back. This thought certainly took away a little of the pleasure from her outing. Thinking back to that cane, Jane had the feeling that she wouldn't be able to take it again. It had been too awful, so much worse than a spanking. And perhaps that is why Mr Jermyn has got the cane: to give her something she wouldn't want to contemplate again. And therefore... that was a pretty sickening thought.

When Jane got back Jermyn was there — and so was someone else. Sir George's nephew, Mr Oliver Hartgrove. Mr Jermyn did not seem in a very good mood. It turned out that Sir George had gone off and would not be back until tomorrow. Jane, Mr Jermyn said and clearly not in a good mood, was to go and see Mr Oliver.

Perhaps Mr Jermyn had thought that with Sir George away it would be his big chance: to get to work on Jane. Suggest she have another dose of that cane... and if she didn't want the cane... but instead here was Mr Oliver asking to see Jane. Is this why Jermyn is in a bad mood? Has Mr Oliver been told that Jane is not to be left in the butler's care during Sir George's absence?

Arthur at least hears of the overnight absence of the master with relief and heart-felt thankfulness. Sir George away means that Jane will not be suffering her nightly penance and Arthur himself will not be suffering his nightly penance of knowing Jane is once again bare-bottomed over Sir George's lap. But in fact Arthur's feelings are not well founded...

Because Jane, shortly before the hour of dinner, though she may not be over Sir George's lap, is, once again, over a man's lap. With her skirts up and her drawers down. Not Sir George and not Mr Jermyn either of course. It is Oliver Hartgrove, the moustachioed young relative of the master. For some reason, Arthur would see, if his eyes could penetrate the heavy drapes of that room opposite the stables — although tonight Arthur is not in fact keeping his usual melancholy vigil outside — but if Arthur could somehow look into that room it would be to see that Oliver Hartgrove was doing it and for some reason has put on his straw boater. With a feeling of jocularity perhaps? A feeling of great well-being, could it be, that he is here in his uncle's house and master for the evening and master as well of his uncle's delightful parlourmaid. Because Oliver Hartgrove with his boater on has summoned Jane to that little room where, he knows, Sir George is in the habit of nightly spanking her bare bottom.

What Mr Oliver wants to do — 'Take your drawers down, Jane,' — comes as a nasty shock to the pretty parlourmaid. But naturally Jane cannot refuse; it has to be, after a moment's hot-faced hesitation, a meek 'Yes Mr Oliver.' It is pretty awful being over Mr Oliver's lap like this. With Mr Oliver spanking her bare bottom... and doing other things to it as well. But awful as it is it is not nearly as awful as later, when Jane is getting ready for bed. When Mr Oliver comes quietly in. A little smirk to Sarah... and then tells Jane that she won't be sleeping in her own little bed tonight. No, Oliver Hartgrove, nephew of the master and with the master away, has other plans for this delicious young woman.

A Letter For Nicola

Story from Uniform Girls 01.

A Letter For Nicola

Half term, and most of the boarders gone home to ride ponies and go to discos and generally to forget all about school for a whole week. Almost all of the girls, only three or four still in their dormitory rooms of an evening, those whose parents didn't want their daughter's home to complicate their social arrangements. Like, Nicola's —

Nicola waits miserably in the headmaster's private sitting room — the headmaster too is away, and the deputy head, Mr Russell, sees no reason why he shouldn't make use of it's comfortable seclusion on these occasions, 'these occasions' being those when a girl needs to be 'disciplined'. Nicola is supposed to be 'ready' when Mr Russell comes back from the village — gone to buy more smelly tobacco for his pipe, most probably — but she knows she'll hear his car pull up and there'll still be plenty of time to kneel up and-and-and get her knickers down. The thought of having to do so makes her tummy feel funny; she sits and stares at her hands and thinks about how she got trapped into her first bare-bummed spanking, a term and a half ago, before he'd persuaded her mother — who hadn't needed much persuasion, as it turned out — to send her to school as a boarder even though her home was only three and a half miles away...

* * * *

The envelope with Nicola's name on it was lying on the hall carpet where her younger sister found it at breakfast time. An innocent-looking bombshell as it turned out for when Nicola glanced at its contents her stomach gave a lurch and she felt her throat go dry. She hastily folded the note and shoved it back in the envelope, fearful that her mother or Julie might see. A gulped mouthful of cornflakes almost choked her.

'Anything interesting, dear?' asked her mother across the breakfast table.

'No... nothing.' With difficulty Nicola kept her voice more or less on an even keel. Picturing again the words which had leapt at her from the paper she broke out into a cold sweat.

Up in the privacy of her room she forced herself to have another look, this time reading it properly.

Dear Nicola,

It is my unhappy duty to take you to task on a disciplinary matter. On the evening of Tuesday last you were observed in the town in school uniform accompanied by a youth and behaving in a highly undignified and unsatisfactory manner. You were, for one thing, eating chips out of a newspaper in a public street. Your conduct on this occasion broke several disciplinary rules, as you will know. It is my duty therefore to see that you are given a suitable punishment.

Accordingly you will report to the Deputy Head tomorrow after school, taking this note with you. You will wear gym attire and you will wear no knickers under your gym shorts. I am instructing Mr Russell, that you are to be given a sound spanking. To ensure that you do not take this matter lightly I am further instructing Mr Russell that you are to have your shorts lowered and take the spanking on the bare bottom.

The note bore the school crest and was signed by the Head. It was dated 31st of March which was yesterday.

Re-reading it Nicola felt sick. It was impossible. She was 17 and a very grown-up looking 17 at that. Surely a 17-year old girl couldn't be spanked nowadays. Especially on her bare bottom! She had never heard of it happening to anyone, not ever. Although of course it did say in the school prospectus something about corporal punishment could be used in extreme circumstances. Could it possibly be that it did happen but the girls it happened to simply kept quiet about it? Obviously you wouldn't want to broadcast the fact. Shuddering, Nicola was quite sure she herself wouldn't.

She looked at the note again — to convince herself that she hadn't dreamt it. No, it was real all right. She shivered, imagining the unthinkable. Mr Russell's hand smacking down on her bare bottom.

With a sort of empty sensation in her stomach Nicola went to the bathroom to brush her teeth and do her hair. She was 5' 6" and well-built, a pretty blue-eyed blonde, but the pretty face in the mirror did not have its usual cheerful appearance. It was 8.30. In just over 7 hours she would be in Mr Russell's room. I feel sick, she thought, but fortunately the feeling passed. It was time to leave.

'Home at the usual time, dear?' It was her mother's routine query and routinely Nicola said yes. Today she said, 'I... I'm not sure, Mum. There... there may be something on.'

She slipped on the green school blazer. Green blazer, blue calf-length pleated skirt, green-and-blue tie. It was what she had on on Tuesday evening because she'd been working late in the library. And then someone had seen her with Brian Parker and those bloody fish and chips. Nicola thought for a moment. Her gym things? Then she remembered they were at school. She felt sick again.

* * * *

3.40 standing outside Mr Russell's door Nicola was naturally feeling even sicker. The dreadful moment of truth had arrived. She had gone through the day in a dream with just that one sick-making thought obliterating everything else. Being over Mr Russell's lap (presumably) with her gym shorts down and her, as she thought, rather big bottom on display. Nicola had naturally said nothing to anyone about her coming humiliating ordeal, and had tried to act as if everything was normal. It had not been easy. She had actually had Mr Russell for one lesson and had not been able to look him in the eye. But the Deputy Head had acted quite normally and had himself given no sign...

Nicola forced herself to knock and his voice said 'Come in'. He looked up from his desk, queryingly. Mr Russell was not old, perhaps 45, quite tall. He had blue eyes, some girls thought he was very dishy. Some girls might even welcome the situation Nicola was in. Her knees felt as if they were made of rubber.

'Yes, Nicola?'

She closed the door and shuffled forward, face bright red. Nicola had her raincoat on but underneath was dressed as the note had directed. Her white sleeveless gym top and tight blue gym shorts plus white ankle socks and gym shoes. She was wearing a bra but her knickers were back in the changing room with her other clothes.

The shorts anyway were very snug fitting. Nicola had had them since the Fifth form and now really needed a size bigger for she had filled out a bit since then. Her big bottom as she thought of it. Her mother told her not to be silly, it wasn't big just nice and anyway she would find that most men liked a good-sized bottom on a girl. At 17 Nicola wasn't really interested in that yet, although she realised that the male sex was interested, in her bottom and in her firm full breasts. Right now, though, there was only one male she had to be concerned about.

Mr Russell repeated his querying 'Yes, Nicola?' as if he didn't know why she had come. Numbly she thrust out the letter. He took a long time reading it through, almost as if it was all news to him. Finally he looked up. His face was perhaps slightly pink, though nothing compared to the rosy flush on Nicola's cheeks.

'Yes Nicola. Of course. Must behave properly in public, mustn't we? Take your coat off then.'

It was happening. Somehow Nicola had had a vague idea that he might say the letter was to teach her a lesson, scare her so that she wouldn't do it again, and then give some more acceptable punishment. Detention or something. Her fingers were all thumbs as she fumbled with the raincoat's buttons.

'Put it on the chair.' Mr Russell had got up and went over to the door. Nicola heard the lock click. He came back and sat down on a chair at the side, not behind his desk. 'Come here then.'

She stood trembling in front of him, somehow feeling naked in her gym clothes. Mr Russell simply said, 'OK, drop your shorts.'

Nicola gulped. For a moment the room went round and round. 'PI...please Sir,' said a small whisper.

'You read the note, Nicola.' Mr Russell's voice was crisp and authoritative. 'You saw the Head's instructions. So please take down your shorts.'

Somehow her hands did it. Struggled the tight shorts down off her full flanks. 'Right down,' Mr Russell ordered. They came right down. Automatically one of Nicola's hands came across to cover her light brown bush. Mr Russell took hold of her arm and the next thing Nicola knew she was over his lap.

'Uuuggghhh!' A moaning gasp at the first electric touch of his hand on her bare bottom. Nicola thought she was going to faint. He wasn't spanking, not yet, just getting her in position on his lap. One hand now holding her firmly in the small of her back, where her tank-top ended. There was a pause. And then the spanking did start.

All those stomach-churning fears of what it would be like proved amply justified. It was quite as bad as Nicola had imagined, if not worse. It hurt for one thing, that hard splat!... splat!... splat!... rhythmically cracking down onto her bottom; but worse was the truly mortifying embarrassment. To be lying there like that with her bare rear on display and Mr Russell's male hand in repeated contact with it. Her soft bottom cheeks flattening and wobbling with each repeated impact. No, that had to be experienced for the full horror to be believed.

Mr Russell kept it up for some considerable time, until Nicola could feel her bum absolutely glowing all over. At last he did stop and she was being helped to her feet. 'Pull them up,' he said. Nicola couldn't see properly. She wasn't actually crying but her bottom lip was trembling and there was an awful lot of moisture in her eyes.

'Blow your nose if you need to,' Mr Russell said.

Nicola had now got her shorts back up and was at least over the worst of the shock. Sire couldn't bear to look him in the eye, though.

'Well that's that,' Mr Russell observed. 'I'm sure it'll teach you a useful lesson because we certainly don't like our girls wandering about the streets eating fish and chips. By the way, are you familiar with the Head's signature?'

Blinking, Nicola looked at him and then away. 'Yes... yes sir. I think so.'

'Oh. Because the signature in your letter is quite a good copy but not what I would call a first-class one.'

Mr Russell's words took some time to sink it. Nicola was after all still in something of a state of shock.

'Wha...what, sir?'

'The signature, Nicola. A forgery. And you know today's date of course. The first of April.'

The penny finally dropped. Nicola's mouth opened and closed again without any words coming out. There was really nothing to say and if there had been Nicola was in no state to say it. She weakly dabbed at her face as two tears rolled down her cheeks.

'Don't take it too hard,' smiled Mr Russell. 'Someone's had their little joke. One of your schoolmates I suppose.'

She felt utterly utterly sick. At being so stupidly taken in and also at the fact that Mr Russell had gone ahead and spanked her even though he knew it was an April Fool's joke.

'I'm sorry but I couldn't resist it,' Mr Russell said in answer to Nicola's unspoken question. 'It was just too good an opportunity to miss. And after all you were in breach of the rules, weren't you! I think the best thing now is to forget all about it. I shan't tell and I don't suppose you will. Your unknown prankster will assume that nothing happened. By the way, any idea who it was?'

Nicola shook her head mournfully, doing her her best to stem the tears. Mr Russell put his arm round her.

'Cheer up. Just a little April Fool's fun. We'll forget about it and no one will be any the wiser. Off you go then.'

He gave Nicola a playful smack on her bottom — an unwelcome reminder of what had to be the worst 15 minutes of Nicola's life.

* * * *

When she got over the worst of the shock and humiliation Nicola's first thought was to think who could have played such a trick. For several days she went about surreptitiously watching for any word or sign that might give a clue but really there wasn't any. Once or twice she thought she had detected some suspicious action but on reflection Nicola had to admit it didn't amount to anything. She knew the best thing would be to forget all about it, as Mr Russell had advised, but she couldn't. And the main reason she couldn't forget was to be Mr Russell himself.

Two weeks after April Fool's Day he called Nicola into his office again after school with some complaint about an essay. He felt she hadn't been trying very hard, he said. He gave a funny little smile.

'But we know what we can do to smarten you up, don't we, young lady?'

Nicola flushed knowing full well what he meant. It wasn't a very good joke as far as she was concerned. She shifted uncomfortably on her feet, recalling all too vividly that horrendous afternoon. As she stood uncertainly at his desk Mr Russell got up and went over to the door. Nicola heard a distinct click of the lock. Like that sick-making afternoon two weeks before.

'Come on then,' he said, his voice a bit tense.

Nicola just looked at him as Mr Russell went to sit in that self-same chair at the side.

'Come on,' he repeated. 'Drop your knickers, Nicola dear.'

'No!' she gasped.

'Yes, Nicola. I'm going to spank your bottom again. And I don't think you're going to complain to anyone because I'm sure you wouldn't want that 'April Fool's joke' that you fell for spread about the school. Now would you?'

'That's blackmail,' Nicola whispered.

Mr Russell smiled. 'I wouldn't call it that. Let's simply say a Deputy Head using whatever disciplinary means are at his disposal. Now are you going to slip your knickers down yourself or shall I do it for you? I should quite enjoy doing it.' He smiled again, a cat with the cream. 'You can take your blazer off first.'

Nicola couldn't believe it. It was blackmail but what could she do? She slipped off her blazer and put it on his desk. She was in school uniform of course, not the gym outfit. Blouse and tie and skirt. Not looking at him her hands went up under the pleated skirt and fumbled underneath.

'Are they down?'

She nodded, tight-lipped.

'Good'. Mr Russell took her arm and pulled Nicola forward, then down. She was over his lap again, and again with that awful feeling of wanting to be sick. She felt her skirt being pulled up, over her back. Her knickers were brief pink nylon. Mr Russell was pulling them further down, to Nicola's knees. His hand on her bottom again. Openly fondling a bit this time. And then spanking. Hard juddering spanks, each one making a sharp pistol-like crack. It seemed to go on and on while Nicola just lay there, not struggling, simply soaking up the sharp pain and the humiliation.

Afterwards, as she struggled her knickers back up, Mr Russell was friendly, perhaps even slightly anxious. Perhaps he was just a little bit afraid Nicola might tell and then he could be in trouble. Because although the school prospectus did mention corporal punishment in general terms it certainly said nothing about spanking girls on their bare bottoms. But Nicola wasn't going to tell — not if it meant the whole humiliating story coming out.

'It doesn't hurt, does it?' he queried sympathetically. 'And I'm sure we're still friends, aren't we, Nicola?'

Nicola didn't answer. It seemed stupid to say either yes or not. But she could guess that as soon as Mr Russell got another excuse she would be back in here taking her knickers down again.

He gave her a charming smile. 'By the way, any ideas yet on who sent that letter?'

Nicola shook her head.

Mr Russell shook his too. 'Someone out there,' he mused. 'But at least if you say nothing their joke's fallen rather flat, hasn't it?'

Say nothing and let him keep smacking my bum, Nicola thought unhappily. But she was caught in the predicament of not having any choice.

* * * *

Graham Russell, after Nicola had left, sat at his desk pleasantly reliving the heady episode. She certainly had a marvellous bottom. And big girls really should be given more of that treatment. It was very good for them and it was most unfortunate that society nowadays had rather gone off that sort of thing. Next time, he thought, he might even take the strap to her. That would be really something. Spanking, though, did afford the wonderful intimacy of hand on bare bottom.

Taking up his pen he started idly doodling. The Headmaster's signature. He had told Nicola it wasn't perfect but really it was a very good copy. It had all gone quite marvellously; no problems and quite foolproof. He'd have to try it on another one next year, another little April Fool's trick. Perhaps June Billington, with the big boobs. He rather fancied her as well.

But until then there was Nicola Wilson. Pretty Nicola who had quite big boobs anyway plus a really lovely bottom. Nicola who was clearly going to be nice and cooperative. Next week, he thought. There's bound to be something wrong with her work again next week.