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Tuesday, 7 February 2017

Bath Time

A Green Gables story from Blushes 25
It is Sunday morning and it is Rachel’s bath-time.
Since Rachel bathes every morning and every evening it always seems to be bath-time.
Anyway, Rachel is in the bath. Well, no longer quite in it so much as standing calf-deep in the water whilst Mr Collins dabbles about in the fragrant bubbles trying to find the soap. Her cheeks a pretty embarrassment-pink, Rachel looks down warily at the top of Mr Collins’ head, which has a pale bald spot at the crown, lifting one foot then the other, trying to be helpful and even feeling about with her toes for the vagrant tablet of Palmolive, which as Mr Collins has muttered several times, she should not have dropped in the first place. Mr Collins straightens up; one of his rolled-up sleeves is no longer rolled-up, and the cuff has draggled in the bathwater and drips onto his shoes. His dog collar has lost its starched crispness from being steamed over the bath and now limply cradles his double chin; his black vest stock is water-splashed and his face is lost-patience red with highlights of cross-patch crimson in the cheeks.
‘Stupid girl,’ says Mr Collins. Rachel begins to protest timidly that she couldn’t help it but the reverend gentleman’s eyes have lighted upon the plumped-out sideways aspect of the girl’s damp bottom cheeks. He glares at their rounded impudence for a moment, then delivers, suddenly, a solid spank to the nearer cheek which is all frustration and irritation, and the more heftily delivered because of it.
Rachel squeals and swerves her bottom away, hands deserting their duties of concealing wet-curled pubes and stiff-nippled breasts to protect her bottom from that second slap which Mr Collins’ piqued expression would appear to be promising. Mr Collins’ wet-sleeved arm draws back and, with considerable presence of mind, Rachel sits down upon the instant, the vulnerability of her naked bottom the spur to such impetuous action.
The precipitate arrival of Rachel’s bottom in the half-filled bath initiates a predictable reaction; much of the bath-water exits with marked alacrity and a fair proportion of it descends upon Mr Collins’ clerical grey trousers. Too late, Mr Collins steps back; appalled by the disastrous, if accidental, effect her plonking into the bath has had upon the reverend’s apparel, Rachel squeaks in a panic-stricken kind of way and folds herself up like a pen-knife, knees cuddled tight to her chest by one arm while the other hand flies to her open mouth. Her eyes grow bigger by the moment as she is obliged to confront the prospect of the dire retribution which this development will undoubtedly prompt Mr Collins to wreak upon her presently under-water bottom.
Mr Collins stares aghast at his sopping trousers; he does this for a long time, so long indeed that Rachel is startled into a bleat of fright when he at last looks up.
‘You thoughtless, brainless, clumsy, addle-headed —!’
Rachel hides her eyes behind both her hands, until Mr Collins runs out of adjectives and emits a series of ‘Hhmmmppphs!’ which increase in vehemence with each explosion of breath.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry —’ she peeps out between her fingers; ‘—oh, really, really I didn’t mean it. I didn’t —’
‘Stand up, Rachel. Stand up this instant!’
Rachel, who is acutely conscious of what part of her it is that will thus be made available for instant retribution remains resolutely, though nervously, seated. She shakes her head vigorously, her hair brushing across her face with each shake, her mouth open in the aftermath of astonishment until a strand of hair flicks inside and she splutters it out.
‘Stand up girl! Up, right now, d’you hear —!’ Rachel will not stand up. Her head-shaking slows and then stops, her eyes widen moment to moment, but she will not, not, not stand up, knowing what will happen to her bottom if she does.
The irate Mr Collins, feeling undignified in his wet clothes and aware of the pressure of time if he isn’t to be late for the morning service, thwarted by Rachel’s refusal to stand up to be smacked and with nothing to vent this irritation on due to the inaccessibility of Rachel’s spankable bits, ‘Hmmphs!’ loudly several times and flings open the bathroom door; he squelches across the landing, temporarily out-manoeuvred but by no means out-generalled.
It is Sunday evening, and it’s Rachel’s bath-time. Rachel, who has been ready for her bath since a quarter to eight, has been made to wait until now, half-past eight, on the chilly landing half-way up the old house’s two flights of stairs. Her bottom, which is bare, is goose-pimply and her tits, also quite bare, are tipped by little pink nipples which have been at attention the whole time. Rachel has been crying.
Rachel’s bum is warm to the touch, goose-pimples not withstanding; the warmth stems from the several dozen smacks it has come in for during the long wait, with Mr Collins labouring up the stairs a number of times, first with the big old tin bath from the garage, which clanged against the banisters at every step, then with buckets of hot water from the bathroom, and slapping Rachel’s plump little bottom spitefully each time he has descended, wheezing, from the top floor room where he has organised Rachel’s bath-time for this evening. Rachel’s bottom, then, is already quite reddened from these passing spanks; this has had something to do with why she has been crying. The redness of her face too, bears witness to the other reason for her crying; this is the hot blush of humiliation which she has had to suffer as three people, two of whom she doesn’t know and one she does, Mr Stanfield, and him only from his visit to the house to see Mr Collins a few weeks ago; have trooped up the stairs, necessarily passing her at her station on the landing, absolutely naked and warned severely about the consequences should she dare to relinquish her hold on the banisters above her head.
So, stretched up, and with her bare bottom on unwilling display and vulnerable to the little pats and squeezes it has suffered at the hands of Mr Collins’ visitors in their passing, Rachel has spent three-quarters of an hour dreading this moment, as she comes up to the last of the top flight of stairs and is face to face with Mr Stanfield and his friends.
Two stairs behind her, Mr Collins is ideally placed to slap Rachel’s saucy bottom, hard, as she hesitates at the head of the stairs. She squeals and forgets that her hands are trying to hide the various little places which the visitors’ eyes have already sought out as she came into view; with both hands clutching her bum, Rachel is propelled into the room by another stinging slap across the back of her legs, arriving in the middle of the room with fresh tears beginning to stream down her flushed cheeks, breasts bobbing as she stumbles through the door and eyes wide as she looks in turn at the faces of the three men who have come to watch her humiliation.
Her hands go to the soft little pubic mound which all eyes have at least glanced at, but a fourth slap from behind makes her gasp and put her hands on her head the instant she is told to do so.
The part-filled galvanised iron bath sits on the floor with a rubber sheet under it. There is a bar of yellow soap, there is a scrubbing brush, and, worst of all, there is Mr Collins’ narrow leather strap, all laid out neatly and ready for use.
‘Into the bath’ says Mr Collins. ‘We’ll get on with it, shall we.’
It is Sunday evening, and it’s Rachel’s bed-time. Actually, it is somewhat past her bed-time, but that’s because bath-time was so protracted an event. The tin bath has been moved aside, though the rubber sheet, awash with spilt bath-water, is still on the floor. There are wet footprints everywhere, some those of bare feet, others the prints of shoes. Rachel is standing straddle-legged on the sheet, legs wide apart, hands on her head, wet hair falling slickly across her face as her head droops forward wearily. Around her central figure are grouped Mr Collins’ visitors, talking quietly amongst themselves while their host is out of the room fetching Rachel’s pyjamas, with many a glance at the object of their discussion, and, indeed, not a few guarded chuckles.
Evidence of the vigorous employment of the scrubbing brush glows from wherever its stiff bristles have been brought into contact with soft girlish skin. The insides of Rachel’s thighs, from her knees to the apex of her legs, are a suffused tender-looking pink, as are the backs of her legs, from calves to the out-thrust of her bottom. Her bottom, too, has undoubtedly been well-scrubbed, there being a warm crimson bloom across and around each chubby bum-cheek. This sore-seeming blush is overlaid by the marks which Mr Collins’ strap has left, a dozen or more of which curve around and under the girl’s plumped-out buttocks, the unevenness of them hinting at the likelihood that this young lady’s bottom must have offered an agitated and mobile target when that strap was being applied. There is a moment’s cessation to the three men’s hushed conversation, with a snotty sniffle from Rachel to fill the gap. She isn’t really listening, being much too concerned with her bum and the stinging of it, and the scrubbed-clean bits of her, but she does catch a little of what is said when the talk resumes.
‘— candidate for the summer term, eh?’
‘Hmmm. Don’t think we’d have the nerve actually to charge Harry the fees though, eh? Not considering the girl’s — er — potential.’
There is muted laughter, then some discussion of Rachel herself.
‘— not too sure about that. Got an idea they might be distantly related; sort of second uncle, or something; that’s if you can be a second uncle.’
‘— old enough, anyway. What is she, exactly, Archie?’
‘Ah — nineteen in seven months’ time. So she’s eighteen and a half —’
Rachel recognises the sound of the creaky stair at the top of the first flight. Mr Collins with her pyjamas. She straightens up a bit, head higher, leg muscles taut, bottom pushed out perkily, tits lifting themselves tight as she keeps her hands on her head and pulls her shoulders back. She catches the sound of Mr Collins’ footsteps on the top flight; the last thing she hears the visitors say has a familiar ring to it. She’s heard it mentioned somewhere before — quite recently.
Something to do with Mr Stanfield; ‘Green Gables’ —

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