The dark-haired one said, ‘I bet poor old Harry can hardly get a stroke of work out of you in the mornings. I bet you come into the office so bleary-eyed you can hardly see!’ He gave a raucous laugh and took a gulp of his beer.
The laugh was taken up by the bald-headed one with glasses. ‘Unable to lift a finger to the typewriter, I bet! Knocked out — thoroughly shagged and thoroughly shagged out.’ Under the table his hand briefly squeezed Julie’s thigh.
Mr Bellwood, who sat opposite, had to put in his bit. ‘It’s true, I know from when my secretary, Sally, got married. Apparently they would start right at it as soon as they got home after work. Right away he’d be on top of her. Poor Sally didn’t even have time to cook a meal. She could hardly stand up when she got in the office in the morning. Fantastic!’
The dark-haired one, who she thought was called Mr Easton, chortled, ‘Let’s see if Julie can stand up straight. Come on, Julie, get up on your feet.’
At last Mr Kirtley, Julie’s boss, came to her rescue — perhaps because he could see she was very close to tears. ‘Come on, you chaps; lay off. Give the girl a break. We all know that when a girl gets married she spends a lot of time doing you-know-what but there’s no call to try and embarrass her. My Julie’s carrying out her duties very adequately.’
He put his arm round Julie who was biting her lip and beginning to tremble. Mr Bellwood, not keen to relinquish such a tasty subject, said, ‘What duties? Don’t tell me you’ve been testing out her abilities, Harry! And I bet with that figure she’s really fantastic.’
Julie’s friend Elaine had warned her that something of this sort could happen. ‘They always do it when a girl gets married,’ she had said, ‘especially the older blokes. It seems to really turn them on to talk about it knowing you’ll be embarrassed. But if you’re just a lowly typist there’s not a lot you can do about it.’ So Julie had been ready for something but nothing at all like the way they were now carrying on.
It was the Friday of her first week at Rackham Plastics and Mr Kirtley had taken her to the Cat and Fiddle for a lunchtime drink — together with these three other dreadful characters. She hardly knew who they were except that they also worked at Rackhams. Julie had started there as a secretary to Mr Kirtley right after her honeymoon. If only she could have kept that quiet, but of course Mr Kirtley knew she was newly married. And of course he told everyone. ‘This is Julie. Julie Gardner. Not a day over 19 and fresh from her honeymoon. Isn’t she scrumptious!’ That sort of thing could make you squirm but it was bearable whereas the way they had started on at her as soon as they were sitting in that cosy corner in the pub was quite simply dreadful.
Julie was scrumptious. Quite a tall girl at 5’8” and with a lovely figure: firm high boobs and full rounded buttocks and slim waist and long model’s legs. She was also very pretty with big green-blue eyes and shoulder-length soft blonde hair. That face with its wide eyes and full soft mouth spoke of girlish innocence and this contrasted with the ripely sensuous figure made the thought that, as a newly married girl she was presumably getting humped every night, especially salacious.
Mr Kirtley had got up to get more drinks and that gave the others another chance to start off again. Mr Bellwood, his face sweating, asked, ‘Doesn’t it get sore? I mean if that part of you’s not been in use before and then suddenly it’s having to cope with all this action...’
Julie felt herself start to tremble again. Bald-headed Mr Haldick, his hand on her thigh again, said, ‘No, a girl’s thing’s made to withstand the action. That’s what it’s for, remember. Isn’t it, Julie...?’
Back at the office Julie gasped, ‘Those men were absolutely hateful, just dreadful. I don’t ever want any more lunchtime drinks with that lot.’ She was very close to tears.
Mr Kirtley had put his arm sympathetically round Julie’s waist. He pulled her to him, facing, with both arms round her and made sympathetic noises. Mr Kirtley was about 45 and still quite young-looking. He was very friendly — he had told her to call him Harry but Julie didn’t like to. In a way, of course, he was too friendly, he was now softly stroking her back, caressing the warm flesh through the thin blouse, fingers investigating the narrow bra strap.
‘Don’t let them worry you, they like to josh a girl, that’s all; and it’s only because you get them so excited, especially being just married. You really do have the most super boobs, you know, Julie.’
Julie wished he wouldn’t say things like that, although it wasn’t anything like as bad as the others had been saying. She also didn’t like what he was now doing which was stroking one of her big firm boobs. Stroking and gently squeezing it.
‘Please don’t,’ she said, but Mr Kirtley only said, ‘Don’t be silly, you know you like having them stroked,’ and went on doing it.
On her very first day he had started on about Julie’s boobs. ‘They’re really super,’ he had said, and ‘I bet they like being stroked.’ Julie hadn’t answered and had got on with her typing but her face had gone bright red. Then when it was time to go home he had helped her on with her coat and in the process had got his hand properly on one of them. Perhaps she should have taken a strong line at that point but it was her first day and she didn’t want to antagonise him, as she and Ian really needed her to have the job. So she had got all embarrassed but that was all.
He had kept his hand on it for some time. It certainly wasn’t one of those quick ‘accidental’ feels that men sometimes give you. And then he had said. ‘I bet that new husband of yours is playing with them all the time. When he’s not doing something else, that is.’
Yes Mr Kirtley had also started alluding to that as well, though nothing like as bad as those others in the pub.
On her second morning Mr Kirtley had helped Julie off with her coat and had another feel, this time two hands on both boobs. ‘Not too tiring a night, I hope?’ he asked, smiling. Julie of course knew what he was referring to and didn’t answer. ‘Once or twice?’ he wanted to know. ‘Although I know that newly-weds can want to do it more than that.’
Again she should probably have said: Look, I don’t think I should have to discuss that sort of thing. But Julie hadn’t. She had got all flushed and flustered, not answering, and in fact Mr Kirtley hadn’t pressed her further. She had moved away to go to her desk and Mr Kirtley had slid his hands briefly over her buttocks.
And that was how the week had gone. The work was all right, quite interesting, but Mr Kirtley did make those remarks quite frequently and he did like to slide his hands onto Julie’s boobs and bottom. She didn’t enjoy it at all but there wasn’t really a lot she could do. She knew girls could get a certain amount of feeling up in an office, ‘sexual harassment’ they called it and if you didn’t like it, well a boss could probably find someone else who would put up with it.
It was halfway through the week that Mr Kirtley first referred to spanking. Up till then his remarks had related to sex: intercourse. Mostly how often did she and Ian do it. He had finally got her to admit that they did it virtually every night. Julie didn’t want to admit to doing it more than once a night although of course they sometimes did.
Julie said ‘What’ and Mr Kirtley said, ‘You know. Taking your knickers down and smacking your bottom. Young wives frequently get that from their husbands if they’re not quite up to the mark in something. Didn’t you get it at school?’
Julie, colouring, said No. Mr Kirtley asked if she had had any men teachers and she said she had.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I bet they were just dying to slip your knickers down and get at that lovely bottom. Of course girls can get it in an office too, you know.’
His hand had reached behind Julie and squeezed her bottom. ‘You wouldn’t mind that, would you, my dear?’ he asked. ‘If I had a complaint about your work?’
Julie squirmed away, unhappy with the hand groping her bottom. She assumed he must be joking, but the thought of it made her go all hot and cold. She assumed it was a joke but later, when it was time to go home and he got her coat for her and did his usual bit of groping, Mr Kirtley said, ‘You wouldn’t mind, would you, Julie? Having your bottom spanked I mean.’
Flushing, Julie said, ‘Yes I would.’
Mr Kirtley laughed. ‘Well we’ll have to wait and see about that.’
Julie still thought he was joking but she happened to mention it to Elaine when she saw her that evening. Elaine made a face. ‘He might not be. Angela Collins gets her bottom spanked by her boss. She told me. He said: ‘Don’t be silly, it won’t hurt; and if you don’t like it I’ll have to get someone else who doesn’t mind. Your typing speed isn’t all that marvellous, you know’
Angela was a pretty brunette, a year older than Julie and also married. Elaine added, ‘He takes her knickers down.’ Julie felt suddenly weak at the knees; it was too awful to contemplate.
But Mr Kirtley didn’t mention bottom smacking at all on Thursday and Julie decided it was a joke and he had forgotten it. He didn’t mention it on Friday morning either and then at lunchtime there was that awful, awful time at the pub with Mr Kirtley’s colleagues. At 3 o’clock when Julie brought Mr Kirtley his tea he said, ‘They are really taken with you, Julie. They’d like you to go with them for a drink on a regular basis.’
Julie, who hadn’t been able to get that horrible experience out of her head, gasped, ‘No! No way!’
‘Well I like to oblige my colleagues,’ said Mr Kirtley. ‘I don’t see why you shouldn’t.’
‘No! Please!’ Julie yelped. ‘They... they’re just hateful.’
Mr Kirtley gave her a funny look. ‘I don’t know,’ he said slowly. He paused. ‘Look, I tell you what. I’ve been thinking — one or two things in your performance could be improved; nothing serious but a few little things you need taking to task about. So I tell you what: you let me smack that pretty bottom for those little shortcomings, and then I’ll tell those fellows that I’m afraid you’re always busy at lunchtime.
‘No!’ she yelped.
Mr Kirtley said, ‘Well you think it over Julie. I don’t think I’m being unreasonable. It’s not unreasonable to ask you to accompany colleagues for a drink at lunchtime, and it’s not unreasonable to suggest you accept a little friendly discipline in your work. There are plenty of girls looking for jobs at the moment, you know.’
It was a bombshell. How could Mr Kirtley be so awful? He had been doing his groping and making his remarks about sex and Julie had reluctantly made herself accept that. But this! And he probably meant it. The thought came to her that quite possibly he had taken her to the pub with those characters just to use as a threat for this other thing. Spanking her bottom. She recalled Elaine’s words: Angela’s boss takes her knickers down. Julie felt herself sweating.
Somehow she got through the rest of the afternoon — without Mr Kirtley referring again to his ultimatum. At 5 o’clock he got her coat. Julie was trembling all over. His hand slid over her boobs as usual. ‘Well?’ he asked.
Numbly she shook her head.
Mr Kirtley laughed. ‘There’s the weekend to think about it. But I shall want an answer on Monday.’ His hand briefly groped at her bottom. Then he produced a parcel in brightly coloured paper tied with ribbon. ‘A little present,’ he said.
When she got home Julie locked herself in the bathroom and opened it. The parcel contained two sexy suspender belts, one black, the other pale blue; plus four pairs of sheer seamed nylons. There was a note in Mr Kirtley’s handwriting: So much more interesting than tights. Please wear on Monday.
Julie of course normally wore tights. She felt a bit sick. Then Ian was knocking at the door. ‘Hey; what’re you doing?’ She hurriedly hid the parcel in a cupboard and opened the door.
Ian at once made it clear what he wanted, which was to have sex. A couple of times that week they had done it right after work just like those awful men had said. It was Ian who wanted it, just like now, and he could normally very soon get Julie aroused and ready. Even so she felt it wasn’t quite proper to be so desperate to do it right away and would have preferred to wait at least until after she’d made their evening meal. When she said that Ian just laughed and started taking her clothes off, which was what he did now.
Julie was very tense, due of course to Mr Kirtley. Doing it, she knew, would probably relax her but at the same time she was annoyed at Ian for just grabbing her like that. She struggled, and a button on her blouse burst off. That button somehow seemed the last straw. ‘No!’ she blurted, ‘I don’t want to,’ tears starting in her eyes. But Ian got angry and said he was going to make her. And he did just that, dragging her into the bedroom and onto the bed. That was really horrible.
Obviously it was all Mr Kirtley’s fault and they had made it up by bedtime. Julie was still thinking of Mr Kirtley, though, this time she co-operated with Ian. Monday morning. If he meant it she would have to say yes. Her mind insisted on picturing it. Over Mr Kirtley’s lap; her skirt up and... her knickers down? Ian on top of her was making groaning sounds of pleasure. Ian of course knew nothing of her problems with Mr Kirtley. She had simply told Ian that her boss was quite nice.
Monday morning. The alarm went off but Julie had already been lying awake in bed. Thinking about what was to come. She got up and went in the bathroom, then when Ian was in there she got dressed. Under her skirt she put on the suspender belt. The blue one, with a pair of pale blue knickers. Lying awake she had told herself she wouldn’t wear it, she would put on her tights as usual and if Mr Kirtley said anything she would just tell him she wasn’t going to. That was what she had told herself, but then...
Trembling hands pulled the nylons taut and fastened the suspender clasps. Hot-faced, Julie flipped her skirt down as Ian came in the bedroom. She didn’t know what she would say if he discovered she had them on — as he so easily could. But he didn’t. He dropped her off at her office, giving her a quick kiss. His hand mounded her boob through the light coat. Like Mr Kirtley’s hand...
Mr Kirtley’s hands took off the coat and hung it up, then came back to stroke Julie’s boobs. She had on a pink-and-blue blouse and her full dark blue skirt. She thought: I should have worn a straight skirt; as Mr Kirtley pulled her close. ‘Now then,’ he murmured. His hand on her bottom, through the skirt. And then down, exploring... ‘Ah...’
Julie yelped as the hand pulled her skirt up at the back, then gasped as his other hand slid onto the backs of her warm bare thighs above the stocking tops. She gasped but didn’t pull away, a rabbit caught by a weasel. The hand caressed, exploring the taut nylons’ rims, the suspender straps. His voice softly caressing, ‘Good girl, Julie. Mmm... what lovely thighs...’ It was awful, she was trembling like a leaf. But it was only the nylons, not the other thing. Perhaps...
That persuasive voice, ‘And the other little thing, Julie? That other matter?’
She shook her head wildly. ‘No... you can’t...’ he squeezed her bottom, then let go of her. ‘Lunchtime,’ he said.
At lunchtime he got Julie’s coat. ‘We’ll have a little drink at my place,’ he said. ‘And... you know...’ Julie looked, hot-eyed. ‘Unless of course you’d rather go to the pub with that other lot.’
There was not surprisingly no one in, no sign of Mrs Kirtley, when they got there. Mr Kirtley asked, ‘Would you like a drink first?’ Numb, Julie shook her head. A drink would make her sick. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Then let’s get on with it. Slip your knickers down.’
They were in his lounge, an ordinary looking room with a sofa and chairs, pictures on the walls; all the normal things. Standing in this ordinary room it didn’t seem possible for him to be saying that. Julie felt sick even though she hadn’t had the drink.
Mr Kirtley moved forward. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let me do it.’ It was like a dream — or a nightmare; it couldn’t be actually happening. Mr Kirtley’s arms round her, grabbing up the full blue skirt, then scrabbling at her knickers, dragging them down. And then backing onto a chair. She was over his lap, head down, skirt up round her waist; the pale blue knickers down round the tight rims of the tautly suspendered stockings.
Mr Kirtley’s hand fondling, caressing, the bare ripe peach of her bottom. And then smacking. His hand splatting in onto the jelly-like globes. Pistol-like cracks, each producing a jiggling wobble, each drawing forth from the lowered head a gurgling groan.
It hurt, sharply stinging smacks which coalesced into a dull aching pain, but at the same time there was a feeling of unreality, as if in spite of that stinging ache in her bottom it was happening to someone else. That feeling of light-headedness, dizziness, persisted as vaguely Julie was aware of her knickers being drawn on down, and off. Mr Kirtley’s face, red and smiling, and his hand with a glass. Cool white wine that didn’t make her feel sick. She seemed to be drinking two or three and afterwards things became even more vague. Was she with Ian? On their sofa where once or twice they had done it right after getting home from work? Or... it couldn’t be... because... someone — it must be Ian — was saying breathlessly, ‘Is this nice?’ and Julie heard her own voice answer, equally breathless. ‘Yes... yes... Oooh yes!’
Afterwards she didn’t feel very well and Mr Kirtley said why didn’t she take the afternoon off. He drove her home which was nice of him.
Gradually her head cleared. She wandered distractedly around, not knowing what to do with herself. She was sitting on the sofa when Ian got back. Their sofa — whereas if she thought about it Julie knew that at lunchtime it had been Mr Kirtley’s sofa. But she didn’t want to think about it. Ian said, ‘Hey, you’re back early!’
Sitting down with her on the sofa he very soon discovered the nylons and suspender belt. ‘Hey!’ Julie heard herself say, ‘I... uh... just thought I’d get them.’ Ian pulled her skirt up and got very excited.
Very soon they were doing it on the sofa; Ian hot and eager, Julie responding, automatically, not fighting it, simply letting it happen. She tried to shut it out but her thoughts kept insisting on returning to that other sofa at lunchtime. Mr Kirtley. Yes, she knew it was Mr Kirtley’s voice saying ‘Is this nice?’ And her own voice responding. ‘Yes... yes... Ooooh yes...’ She knew it although it seemed impossible. It was impossible but she was going to have to be there again, at the office, at 9 tomorrow. Mr Kirtley, when he had dropped her off, his hand briefly under her skirt at a suspender strap, had said, ‘Wear the black one tomorrow.’