From Blushes 20
Anthea observed her nude body in the bathroom mirror with a critical eye. She made a face. Yes she definitely could lose a few pounds round her hips. She took a wedge of flesh at her waist between finger and thumb. Pinch an inch they said. Oh Christ!
Not that she was flabby, nothing like that. At 22 Anthea Ryder had what most men would consider a magnificent figure. Big, firmly-jutting boobs and a ripely rounded backside and as she was also quite tall she didn’t look fat. Yes, most men did consider it a magnificent figure — and some of them told her so. That was nice, any woman liked that. Anthea would smile a coy smile and say she was a happily married woman. And of course a faithful one. Well most of the time she was.
She made another face and pinched the offending flesh harder, bringing a sharp grimace. She wasn’t fit, she had to get fit. Or fitter at least.
That was what she said to Gavin a few minutes later in bed, now with her shorty nightie on. Gavin simply grunted and turned her over on her back and pushed her legs open and got on top of her. ‘Gavin!’ she hissed. Well, wasn’t there supposed to be something called foreplay. Up inside her, his mouth at her ear. ‘You’re fit for this, Anthea Ryder. You’re a super fuck.’
‘Don’t always be so crude,’ she hissed out. Though actually, although she would never admit it, Anthea found that sort of talk a bit of a turn-on when they did it. She thought of Bob Alford at the office. Mr Alford. She had let him do it three times in all before deciding she couldn’t stand the strain of an office affair. Six months ago. Now she’d got over the trauma it was another big turn-on thinking about it. They had done it one of the three times right here, in this bed. Anthea groaned. And came.
Two minutes later lying on her back next to Gavin she repeated what she had said before. ‘I’ve got to get fit.’ Adding, ‘I’m really in awful shape. I’m thinking of going to one of these places. A gym.’
She wasn’t going to tell Gavin the whole story. She couldn’t! About Mr Carling the new Head of Department at work. A fitness fanatic — or madman more like. Who today, at lunch time, had taken the whole typing pool, all six girls, and driven them out to the common and made them have a race. Take off their shoes and stockings or tights and run. A 100 yards he said it was though it had seemed more like 100 miles. Yelping and groaning they had nonetheless done it. Anthea had come in an ignominious last.
It had been just the most humiliating thing, the men at the end full of shaming remarks. The men who had included Bob Alford, second in command after Mr Carling, who six months earlier Anthea had had that short and torrid affair with.
The race had been bad enough but what was worse was that Mr Carling was going to have another in two weeks’ time. And he was going to time them this time and any who failed to make a certain grade would be in for some unstated but ‘very horrible’ penalty. Anthea’s time, he said, was certainly way outside the standard. He had slapped her across her rump. ‘Too much bum, I’m afraid, Anthea!’
Everyone naturally had laughed. Including that rat Mr Alford who that fantastic afternoon six months ago had screwed the daylights out of her right here, in this bed. Anthea’s hand slid over to Gavin. That was all in the past and fortunately Gavin knew nothing about it. This Mr Carling, though, and his fitness mania was something else.
Actually it was Bob Alford who had come up to Anthea in the afternoon, after he and all the others had had their laughs at her expense. With no one else in the office he had tried to put his arm round her but Anthea had angrily pushed him off. He grinned and then said he knew a gym where she could go. A chap who could get her really fit and then she could beat at least a couple of the other girls and not fall foul of whatever it was Mr Carling was planning.
Anthea had hesitated, not keen about accepting any help from Mr Alford. Since she stopped their affair he had several times tried to start something up again and had not seemed best pleased when rebuffed. But still — anything to avoid a repeat of that humiliation on the common. And also Anthea could do with getting herself in better shape. There were the summer holidays coming up and you didn’t want to be bulging out of your bikini.
So Anthea had rung this place up and got an appointment for tomorrow morning; Saturday. She told Gavin this but he didn’t seem all that interested. He had screwed her and now all he wanted was to get to sleep. That was typical. Mildly annoyed she dug him in the ribs.
It was in the next town, eight miles away, a private house in a residential area. Mr Kirby his name was. Quite a good-looking bloke as it turned out: big but fit-looking. He said ‘Hello, Mrs Ryder, yes?’ and led her in, through to a room at the back. A largish room with all the equipment. He looked at her and smiled. Fleetingly Anthea found herself wondering what he would be like in bed. She coloured slightly.
‘Right, Mrs Ryder, strip off. Let’s see the meat, shall we?’
The colour in Anthea’s cheeks deepened. That was not exactly a nice way to refer to an attractive woman’s body.
‘Come on, let’s see it.’ His voice harder and his hand suddenly came out and slapped Anthea’s blue-jeaned flank. ‘Looks like your problem is too much bum, eh? And those thighs look pretty meaty as well.’
It was almost as if he was trying to be rude and objectionable. Anthea felt a reluctance to strip off — especially in view of what she had on under her jeans and top. A very abbreviated black swimsuit. Very revealing and what there was of it extremely tight-fitting with those extra pounds she’d got from somewhere. She wasn’t sure why she had put it on now — except perhaps some vague idea of looking glamorous.
‘Come on!’ Mr Kirby’s voice sharp. ‘Show your stuff. Don’t mess about.’
Anthea decided she didn’t like him at all and the thought came that Bob Alford might have deliberately suggested someone unpleasant. She half felt like saying she was leaving. Going straight out to her car again.
‘Come on. Or I’ll have you over my lap and give that bum a good walloping.’
‘Look!’ she said angrily.
‘No you look,’ he rasped. ‘Or else.’
‘Or else what?’ She made it sound aggressive but she all at once had a funny feeling in her stomach.
He put his face close to hers. ‘Or I might tell Mr Ryder a few things. Dear wifey having a few little fucks on the side. Something like that.’
Her heart was suddenly pounding and she gave a yelp as his hand came up and squeezed one boob. She struggled away. That rat Alford. ‘I...I don’t know what you’re... talking about,’ she stuttered weakly.
‘Oh no? I’ve got chapter and verse on you, my girl, so just you do exactly as I say. Now get those bloody clothes off.’
Anthea’s hands went to the waist of her jeans. Christ! She was shivering all over. The sick-making thought that this dreadful person knew. Gavin would kill her. Divorce her. Probably both. She struggled down the tight jeans, then sat on the bench to take them off. What was she going to do?
The jeans came on down, exposing her flesh. She slipped off her high heels and then the jeans. This dreadful Kirby telling her to put the heels back on. And get moving.
Standing she pulled up the pink top, conscious again of the skimpy covering underneath. Why had she worn this swimsuit? But of course she had had no idea there would be this awful Kirby, she had vaguely imagined some pleasant person, perhaps flirtatious, admiring, but respectful. Not... she gasped as Kirby grabbed her half-bare bottom.
‘A saucy outfit, Mrs Ryder, did you hope perhaps you might get fucked again?’
The hand gave her a shove towards the work-out bench. ‘Well you’re not going to get fucked. You’re going to get that fat bum thrashed for starters. And then we’ll make you sweat as you’ve never sweated before.’
Was he some kind of madman? It was a nightmare. His hands at her, grabbing and pinching, making her get up on the bench. To kneel with her head and arms down on the padded top. Her skimpily covered bottom up in the air. Then his hands at that ripely thrust-up rump... were yanking at the cut-away suit. Yanking it into the cleft of her bottom, to completely bare the cheeks. Squealing, gasping sounds of protest as he did it but there was no way Anthea could stop him. Not in the position she was in. She gasped again as his awful hands ran over her now nude bottom. Then a gasped ‘Oooofff!’ as the first stinging smack came down.
He just kept on. Slamming his hard palm down. His other hand holding her firm and making sure the elasticated material of her swimsuit stayed tight in the cleft of her bottom, while his right hand kept on. Smack!... ‘Oooouuuwww!‘... Splat!... ‘Ooouuuwkkk!‘... Each flesh-juddering smack punctuated by a sharply frantic yelp from Anthea.
All over. Every inch of Anthea’s bountiful bottom and the backs of the full thighs, systematically given the treatment. Pale flesh rendered bright red. And, when it had all been covered, going over it all again.
It was unbelievable, as if she had walked into a nightmare. Her bottom, her whole up-ended body, writhing, rolling, jerking under the savage assault. Perhaps it was a dreadful dream and she would wake up and it would then be over...
But of course it wasn’t. When it was finally over. Mr Kirby possibly at last exhausted by his efforts, Anthea was still there. Still in that room with the weights and apparatus with her swimsuit yanked humiliatingly up into the crack of her bum. Her poor beaten bum angrily red and killing her. And yes Mr Kirby was there too. Telling her in that grating voice to get up.
Could she get up? Would her legs support her after that earth-shattering ordeal? They didn’t want to. Anthea stumbled, holding onto the bar weights for support.
‘How was that?’ asked Mr Kirby, his face possibly a little pink. ‘A nice little warm-up? Now we get you really going. I want to see you drenching in sweat.’
High heels off and running on the spot until Anthea literally collapsed. She collapsed but Mr Kirby dragged her to her feet again. ‘Come on, we can’t have slacking. That’s not the way to get fit.’
Deep-knee bends and stretches. Toe-touching. Her back, the backs of her legs, burning. Up on that diabolical bench again, now on her back, holding her rump up, cycling her legs in the air. More muscles, sinews, discovered that it seemed had never been used before and now forced into agonising action. Then running again...
‘I... can’t... do... any more...’ But in spite of the piteous wails, she could do that little bit more. When now Mr Kirby produced a whippy cane and whipped the whippy cane in across her arm, her thigh, her bare buttocks.
‘How did it go?’
Gavin got no answer as Anthea ran straight upstairs into the bathroom. To lock the door and burst into tears. Because it wasn’t over of course. Oh no. Right now Anthea couldn’t care if she came last when Mr Carling made them go out on that bloody common again, and she couldn’t care if she never got fit. But she didn’t have any choice, she had to go back there again on Monday after work.
‘I... don’t... want to,’ she had ventured when at the end of that shattering session Mr Kirby had told her that. He simply grabbed her arm and twisted it and rasped. ‘You be here — or you know what’ll happen.’
So yes, Anthea was going again on Monday after work. Although the prospect made her want to throw up.
On Monday morning of course there was rat-fink Alford sidling over to her desk when things were quiet, a broad grin on his face. Asking innocently, ‘Did you get on all right?’
‘You bastard!’ she spat.
He grinned even more. ‘Don’t be like that, Anthea dear. You wanted to get fit and I’m sure Ron Kirby’ll do the trick. I bet he had you really sweating, eh?’
‘You bastard!’ she hissed again. For two pins she could have burst into tears.
No she had no choice. At 6 o’ clock she was there, back at that house again. Gavin would be getting his supper late but that was just hard luck. He had grumbled of course when she told him. Maybe she should have told him the whole story. No, maybe not, she couldn’t face that.
So it was Mr Kirby again. This time he said just strip down to her undies. It was even worse than before if that was possible because this time instead of spanking her he used that cane. Making her kneel on the bench as before but this time taking her knickers down and slicing the cane into her bare bottom.
The pain of that cane... was indescribable...
Two weeks. Mr Kirby made her come round every other day for two weeks, right up until that next outing on the common. Each session as bad as the last. Mr Kirby it seemed trying to kill her. Was Anthea fitter, after all this torture? She didn’t feel fitter, she simply felt knocked out by it all. She must be fitter, though, Anthea told herself. Something must have come out of all that nightmare.
On the common again. The girls complainingly taking off shoes, stockings, tights. The men laughing and joking as before. Mr Alford laughing, ‘Watch out for Anthea, she’s been doing a lot of training.’
But so had the other two slower girls — tipped off by Alford. And so although Anthea was faster she still came in some way behind the others. Mr Carling with his stopwatch announced that her time was not good enough. She had failed the test.
Somehow Anthea kept back the tears.
But Mr Carling’s ‘very horrible’ penalty. Had he just said that as a threat? No he hadn’t. The next day, after lunch, he and Bob Alford came in to Anthea. She was having the afternoon off. They were going round to Mr Carling’s place.
A number of other men were there, some of them from the company and also Mr Kirby. All with expectant grins on their faces. There was also a girl, or rather woman, thirtyish, in a track suit.
‘This is Helga,’ said Mr Carling. ’She does a bit of wrestling, don’t you, Helga. She’s going to wrestle you, Anthea dear.’
Helga smiled and took off her track suit to reveal a trim but muscular shape in a pink leotard. Anthea, said Mr Carling, was going to wrestle in the nude.
She screamed that she wouldn’t, there was no way she was going to provide this spectacle for these grinning men. Mr Carling said quietly, ‘But you will, Anthea dear. Bob here tells me you will.’ Bob Alford gave a sickly sort of grin.
They all went outside, into Mr Carling’s secluded garden, on the lawn. Anthea was made to strip off. Everything. Whoops and whistles from the men as they formed a circle around the two girls. Before Anthea knew it, Helga was at her. Helga with her taut body and tight features who could very easily be a dyke, grabbing Anthea and expertly throwing her heavily to the ground.
Anthea with the breath knocked out of her and hurting from the fall, with grinning Helga sitting on her shoulders. Helga pulling Anthea’s legs up, forcing them wide. Anthea looking up at the circle of excited faces, then gasping as someone emptied a bucket of cold water between her spread legs.
Hoots of manic laughter.