From Blushes Supplement 27
A rather beat-up dirty-white Mini with a 20 year-old registration plate. It looks as if it has covered a few miles in that time. Not with its present driver at the wheel, though: she would seem to be no more than that age herself. Of medium height and with a well-fleshed figure, though these facts are at present hidden in a voluminous winter coat, she winds down the car’s window to look enquiringly out. The fresh, pretty face is framed in short, blonde, straightish hair, newly washed and sparkling. She does not seem too sure of her whereabouts on this dank and drizzly November afternoon. The road on the outskirts of the town is almost country, the houses set back and secluded. Ah, though... half-hidden where the enveloping foliage of a sodden evergreen swags across the gatepost is a small number plate. With a ‘43’ inscribed on it. This seems to be what she is looking for. The Mini is put into forward motion again. Turning sharply right between the gatepost and its mate into the gravel drive beyond.
It is one of those 1930s suburban properties, both the house and grounds substantial but, like the gateposts with their peeling off-white paint, left to go to seed somewhat. More wet, overgrown greenery — rhododendrons, laurels — crowds in upon the drive and at its end there is the house, paint peeling as at the gate. The day of course doesn’t help with this steady drizzle falling but it does have a gloomy, almost abandoned look. Not abandoned, though; a light can be seen in a downstairs window.
The Mini comes to a halt where the gravel widens at the side of the house. The car’s door opens and the young blonde driver gets out. Beneath the hem of her heavy coat the lower parts of shapely legs are in dark nylons which probably are nylons with those seams at the back. The legs end in shiny black high heels which, after a grimace from their owner at this nasty afternoon, commence to pick their way across the crunching wet stones. A moment’s hesitation and she rings the bell. It can be heard in the house, echoing in empty rooms perhaps. Possibly the place is empty after all. She glances round, at the wet day. Shivers. Then there are sounds. The door... is opening.
‘Uh... Buzee-Bee Agency. I’m Jill Maxby.’ She produces a charming, slightly shy smile.
The man smiles too. He is fiftyish with grey hair, informally dressed in slacks and sweater. His eyes are not smiling so much as eyeing her: the open, pretty face with its blonde halo shining in this dull day. And the heavy coat which is doing a good job of hiding most of this attractive visitor.
‘Yes. Of course. Come in. Come in. A nasty day.’ The door is closed on the Mini and the dank afternoon. ‘You’re... ah... new... aren’t you? I mean I certainly haven’t had you before. And I should have remembered such a pretty face.’
She smiles again and says yes. It is at least warmer inside here in the hallway, and looks quite presentable. Not an abandoned old place after all. She starts to unbutton the coat. ‘Yes, it is dreary. A bit foggy along the road. I...’
Yes, she is new. To the Buzee-Bee Agency. (Domestic help of all kinds. Your satisfaction assured.) This is her first assignment: Number 43 Meadowcroft Road; Mr Philpot. She has her coat off now, Mr Philpot’s hand outstretched for it. His sharp eyes have more to look at: a nice, well-filled out shape in a full-skirted, knee-length blue dress. Yes, nice. But then Buzee-Bee girls are nice, aren’t they? Nice-shaped and also nice too. The Buzee-Bee Agency’s clients are gentlemen — some ladies too of course — and they would not wish rough and common girls. Not tarts.
‘We’ll go through here,’ Mr Philpot says after his brief and apparently approving appraisal. Into a sitting room. He stands aside, letting the visitor go forward. A chance to observe her movement on the high heels, and of course her rear aspect. Very nice legs, and hips too it would seem. A lovely little sway, speaking of ripeness below the slim waist. Oh yes, very pleasant. And new too; that adds another, special dimension. Completely new?
‘Yes.’ The shy half-smile again. ‘I’m hoping to save some money for college. Next year.’ She is not therefore as old as the Mini sitting outside in the rain: Jill Maxby is in fact 18 and a half. She is keen and willing, though, and is sure she can cope with whatever Mr Philpot wants doing. Just because she is going to college doesn’t mean she thinks domestic work is beneath her. Jill’s bright, positive look is there to tell Mr Philpot this.
‘Good.’ He nods approvingly. ‘Well, I’ve got a number of things I’d like you to get on with. First, though, dress. I like to have a girl properly attired whilst she’s here. Smart. Did they mention that?’
Jill nods. Yes. ‘Mr Philpot likes girls to wear a uniform. His own uniform.’ Mrs James at the Agency smiling encouragingly. ‘It’s just... his little thing. No problem. You agree of course. Girls of course agree with whatever the client wishes. That is what they pay for.’
Did that mean anything? Jill had had a brief word with a couple of other girls but the trouble was they were brief. Girls were out on assignments, not hanging about in the Buzee-Bee office. She hadn’t been able to glean much. A non-committal shrug. A grin. From one girl: ‘You’re not a shrinking violet, are you?’ Giggling. ‘Buzee-Bee girls aren’t shrinking violets.’
Mr Philpot says ‘Good!’ again. He is sitting down in an easy chair. ‘Take that pretty dress off then please. Then we’ll see...’
Here? In front of Mr Philpot sitting in that chair? Yes, that is what he means. Mr Philpot has taken something from his pocket. A tape measure.
‘Shall I... uh... go somewhere to change?’ Jill can feel her colour rising but she has to say it. Perhaps he’ll say yes. He’s just not thinking, she tells herself. Mr Philpot, though, is fixing her with an ironic look.
‘Go somewhere? What is the point of that, young woman? I have to check it. And of course measure you.’ He shows her the tape measure, as if possibly she hasn’t seen it — or doesn’t know what it is. Jill has seen it all right. ‘Get the dress off, please. Standing right here.’ Indicating a spot a few feet in front of him. ‘Not somewhere else.’
Well that is clear enough. The blue eyes dart quickly round the room, as if there might be some route of escape. There is of course none. Unless she is going to march over to the window and climb out, into the cold dank afternoon. The door through which they have entered is shut and they are in this quite pleasant sitting room that possibly she is shortly going to be asked to hoover or something. But first of all... she has to take her dress off. No doubt this was why Mrs James had that look on her face. Knowing. ‘Girls agree with whatever the client wishes.’
There is no choice. Obviously. And perhaps... she is being silly. Mr Philpot wants her in his uniform. It is not a big deal. Just... do it. Her hands go to the buttons of the dress. All down the front. Mr Philpot is looking. Staring. Just don’t get excited... although she can feel little pin-pricks of perspiration. Just...
She has a white slip underneath. That has to come off too, Mr Philpot tells her, matter-of-factly. Then goes on to speak of the weather. The blue dress is on the other chair now. She desperately wants to run off, out. Turning and clattering over to the door on the high heels (‘High heels and nylons,’ Mrs James said. ‘Buzee-Bee girls are always smart’.) and yanking it open and then running click-clack-click out to her dear Mini. Spurting wet gravel as she accelerates off. But... you can’t do that. Not really. Be sensible. Hands... to the hem of the petticoat. And...
Mr Philpot’s eyes. As he fingers the tape measure. The taut dark rims of the nylons gripping midway up the thighs. Above, the pale flesh swells, unconstrained, spanned by the white straps of a trim suspender belt. Ah... And above that... the straps disappear into brief white knickers. French-knickers, lace-edged.
The petticoat on up. Over her blonde head. Her face flushed. Mr Philpot rising to his feet. This new Buzee-Bee now in bra and knickers, the dark nylons and shiny black shoes contrasting with the white and the pale skin tones. Her anxious eyes: the uniform? Oh yes — but first of all there is the tape. Something like this... cannot be rushed into. A uniform has to fit... like a glove. Necessitating measurements. Carefully, precisely taken. Mr Philpot’s hand on her arm. ‘Just stand still,’ he counsels. ‘Won’t be long. Relax.’
Won’t be long. Mr Philpot is seated again and he has taken her with him. So that she is standing close, between his spread thighs. Facing. Shivering. Not that it is cold in here. The measure is round her slim waist. Mr Philpot’s fingers. ‘Mmmm...’ he mouths. And then... both his hands sliding the tape down, to the ripest curve of her hips in the slinky knickers. The tape taut. His hands in front. In the centre. Where... she catches her breath. ‘Mmmmm...’ again. The hands are busy there, clearly it is an important measurement. ‘Hmmmm...’ this time. It seems to be causing Mr Philpot, this perfectionist of the tape measure, some problem. He desists. For the moment at least. The tape placed on the arm of his chair. He looks briefly up.
‘I think we need... mmmm... the knickers down.’
Before those words properly get through to her he has done it. Fingers either side of her flanks, in the brief lace-trimmed legs. And a sharp tug. A yelp from the Buzee-Bee. As her knickers are all at once down at her nylon tops. Another yelp... as she automatically grabs...
‘No!’ Mr Philpot’s sharp voice. ‘Leave them. I need them down. Just keep still. We want... this measurement.’ The tape measure is back round her rounded flanks again. Only this time they are nude. Mr Philpot’s hands, guiding the measure, are on her bare bottom. And then round. In front again. Where there is now that soft and downy light-brown bush on display. ‘Mmmm...’
The Buzee-Bee’s breath exhales in a panicky, whinnying sound. This is... not really possible. Her dress and petticoat off. Her knickers... down. And Mr Philpot’s hands... right there. Fiddling about with the tape but at the same time... accidentally perhaps — but no, it can’t be accidental — fiddling with... her pussy. His fingers... straying... right there. Right inside...
‘No...!’ she breathes.
‘Just... keep still,’ is Mr Philpot’s quiet advice. ‘Won’t... be long...’
She keeps still. Mrs James’ words: ‘...whatever the client wishes...’ That giggling laugh. ‘Buzee-Bee girls aren’t shrinking violets.’ Keeping still... more or less. Though everything seems to be shaking like a jelly. As Mr Philpot proceeds. With this most time-consuming of measurements. His fingers... but at last they come away. Her breath exhaling in a little squeal. It is over...?
No. The gruff voice, thick with some sort of emotion: ‘Now part the legs. So that I can...’ His hands pushing at her thighs... which reluctantly part. The shiny black courts stumbling apart. In the process indicating to their wearer that the wearer’s knees are turning to some sort of rubber-like substance. And could collapse completely at any moment. But the shoes are apart. Twelve inches... or so. So that the thighs above the lowered French knicks are parted too. So that Mr Philpot’s fingers can now draw the tape round just one pale thigh. At its very top. His hand... one hand... of course... goes right in. Between. Sliding in that warm tunnel. That moist and most intimate crevice. In amongst softly crisp curls. Which are there to protect the soft and tender lips. But those lips are not now protected. Not with the thighs apart and the knickers down. And this most assiduous of hands. Fingers... Carrying out their task... they slide right in. The unprotected lips are open. And the fingers are simply sliding in. As they carry out this apparently highly necessary task. This essential measurement.
The knees can’t take it. Not this. They are going to collapse. And the rest of her. All her bones have turned to something. Jelly. Her hand has gone out to the bending figure of the measurer. His shoulder. She has to. Because when everything has turned to jelly... she hears herself gasping. Squeaky gasps. She can’t stop this. What is happening. And Mr Philpot is not stopping it. The measurement... is going on. The fingers... in the slick wetness... have found... it. Her pink and throbbing centre. Her knees have gone. Bending. And two hands have now reached out to the shoulders. Otherwise... her gasps... are now rhythmic. Whimpering squeals. And her hips... they are moving. Everything is gone. Except her hips and her voice with its squealing gasps. Both rhythmic, the hips and the gasps in unison. The rhythm urgent, quickening. Until...
To be continued...