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Tuesday, 31 January 2017

A Civil Servant Collects

A sequel to Civil Servant's Perks from Blushes 1.
His conscience was something Arnold always had to deal with on occasions such as these, before he could be sure of not letting himself down in a way that he would kick himself for later. Coming down on the train it had been easy enough to slide the photograph out of the envelope behind a copy of Scientific American and run his eyes — and imaginary hands — over the delightful, youthful, and reportedly thoroughly available shape of the girl on the netball court whose name was Jennifer. Savouring the prospect of actually meeting her, he had felt himself taking on already the authoritative characteristics the girl would no doubt expect to find in him, thinking of him, as she would be led to do, as a very senior member of her school’s hierarchy, and therefore someone to be obeyed without question, no matter what. He had caught himself practising various phrases under his breath, though he had realised with a start that he had been moving his lips as he’d done so and, for all he knew, giving himself away to the man seated opposite him, had he been watching. Phrases like, ‘Now then Jennifer — we’ll just have these little knickers down, shall we?’ accompanied by a quiet chuckle halfway between Father Christmas and Rasputin. Oh yes, he had begun to feel confident of his ability to carry the whole thing off rather well, and untroubled by guilt at the thought of exercising his libido at the expense of an innocent sixteen-year-old whose faith in human nature would be shattered forever were she to find out the truth about the confidence trick he and her headmaster intended to play on her.
That was life; the strong, the clever, and the downright devious — they were the ones whose bread landed butter-side uppermost. The innocent — and especially the innocents who were as pretty as young Jennifer — they were the ones who got their knickers taken down, and serves them right too.
Arnold’s nonchalance about the ‘dog eat dog’ nature of a strongly sexed man’s relationships with those of the opposite sex whose circumstances rendered them liable to exploitation, took a sharp knock when, after spending half an hour in Reggie’s office while the Headmaster bent his ear about his school’s needs for funds for this and that project — funds which he was supposed to help find, through his influence in his department — he had been allowed to take a surreptitious look at the girl, Jennifer. She had been pointed out to him as she chased around in the gymnasium before supper — at netball practice, he’d supposed. Suddenly — almost as if something had prompted her to look up at him, he’d found himself confronted by a face of such innocence, with wide-open blue eyes of such trusting purity, that a shock of guilt had shaken him to the core. It had seemed for a minute that she must have known, even though he knew she hadn’t been given so much as a hint at that time.
Now, with the moment well and truly upon him, with the door to the little staffroom securely locked and with Reggie’s assurance that even if he raped the girl — only, would he please not do such a thing, for the sake of the school if nothing else — her cries would be heard by no-one, since there was no-one anywhere near to hear, the pangs of conscience he had felt an hour or so ago were being smothered by the springing of sap in his loins.
The innocent blue eyes which had met his in the gym were clouded now with the mist of unhappiness, the impish face overshadowed by apprehension, though it had lost none of its prettiness, these things reminding him somewhere deep down of the trust he was abusing right here and now. But such considerations had no chance against others which appealed directly to even deeper levels of Arnold’s psyche.
When he had ordered her out of her skirt — yes, ordered was the word, sharp-edged words, brooking no nonsense, the tone one that a girl like her would expect to hear from a man such as he — he had wanted her to recognise the brutishness in him, the lasciviousness in his eyes as he had looked down at the snug pout in her knickers at the top of her thighs. He had wanted to see the leap of understanding in her expression as she had been made to see herself as he saw her; vulnerable, available, accessible — helpless to influence the course of events, save by acknowledging that very helplessness and trusting that he might be sympathetic to the plight of a girl made to stand in her knickers in front of a frightening stranger, with only the ominous last words of her headmaster as he’d left her here with this man ‘You’ll do as you’re told, Jennifer, do you understand?’ to guide her in this situation where she was so far out of her depth.
‘Turn round,’ he kept the edge to his voice, enjoying the nervousness in her movements as she turned, eager to please, looking back over her shoulder as she presented the knicker-cuddled plumpness of her bottom to this man whom, she knew — he had told her at once that she was to be punished, though not why — would want her knickers down, her bottom bared, accessible for the spanking she’d been promised.
Recognising, somehow, the need to ask for understanding in the only way open to her, Jennifer took care to push out her bottom and make it look as spankable as possible, to tuck at the elastic where it curved up across her bottom-cheek as though nudging it into place, yet managing to bare a fraction more skin in the process. She kept her legs pressed close together, virginal, yet virginity hinted at by immodesty. A dangerous game, even though it was no game, this asking for pity in her helplessness by inviting exploitation of that very helplessness.
‘Turn round!’ She turned and she looked — warily, but she looked — at the suggestion of a bulge in his lap as he sat in the chair, telling him that she knew, accentuating her vulnerability in her having to look and know and be in no position to do any damned thing about it.
He wanted her knickers down, of course. A fluff of blonde hair appeared above the dragged-down waistband elastic of her pants, attracting his eyes, making her tremble at the thought of what he may want to do with her, yet having to co-operate in what might prove to be her own downfall. At last, yet inevitably — ‘Come across here. Come along.’
His hand fondled up under the cheekiness of her bottom, stroking, gently patting, squeezing, enjoying. His voice all at once without the edge, a suggestion of sympathy perhaps — she couldn’t be sure. She lifted a fraction up on to her toes, turning a little, away from the patronising hand. Yet not so far as to cause offence.
‘Feels like it needs a smacking, this bottom. Nice little spanking — hmm — asking for it, this bottom, of yours, wouldn’t you say?’
Drawn into the game, having to play, she dared a wiggle, the very littlest movement of the warm softness of her bottom against his hand; ‘Ooo — but — but I’m sure sir, if you spank me sir, it’ll make me go all wriggly — like this — and like this —’ the words, of course, unsaid, but all there in those little movements.
‘Over here — come along now.’
Over his knees, the place where spankings happen and bottoms really do get wriggly, yet still she might be winning. The first spanks, when they arrived, stinging as much as spankings always did, her bottom bobbing as she makes a pretence of pretending to be brave, but the humiliating, silly little words slipping out; and no pretence about it.
‘Ooo — please — please — please don’t — please sir!’
Silly little words. but what else to say, and the saying of something an absolute necessity, the sting in her bum quite apart, or else he’d have to spank her harder still just to be sure the right reaction was being obtained.
Smarting, squirming, twitching — a bottom not pretending anything, doing what it does only because it must; words jumbling together with noises that were meant to be ‘pleases and ‘don’ts’ and ‘sirs’ but which came out more ‘Ooogh’ and ‘Ooow!’
More spanking, and more again, and short, huffy little sounds that are going to be sobs any minute now, any minute!
‘Keep it up, my dear. Come along — bottom up for your spanking, Jennifer!’
Yes, definitely sobs, and the thought that perhaps, after all, she actually isn’t getting anything for all her subtlety except the well-smacked bottom she was always going to get right from the start. Yes, sobs alright, and something that might be tears.
A wretched, tearful, wriggle of a girl, at last she was let up. Made to stand just so, humiliated, helpless again, vulnerable, accessible, though she hopes — surely he won’t — surely he wouldn’t want to make her cry any more — his eyes wandering down, so that she can almost feel them there — down there — and now the unavoidable conclusion. The game she thought she was playing, though heaven knows it was hardly a game, the little trick of trying to be so very helpless, so very much at his mercy — well, it never was a game, nor a pretence. She’d never had a chance. A word from him and she’d do whatever it was he wanted, no arguments, and not because the Headmaster had said so. But because she really was helpless — a victim, at his mercy, of which there was precious little.
The realisation made her cry again, all on her own, without any help from him, legs spread-eagled, little fluff of fair pubic hairs, lower lip trembling as she said she was sorry, though of course, she didn’t even know why she’d been spanked, and that made Arnold’s conscience turn like a knife in a wound and make him think about it, as he looked at her, knowing that now she’d do whatever he wanted, but that he really wasn’t brute enough to make her do it after all.
And so he didn’t. He let her pull her knickers up and run gratefully away when he’d unlocked the door, and although neither of them knew it, the whole thing had worked, and Arnold had won, for a while, and then his conscience had had its turn to win, and above all, though she felt like a loser, what with her smacked bottom and all, young Jennifer too had won, although she really didn’t know it.
In the hotel room, later on. Arnold decided that there was always next time. He’d just have to work at being a bastard, that was all!


  1. Is this the girl that ended up with Alan Bell

  2. Yes, the pangs of conscience most certainly must be crushed if the true administration of justice, the justice demanded by nature, is to be achieved. But this piece was an interesting and unusual meditation upon such weaknesses that even the most stern hearted of gentleman disciplinarians may from time to time encounter, especially those new to the game. I think that it may well be the case that when those residual feelings of pity mingle with the overwhelming, rakish desire to exploit and punish that the most satisfying sensations of accomplishment are obtained.