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Wednesday, 25 January 2017

Ministerial Responsibilities

A man of affairs keeps abreast of developments. Story from Blushes 2. Illustrations from Blushes Supplement 3.
A large car, chauffeur-driven, swishes through the rainy darkness on the last stretch of the M1 motorway. In the rear seat, no more than an outline in the dark, a man presses the intercom button.
‘How long now, d’you think Harry?’
‘Bout twenty minutes, sir. End of the motorway soon.’
‘Fine.’ The intercom switches off. The driver looks automatically in his rear-view mirror and in the brief light of headlamps on the other carriageway he sees only the back of the girl’s head and catches a glimpse of the little brass insignia on the shoulder tabs of her blouse. Muttering under his breath he looks in his wing mirror instead. Got no consideration some people! It’s things like that cause accidents!
In the back of the car the chauffeur’s exasperation is unnoticed and would go unremarked anyway. The man, in his early sixties with well-groomed dark hair, helps the girl maintain her balance with a hand at her waist, while she keeps her own hands on her head and bounces intermittently as the car passes over uneven stretches of tarmac, her knees wedged into the angle between the thickly upholstered seat and the backrest. He feels the supple reaction of her young body as she leans against the inertial force of the car’s sweep round a long bend, his fingers against her warm skin where her blouse has come untucked from the waistband of her skirt, the faint tension of youthful muscles as she straightens herself up again. Up under her skirt his other hand strokes up the inside of her tender-skinned thigh and ventures the touch of a fingertip along the moist little valley inside the damp knickers. He senses the tension re­turning to her body and smiles at the urgent yet respectful whisper.
Sir — sir.’ In the diminishing head­lights of a car behind he sees her bright eyes turned to his, her lips parted and wet-looking. He sees the tip of her tongue peep out to lick — oh so deli­cately — at the corner of her mouth. Again — Sir,’ a note of despair in her voice, a hint of almost-too-lateness.
‘Hmm?’ He runs his fingertips the other way and she edges forward away from the contact.
Sir — please.’ Her eyelids are drooping, her mouth slackening.
‘Now, Sally — now don’t you dare defy me.’ Firm words, yet said in such a tolerant and understanding way as almost to encourage the girl to do exactly the opposite thing. If she does, of course, he’ll have to pretend to be cross — he strokes her a little closer to the precipice, and then all at once he can feel that she has slipped over the edge.
Panting quietly she pushes plead­ingly down against his hand, and he lets her do it, his other hand sliding down her flank and patting her bottom as she subsides against him, her head on his shoulder and her quick breath hot at his neck.
‘Naughty girl, Sally,’ he says into her ear, and pats gently at her thigh while her breathing slows to something more like normal. She stirs against him, warm and sweet-smelling, her nose behind his ear.
‘I’m sorry — I didn’t mean to do it, I just couldn’t help it.’
He lets her gather her wits a little longer then gently squeezes a tiny pinch of her bottom. She lets out a meek squeal of protest and says a pet­ulant ‘Please —’ hoping that she can coax him into forgiving her as she sometimes can. But it isn’t to be.
‘Come along now, you know what happens when you defy me, Miss.’ He slaps her thigh less gently and she kneels up on the seat again, pouting childishly and complaining that she isn’t sure she likes him very much after all, daring him a little but careful not to trespass across the indistinct line between spirited girlishness and real rudeness or disobedience. If she did, he would patronise her no less on the way home, smack her bottom playfully up the stairs when they got there, and very likely cane her so hard that she literally wouldn’t be able to sit down at breakfast next day. Sally was always careful not to overstep the mark.
The intercom ‘plops’ into life. The chauffeur, discreetly helpful as ever; ‘End of the motorway, sir.’
‘Thank you.’ The man in the back seat looks with mock menace at the kneeling girl, and knowing now that he means it she pushes out her bottom lip a little more and gathers her uniform skirt untidily into both hands and hoists it up to her waist at the front. The pale luminosity of her knickers in the dark­ness is picked out by regular flashes of amber light as they drop down the in­cline at the end of the motorway. She reaches behind her and draws the loose material of her skirt round to the front so that now her bottom will be readily accessible without the incon­venience of her skirt getting in the way.
Without needing to be told, Sally leans sideways while he steadies her at her waist, falling against him for a moment as she extracts her knee from between his legs so that she can make the traverse across the seat. Having crossed to his right-hand side she swivels on her knees, feeling his spanking-hand slipping up the backs of her legs to her bottom, lingering there a moment before nudging her forward so that she will topple across his lap. Still with a look of rueful childishness, she risks poking out the tip of her tongue nervously — he tut-tuts at her and tips her across his knees.
Even in this car, there isn’t a lot of room down on the floor — Sally can’t see anything much except darkness and her uniform jacket, which has somehow ended up down here with her. Awkward though it is in the cram­ped space, she worms around until she can get her arms behind her back so that he can hold them should she put up too much of a struggle once the slaps begin to descend. Now her face is against the thick carpet and her feet are wedged against the door so that she can’t straighten her legs; she is bent tightly across the man’s knees so that the plump undersides of her but­tocks are smoothed out into a curve that meets the backs of her thighs with­out interruption — it is this velvet-skinned bit of bareness above the tops of her stockings that feels the first teasing spank.
Ooh —! Sally presses her knees one against the other and pushes her feet against the door. Another spank on the other thigh and then she feels fingers at the waistband of her knick­ers. She squeezes her cheeks to­gether as her pants slip down over her hips, and the little wiggle of her bum as she feels them slither down her legs isn’t all cock-teasing bravado — this play-time spanking is likely to hurt almost as much as the real one.
 ‘Ooogh! Her bottom trembles as he begins her spanking, and it isn’t long before Sally’s muffled cries are in earnest. She struggles fitfully across his uncomfortable knees and begins to push spasmodically against the door with her feet. The bent-over naked­ness of her bottom is lit suddenly by street-lamps of a different colour, and then the car slows to a halt. From out­side, Sally can hear the bustle of traffic and the ticking over of engines close by. She struggles to be let up — Please sir — but her bottom is simply stroked and patted until the car is on the move again, when the spanking resumes with the same insistent rhythm. Sev­eral spanks, certainly weighty enough to prompt the girl to tears given the fresh tenderness of her little bum, one applied much harder than the others have been, and Sally’s wriggles now owe nothing at all to coquettishness and everything to the hot tingle in her bottom.
The intercom clicks on. ‘Couple of minutes now, sir.’ Sally feels her hands released and she wangles them down to floor-level so that she can lift her face off the carpet. She dashes a hand across her cheeks, brushing away little teardrops, but as he helps her back to an upright position the dampness along her eyelashes gives her away. He chides her pleasantly about the tears and she smiles a tiny brave smile, although her little-girl pout rather spoils it.
‘Well — if you will be a wilful girl, Sally, you’ve only yourself to blame’. He helps her with her knickers and settles them around her spank-warmed bottom — she can feel herself blushing as she realises that all this is happening in the middle of Golders Green’s main thoroughfare, but doubts if he’ll notice her embarrassment in the dark­ness. She kneels on the seat again to smooth her skirt down, then slides across his lap to subside gratefully on the seat beside him. She rescues her jacket from between her feet and slips into it while he pats her knee and tells her he’ll be an hour or so, perhaps a bit longer. ‘And on the way back we’ll see if you’ve learnt your lesson, eh?’
‘Yes sir.’ Sally gives him a slightly brighter version of her little smile, and then the car turns into a drive and swooshes up to a wide flight of steps in front of a large house. A figure comes down the steps with an umbrella and opens the car door.
‘Good evening, Minister. Nasty night for travelling’.
‘Yes, it is rather.’ The door slams shut and they go up the steps into the house, while the car drives away to the gates.
The Minister’s meeting goes on rather longer than had been expected. It is a matter of presenting the en­deavours of his department in such a way as to cast a favourable light upon it, and to do something about quieting the fears expressed even by some government back-benchers that the Youth Service Programme has not so far shown the expected results and that it is, incidentally, costing more money than had been anticipated. It is almost half past eleven before the meeting has agreed on the way its case should be presented at tomorrow’s cabinet meeting.
They leave the committee room and one of the host’s Youth Service girls shows them into the dining room for some light refreshment and a drink for the road. Miles, a longstanding friend of the Minister’s, finds an opportunity to take him aside whilst the others are talking.
‘How’s that girl I found for you Charles? Any fun?’
‘Umm, most suitable Miles, couldn’t have picked a better one.’
‘Good, good. Got myself a replace­ment for Anita. Very sweet little thing — can’t be more than a month or two over sixteen, very pretty and learn­ing the ropes too, Charles — know what I mean?’
‘Ah — yes, I dare say I do, Miles.’ He drinks from his glass, a crustless sand­wich delicately poised between the fin­gers of his other hand.
‘Like to see her? Eh?’ Miles seems eager to show her off and Charles, al­though he isn’t sure he’s that inter­ested, doesn’t want to appear rude.
‘Well — alright.’
‘Come on then.’ They leave the dining room and go up the main stair­case, then along a hallway and up a second flight of stairs. Another pass­ageway and another staircase and there is a green painted door across a little landing. Miles unlocks it, and Charles finds himself looking into a sparsely-furnished room and con­fronted by a girl who certainly looks no older than Miles said she was, standing stiffly to attention, pink-cheeked, red-eyed from crying — and naked from head to toe.
‘She must’ve heard us coming, Charles,’ says Miles, his voice more mocking, for the girl’s benefit, than communicative. Charles notices a heavy-looking strap dangling from a hook on the wall — he also notices that even though the girl is directly facing them, strap marks can be seen around the outsides of her thighs, and even a few coming from between her legs. He looks at his host, feeling suddenly embarrassed. At a signal from Miles — a twirling of a finger in the air — the girl turns round, still standing stiffly at attention. Her bottom is a crimson wel­ter of strap weals; so many that they are undistinguishable one from the other save on the backs of her thighs, where they extend more than halfway to her knees. For perhaps a full minute Charles stares at the evidence of the punishments the girl has had to endure, then he turns on his heel and leaves the room.
As he goes down the stairs he hears Miles locking the door behind them, and the sound of a girl’s strangled sobs beyond it. Miles catches his visitor at the bottom of the lower staircase. Charles says only the one word — ’Goodnight’ — and lets himself out of the front door, closing it firmly behind him.
The car is waiting at the foot of the steps. His chauffeur comes round and opens the rear door, and as the interior lights come on their subdued illumin­ation falls on Sally’s curled up figure, fast asleep on the wide back seat.
‘Must’ve had a long day sir,’ says the chauffeur, his eyes taking in the stockinged legs, shoes kicked off, the bare skin at the top of her thighs where her short skirt has ridden up, the pale peep of knickers where they slip between her legs.
‘No longer than mine, Harry. But I dare say a little more exhausting in certain respects.’ He gets into the car and the lights go out. Sally stirs in her sleep. The chauffeur gets in and they drive off through the big gates, then head for the motorway. The Minister lights a cigar and then looks down at the girl, her hair tumbled across the velvety knap of the upholstery, light from the street lamps falling every few seconds onto the bright shoulder flashes of the Youth Service Pro­gramme Army Cadet Division.
‘Sally —’ His voice is considerately quiet, just enough to nudge her into wakefulness. He pats her leg and she comes to, lifting her head and looking blearily around. Her eyes widen.
‘Oh — sorry sir!’ She sits up, hair falling across her face, skirt up in her lap. ‘Sorry sir.’ She blinks sleepily, smiling nervously as she tries to re­member something she seems to have forgotten. ‘Um — sir — did you want me to —?’ She gathers her skirt up to her waist, lifting her bottom so that she can pull it out from underneath.
‘That’s alright, Sally. Let’s assume that you did learn your lesson on the way down shall we?’
Sally’s face takes on the expression of someone about to say an earnest ‘thank you’. She blinks again, her skirt still clutched in her hands, and leans gratefully into him as he reaches out his arm and pulls her against his shoulder. He smells the freshness of her hair, feels the pace of her breathing slow as she begins to nod again. He doesn’t disturb her and soon she is asleep. His hand slips down behind her back and his fingers rest on the bare skin of her hip and play idly with the elastic of her knickers. The lights of the motorway slip by and soon he too is asleep.

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