The second of a two-part YSS story from Blushes 2, continuing from where Basic Training - Starting at the Bottom left off.
In the nine weeks and two days that Charlotte had been ‘in’ she’d learnt that smartness in one’s appearance was an essential prerequisite if a girl wanted to survive in the Cadet Service’s disciplinarian atmosphere. Back at home she wouldn’t have dreamt, for instance, of ironing a pair of knickers; for one thing the little nylon pants she used to wear hadn’t even seemed to need ironing, and for another, if there had been any ironing to be done her mum would most likely have finished it even before her daughter had managed to get out of bed in the morning. Besides, back at home knickers had been discreet items of underwear that no-one was going to see anyway, once they were on. Things had proven to be a little different recently though.
That afternoon, on her first day at the CO’s rambling official ‘residence’ in the quiet Hertfordshire countryside, Charlotte had pressed and ironed every single item of her clothing, including the nine new pairs of white cotton knickers she had been freshly issued with, together with blouses, vests, in fact everything except her actual uniforms themselves, when she had left the Training Centre behind her for good — she hoped — that morning.
The big house had been strangely quiet after the bustling activity of the centre. Apart from an elderly man who had seemed to be expecting her on her arrival and a girl, who despite her lack of NCO rank had been distinctly superior in the offhand way she had shown the newcomer to her room, Charlotte had seen no-one close enough to speak to until the same lofty-mannered girl had sought her out in the laundry room and told her to be on ‘reception parade’ in the entrance hall at five-fifty. The CO, it seemed, was on his way.
For ten minutes or so, too unsure of herself to attempt a conversation, Charlotte had waited anxiously in the hallway with three other girls, one of them in the Cadet Trainee uniform of a student nurse, the other two dressed in shorts and tee-shirts — the shorts looked startlingly brief even when compared with the none-too-modest issue at the centre; no doubt one of the CO’s whims — and then the stuck-up girl had come clattering down the staircase and called them all to attention. The CO’s car had turned into the drive and he would be here any minute.
Even from inside the house, the noise of the car’s arrival outside had sounded, to say the least, precipitate. The slither of its wheels on the gravel had preceded by only a fraction of a second a solid thump as something substantial seemed to get in its way. A clash of gears and a revving of the engine had ensued; there had been a clang then a slamming of doors, and the CO had appeared in the doorway, trailed by a pink-cheeked cadet who scurried along in his wake.
The CO had stopped in the hallway and returned the girls’ salutes. He had glanced at them all by turn, acknowledging Charlotte’s presence with no more than a snappy remark to the effect that the sooner she went to the Central Driving School the sooner she would be able to replace the ‘idiot who has just removed the bumper from my car’, and then he had disappeared down a passageway while the girl whose driving had caused all the fuss had scampered over to a keyboard at the foot of the stairs.
Her cheeks blushing rosier by the moment, the CO’s young driver had hurried back across the hall turned a key in the lock of a door marked ‘PR’ and had been reaching up under her skirt for her knickers even before the door had swung to behind her.
The CO had returned minus his briefcase and cap to dismiss his reception committee, and as he had gone into the mysterious room, a glimpse through the door of a plump and knickerless bottom bent unhappily across a tall stool had told all too graphically what was about to happen to the CO’s unfortunate driver.
‘Twelve, I should think,’ the elderly man had muttered, appearing at Charlotte’s elbow as she turned to go back to her room.
‘Poor little bugger’ he’d said, ‘E’s ‘ad her knickers down every day this week —’ he’d paused.
‘You goin’ to be ‘is new driver, then?’
‘Er — yes, actually.’
He had looked down at her hips, not exactly lasciviously but without troubling to disguise the direction of his glance, and then, unaccountably, he had nodded several times and clucked his tongue.
‘Poor little bugger,’ he’d said again, picking up his former train of thought as he’d turned away. ‘It don’t ‘alf make her cry, you know. Breaks ‘er heart, she does’.
From beyond the door marked ‘PR’ had come the muffled phutt! of a cane across bare girl-flesh. A stifled squeal had been accompanied by the sound of the CO’s voice, and then a second Thwack! had been followed almost at once by a yelp a whole octave higher than the first.
Charlotte had looked about her and realised that the other girls had disappeared. The man had reached into the voluminous pocket of his dark blue overall and produced a bottle of Brasso and a cloth. He had taken little notice of Charlotte as she had mumbled an excuse and turned towards the staircase. Tilting the Brasso bottle against the cloth he had wandered over to the door and begun rubbing at its handle with an absent expression on his face, while the cane had descended a third time across the unseen girl’s bum. His ear close to the panelling, Charlotte had thought she’d caught the words ‘Poor little bugger’ again as she’d scooted away up the stairs.
The caning of the CO’s inefficient young driver had troubled Charlotte considerably — she, after all, was here to take the unfortunate girl’s place and her apprehension had not been lessened when the cocky cadet who seemed to be in charge had blundered into her room without knocking.
‘Library, half-past eight CO wants to see you’.
Charlotte had spent the intervening two hours nibbling her nails and pressing her uniform again, so that by the time she was standing outside the library at eight twenty, her heart pounding and her tummy filled with butterflies, Charlotte had looked just as smart as it was possible for a cadet to look. Uniform immaculate, blouse neat, tie just so — but as it turned out she really needn’t have bothered to iron her knickers after all.
The elderly caretaker had appeared, wandering apparently aimlessly from the direction of the hallway and apropos of nothing had resumed the one-sided conversation he’d been having with her earlier, just as if he hadn’t realised that she’d slipped off in the middle of it.
‘Cried ‘er eyes out, she did,’ he’d said. ‘Twelve ‘e gave ‘er. Said ‘e would. Poor little bugger.’
Charlotte had not known how to reply, so she’d smiled nervously — silly, really, considering the subject of the conversation — but he hadn’t seemed to notice particularly.
‘Only a kid, really. Couple of years ago she probably wouldn’t have been old enough to drive at her age. Shouldn’t think she’s any older than you.’ He’d looked at her directly, as if properly aware of her for the first time. ‘How old are you, then, eh?’
‘Um — sixteen.’
He’d nodded in that strange way he had.
‘And — what? Couple of months?’
‘Er — sixteen and three months. Well, nearly.’
‘Hmm. Nope — shouldn’t think she’s any older than you.’ He’d looked her over again, unabashed yet somehow without giving offence, so frank was his expression. ‘Waitin’ to see the Old Man, are you?’
‘Yes. Um — I — I s’pose he just wants to welcome me onto his staff. Sort of say ‘Hello’.’ She’d said it hopefully, not wanting to be disillusioned.
‘Perhaps.’ The same open look again — face, breasts, hips. ‘Course, if you don’t want your bum caned, you’d better get out of that skirt.’
He’d looked at her for a moment then grinned.
‘No-one told you then,’ he’d glanced at the watch on his wrist. ‘Reportin’ to the old man after eight o’clock, you don’t turn up like that. After eight o’clock means you ain’t just here to say ‘allo’.’
‘Sorry — I don’t think I —’
‘After eight o’clock, any girl what ‘as to report to the Old Man is expected to have herself ready.’
Charlotte had looked blankly at him, uncomprehending. ‘S-sorry — I don’t understand. Ready?’
He’d looked her up and down again, still amused, then pointed to a place just behind her head where two brass hooks were screwed to the wall.
‘Know what those ‘ooks are for?’
‘Er — no.’
‘That one, there — that’s skirts. An’ that one — that’s for knickers. See?’
‘Um —’ She’d stared at him, bewildered but with an awful feeling that he might not be joking.
‘Course, if you don’t want to take my word for it —’
Confused, Charlotte had hovered on the brink of calling his bluff, only he hadn’t looked as if he was bluffing. He’d taken a look at his watch and pointed at the hooks again, amusedly mocking her disbelief.
‘Skirts — knickers. Got it?’
‘Um — er —’
‘You can suit yourself of course.’
She’d unzipped her skirt, uncertainly, hesitantly, knowing that she would be too embarrassed now not to take the caretaker’s advice since he’d offered it, seemingly in a spirit of helpfulness, yet she’d felt humiliated to be undressing like this with his alert eyes on her every movement. She’d hung her skirt up, while the caretaker stared with his odd matter-of-fact gaze, then hesitated again when it came to her pants.
‘Now your knickers.’ He had prompted her with gentle mocking in his voice, and she had slipped the little cotton knickers down and stepped out of them, her fingers unresisting as he’d taken them from her and put them on the hook to save her the trouble. Her blouse came not much below her waist, leaving her belly and bottom bare — and that other little bit, of course.
‘Better stand at attention.’
She’d straightened up, hands stiffly by her sides, breasts pushing forward, bottom feeling big and helplessly naked behind, afraid she’d been deceived by the caretaker for the sake of his amusement yet fearful that probably she hadn’t been after all.
He had patted her bum a couple of times, taking no trouble to disguise the faint trace of amusement in his voice as he’d said quietly ‘The Old Man’ll like you, sweetheart. Just you see if ‘e don’t.’ And then he’d simply wandered away along the passage as if he’d forgotten all about her.
Trembling now with both anxiety for what the CO might mean to do with her, and the embarrassment of being half-naked when he opened the door — it might still be some kind of new arrival’s initiation joke, for all she knew — Charlotte had started nervously when the library door had opened a moment later, the CO checking her up and down instantly, just as if she’d been on parade back at the Training Centre, and then beckoning her into the dimly-lit room without the slightest comment on the oddity of her appearance. Following the CO’s back through the doorway, out of the corner of her eye she had glimpsed the returning figure of the caretaker coming along the passage, Brasso bottle and polishing cloth already in his hand.
‘Stand at ease, Barnes.’
‘Sir,’ she had moved automatically on the instant, and only as the backs of her hands had come together behind her, brushing across the smooth skin of her bare bottom, had the lasciviousness of a girl being made to ‘stand at ease’ when she didn’t have any knickers dawned on her. She had blushed a hot crimson and been unable to meet the CO’s gaze as he’d turned to face her.
Shifting uneasily, her face still flushing afresh each time she managed to make herself look up into the Commanding Officer’s face, Charlotte had tried to pay attention to the arrangements that had been made for her driving course — she was to leave tomorrow and would be back in five days, after an especially intensive period of instruction during which she would have to work ‘very hard’ so as to reach the required standard in time. The CO himself would finalise the details of her transport right then and there.
Seating himself at a desk he had picked up a ‘phone and dialled a number and then whilst waiting for the receptionist to connect him at the other end, he had gestured with a finger and then with a hand for Charlotte to come round and stand beside him ‘in case they wanted any details from her.’ Awkwardly she had skirted the desk and stood at a respectful distance, only to be ushered closer by the impatient hand. Trembling with embarrassment she had waited while the connection was made, her bottom kept as far out of reach as she could manage without it being too obvious and her hands together in front of her in an unmilitary posture that the CO affected not to notice for a minute or so. Absentmindedly he had stretched out a hand and stroked it up and down the side of her leg, then up under the plumpness of her bottom, jiggling the weight of first one cheek then the other while Charlotte shut her eyes tightly and kept very still, too nervous almost to breathe.
‘Oh — yes. I’m waiting to speak to Captain Harvey. Hmm? Yes, alright — I’ll hold on.’
A digit, indeed several, had slipped nonchalantly between Charlotte’s thighs about knee height — then travelled casually but insistently upwards. Despite herself, Charlotte’s thighs edged closer together as the interloping fingers slipped higher, until she was pressing them quite determinedly against the intrusion, her reaction quite automatic. She hadn’t noticed the CO’s glance, nor the lift of amusement about his eyebrows as he’d felt her resistance become more determined.
‘Sir?’ Charlotte had looked down at him, startled by his voice. He had glanced up with a little smile. ‘Stand at ease, Barnes.’
‘Ooh —’ This time Charlotte’s reaction had been less the disciplined obedience of a well-trained cadet than the reluctant compliance of an innocent yielding to force of circumstances. Unsteadily she moved her feet apart and put her hands behind her back and felt the confident slide of a fingertip along the moist runnel at the apex of her thighs. The CO had said ‘Hello?’ into the ‘phone. ‘Captain Harvey? About the arrangements for my driver — perhaps I’d better let you speak to her yourself.’ He had handed the ‘phone to Charlotte, who had taken it in a fluster and almost dropped it onto the desk and been given a sharp, stinging slap on the bottom for her clumsiness.
‘H-hello? Um — this is Cadet Corporal B — oooh — Barnes, sir’.
Spread-apart legs beginning to tremble again, Charlotte had attempted to manage the complication of communicating the required information whilst keeping her mind off the CO’s increasingly successful efforts at distraction between her legs, but had been less successful by the moment.
‘Er — well, sir — ooogh — um — I could ‘phone you — aaahh — you before I left sir — oooh —’
The week that Charlotte had waited, between her interview for the new posting and the day of her leaving the Training Camp, had been one of tension and worrying, of doubts and uncertainty, with no moment really free of the nagging fear that she wouldn’t be accepted, and the frightening possibility that she might.
The two weeks previous to that had been, if anything, more demanding, the almost daily ritual of presenting her bared bottom for chastisement in the CO’s office having been not the least of her troubles, and the past three weeks taken together had afforded little chance of ‘relaxation’ to the harassed young Corporal — going to bed most nights with a spanked or cane-wealed bottom and exhausted from the day’s demands, had left her with little inclination to avail herself of the kind of relaxation therapy by which a healthy girl might reasonably be expected to ease her frustrations. On the other hand, unrealised and indeed more unconsciously than otherwise, the sexual undertones of being constantly in the presence of the Camp’s training staff, almost all men, while dressed in the little regulation issue shorts that might have been designed to encourage a girl to show off a bit — and to encourage men to watch her while she did it — were likely to leave a girl emotionally ‘toned-up’ without allowing her any form of release save the solace she might find in the comforting intimacy of her own bed after lights out. With frequent takings-down of her knickers — for punishment admittedly but a girl’s psyche wasn’t always entirely able to differentiate — and regular ‘stimulation’ of her bottom in the presence of the CO and whichever of his cronies he had invited to enjoy the ‘performance’, Charlotte, though she was hardly aware of it on a conscious level, was a warm, liquid bubble of sublimated sexuality ready to pop at the slightest suggestion of an opportunity to do so.
Slowly she had become unable to continue the ‘phone conversation with the Captain. Her legs had gone to jelly and she had had to lean against the desk for support while the receiver had slipped from her grasp. Constrained by the demands of military discipline to remain at least upright and in some semblance of an ‘at ease’ posture, yet coaxed against her conscious will to within a shiver of disgracing herself on the tips of the CO’s fingers, Charlotte had whimpered, panted, gasped and finally wept at her helpless response to the insistence of the CO’s practised titillation and had given way at last to the inevitable.
Getting her bum smacked after that had hardly seemed fair, but smacked it had been. He had allowed her a minute or two to recover herself a little, while he had dealt with Captain Harvey who had been still on the other end of the ‘phone, and then she had been ordered to the far side of the library and told to wait. Then, having poured himself a drink to top up the several he had already had, the CO had taken the wobbly-legged girl across one knee and pushed her blouse up her back, clamping her legs between his own so that her bottom was presented neatly across his left thigh. He had spanked her with slow deliberation, each cheek alternately, the spanks solidly applied to what rapidly became a jerking, twisting, target which frantic hands attempted to defend in the fleeting moments when they were able to pull free of the CO’s grip.
Here, in this big old house, there were no such things as regulations appertaining to corporal punishment — a girl could be spanked until she could barely catch her breath for yelling and then still be spanked some more. Charlotte had given way to tears almost at once; at first as a result of the relief from tension that the CO’s experienced fingers had allowed her, but then, with the pain in her wriggling bottom increasing with every spank, she had cried in earnest until she was incoherent in her protestations and was struggling so much as to make the palm-tingling satisfaction of continuing to slap her crimson-blotched bottom hardly commensurate with the effort it took to hold her down for it to be done. Charlotte was allowed at last to slip from between her Commanding Officer’s restraining knees.
Now, her eyelids are reddened and her cheeks wet with her crying. Her lips are moist with salt tears and the inside of her mouth liquid-warm. Her hair is silky to the touch, her nose wants to run and she sniffles pathetically, trying not to pull away and not allowed to anyway, the CO saying coaxing words to the top of her tousled head whilst she splutters tearfully for minutes on end in her confused humiliation.
The library clock chimes the half-hour. Charlotte has tugged her tie straight and dabbed surreptitiously here and there at her crisp blouse. Her tongue peeps briefly between her lips and she makes a discreet little spitting sound, not letting the CO see her do it, her expression one of child-like distaste. At last, Charlotte is dismissed.
Outside her knickers are proffered to her by a work-grimed hand, and too overwhelmed by the events of the last hour she makes no objection to being assisted into them by the solicitous but over-tactile caretaker. Her tears drying on her face, Charlotte scampers along the passageway clutching her skirt. The caretaker clucks his tongue and slips his Brasso back into his overall. ‘Poor little bugger,’ he mutters. ‘Poor little bugger.’