From Blushes Supplement 9
It was perhaps an unusual sight. No, not perhaps; it was definitely an unusual sight. Harry Ainsworth’s eyes opened wide. The girl who had entered Mr Murgatroyd’s oak-panelled study was in football kit of cherry-red shirt and white shorts. The shirt, round-necked and short-sleeved had clearly nothing underneath except the girl. No bra certainly. Two firm good-sized breasts stretched the cherry-red front, a pair of seemingly erect nipples at their peaks. And below, the abbreviated white shorts were equally skin-tight over rounded flanks and equally clearly had nothing underneath.
Or at least there were no knickers, for the shorty shorts were of a partially translucent nylon which would have shown them, but it was not true to say she had nothing underneath and it was this that made her outfit decidedly unusual. For footballers, even lady ones, do not usually wear suspender belt and nylons with their kit, and this young lady did have a slim white suspender belt beneath the skin-tight shorts. Its satin straps emerged from the virtually non-existent legs of the shorts to span bare rounded upper thighs and then tautly fasten the welts of sheer black nylons which encased long and shapely limbs. Six inch-heeled white court shoes completed the outfit.
‘Of course they don’t wear the nylons and heels on the football field,’ explained Mr Murgatroyd perhaps unnecessarily. ‘That’s just a little touch for social occasions. To gladden the eye of our guests, eh Sandra?’
The girl, who had begun pouring drinks, smiled shyly and said, ‘Yes, Mr Murgatroyd.’ She was quite tall, blonde, with a softly pretty face. When she had finished she stood with arms at her sides while both Mr Murgatroyd and his guest admired her from their leather armchairs...
‘Aye, she’s a nice piece is our Sandra,’ observed the former ‘centre forward with a nice turn of pace’. ‘Sandra’s still at school like quite a few of the team. The other be young lasses in the factory and maybe a couple of young wives. But Sandra here’s still at High School. Still a sweet young virgin too, as I understand it, eh Sandra?’
Sandra blushed but provided no verbal response.
‘Aye, keeping it tight for Mr Right. I should have been a poet.’ As he spoke Mr Murgatroyd’s thick-fingered hand came out like a nimble snake to make a quick grab at the front lower part of the girl’s skin-tight shorts. Sandra gave a yelp and automatically bent forward, her hands also shooting across to protect her privacy. Mr Murgatroyd gave a growling guffaw.
Jack Murgatroyd, fiftyish, a burly figure in his blue suit, was not a poet but a manufacturer of pots and pans and dustbins, something which did not readily lend itself to muse-like inspiration. But perhaps it was because of that artistic impulse that Mr Murgatroyd had hit upon the idea of works ladies football team. Other firms might have their brass bands and such-like but Murgatroyd Manufacturing could do better than that: the ‘Murgatroyd Ladies’ or the ‘Reds and Whites’, or to less reverent individuals the ‘Tits and Bums’. They played other ladies when they could find them, also men’s teams. Wearing white knee-socks and sneakers, naturally, not nylons and high heels.
Jack Murgatroyd’s guest, Harry Ainsworth, was a fellow industrialist who had heard of Murgatroyd’s ladies and had entertained vague ideas of producing such an outfit for his own people. That was how he came to be here on this Friday evening at Murgatroyd Hall, a Victorian pile some five miles outside the northern industrial town of Grimeswick. Murgatroyd Hall it seemed was where most of the Murgatroyd ladies’ training took place, at weekends and evenings.
Harry Ainsworth’s eyes had been opened wide, both actually and metaphorically, by the entrance of young Sandra. Some years younger than his host, Harry was a regular chapel-goer, though primarily at the instigation of his wife, and you didn’t get many girls in football gear and suspender belt and no underwear at Clagthorpe Baptist Chapel. His vague thoughts of a ladies football team had been nothing like this first view behind the scenes at Murgatroyd Hall. In spite of all that regular chapel attendance there was an undoubted stiffening in the front of Harry Ainsworth’s trousers.
‘Yes, she’s got a lovely turn of speed,’ went on the team owner, having taken his hand away from the centre forward’s crotch. He instead now took hold of her wrist, pulling her forward. ‘She’s as sleek as a young grey’ound. Take a look at these hindquarters.’
The pretty blonde strongly protested but Mr Murgatroyd’s other hand was at the zip of her shorts. It came down, the zip, that is, the taut-stretched shorts springing apart to show bare female flesh. Two large hands took hold and briskly tugged the shorts down, oblivious of the wearer’s yelps and squeals. Right down to the tops of those sheer black nylons, to reveal a stunning pair of pale female buttocks. Mr Murgatroyd delivered a sharp slap to the near-side cheek, then took it in his grasp.
‘Look at that! There’s muscle. Lovely, eh?’
Harry Ainsworth felt little beads of perspiration breaking out all over his person. Also a final firming-up of that one particular part of his anatomy which had begun to stiffen as soon as this delightful girl had made her entrance. Luckily he was seated so that what had stiffened up was not jutting embarrassingly out. He felt a little faint. It was lovely of course. A marvellous example of the Almighty’s work. Shocking, but lovely. Harry had a sudden awe-inspiring picture of his wife’s attractive but stern features, but quickly dismissed it. Then another awe-inspiring thought: were there ten more footballers like this one?
This one, long legs kicking in protest, was now being pulled face-down across Mr Murgatroyd’s lap. His own large face was flushed, eyes glinting. ‘I just remembered this young lass missed a sitter last week.’
One arm held her round her waist while the other hand did some preliminary groping at the squirming rear. Then the hand started smacking noisily down, imparting bright pink hand prints on the succulent flesh. The youthful centre forward squealed and gasped and kicked her legs, though this was naturally hampered by the football shorts round her thighs.
Mr Murgatroyd, wheezing somewhat, for his bulky form was not used to a lot of exercise, said between grunts, ‘She missed a sitter, did this lass, so she gets it on her sitter. Fair’s fair, eh Harry?’
The spanking was eventually completed — Jack Murgatroyd’s arm tiring possibly — and the trembling teenager was set on her feet again and allowed to pull up her shorts. She straightened dishevelled blonde locks and at a word from Mr Murgatroyd picked up the men’s glasses and exited.
‘Yes, a tasty young piece,’ observed the red-faced factory owner. ‘Now, care to see some of the rest of the squad, Harry? Should be a training session going on.’
They got to their feet, Harry Ainsworth circumspectly because of his still aroused state. He forced a picture of his wife into his mind and it had the required daunting, and calming, effect. But the good work was almost immediately undone as Jack Murgatroyd went over to his desk and, unlocking a drawer, took out a photograph album.
‘You might like to have a look at this, Harry, before we go. Some shots of the team.’ He gave a hearty chuckle. ‘Not the ones that get into the common press of course.’
Of course. There was a team photo of Murgatroyd ladies: the normal sort of thing, the players in a line, all smiling at the camera, the ball in the centre. The only thing was that none of the girls had any shorts on. The cherry-red shirts, the white socks and sneakers, and that was all. Hands behind their backs, knees together. Twelve or so muffs on show. Harry, blinking, noted amongst all the others Sandra and her charming muff. And there was more to come as the page was turned. Individual shots of the team members. Standing smiling with the ball and also assuming a variety of poses, not necessarily football ones. All dressed as in the team photo.
Jack Murgatroyd gave another little chuckle. ‘Private shots, as I say. Nice looking squad, eh Ainsworth?’
He shut the album and his guest made a sort of gulping sound. The album was returned to its drawer. They made for the door, Harry Ainsworth a little surprised to find he could walk.
Along a corridor and down some stairs took them to the rear of Murgatroyd Hall, to a door which bore the legend: Murgatroyd Ladies Football Club. Strictly No Admittance. Keep Out. Jack Murgatroyd gave another of his cackling laughs and tapped the sign. ‘Just my little joke. Aimed at the wife actually. I tell her if she comes in here she’ll have to join in a work-out.’
They went into what proved to be a spacious gymnasium, brightly-lit with wall bars and vaulting horses at one end. The main part of the room was clear though, the wooden floor marked out as for a miniature soccer pitch with reduced-size goals at either end. On this pitch seven or eight girls were scrimmaging with a soccer ball under the direction of a man in white singlet and slacks. The girls were in the Murgatroyd Ladies strip of red shirt and white shorts. Yes there were shorts, Harry Ainsworth’s hot eyes told him. All that chapel training seemed to be rather forgotten as he realised he had hoped the girls would be in just their shirts, as in those photos of these self-same players.
But at least, his eager eyes told him, there was nothing under any of the skin-tight shorts, or for that matter the tight red shirts. Harry’s eyes seemed to be steaming up as he sought to catch every detail. Blondes and brunettes, a red-head, assorted sizes and shapes but all were stunning female shapes. He blinked and frowned, focussing intently.
After some moments watching from the sidelines Mr Murgatroyd made a sign to the trainer who stopped the skirmishing and came over to the two visitors. He was introduced as ex-Sergeant Bob Baxter; in his forties, very fit-looking, with a bristling moustache.
‘Harry Ainsworth here is thinking of forming a ladies team of his own so he’s come here to see some action. So how about a proper little match. Four a side have we got? And let’s say one pair of shorts off for every goal they let in.’
Harry blinked. What was Jack Murgatroyd saying? Was he hearing right? In any case his host’s description of him planning to form a ladies team needed some revising. There was no way Harry could organise anything like this. Was there?
The trainer said ‘Right, Mr Murgatroyd,’ and strode over to the girls who were waiting out in the centre. He conveyed Mr Murgatroyd’s instructions. There were groans and squeals.
Jack Murgatroyd had pulled a couple of seats to the sideline at the centre of the pitch. He stood up, wheezing slightly. ‘And one little incentive, girls. The losing side draws lots and the loser gets her bum caned. By your friendly Jack Murgatroyd. If it’s a draw both sides draws lots and two get their bums caned.’
There was renewed yelping plus one or two cries of ‘Bloody Hell!’ and similar. Sergeant Baxter blew a shrill blast on his whistle and also slapped a couple of bottoms. ‘Ten minutes each way,’ he said and divided the girls into two teams of four. Then with a further whistle-blast he bounced the ball on the centre circle.
Harry Ainsworth’s immediate thought as he sat at the sideline was that he was happy not to be out there with them; in spite of all those bouncing bottoms and boobs. Because the girls were obviously very fit and very determined. A 40-year-old not-very-fit male, as Harry was, would have been immediately trampled underfoot. The two teams were evenly matched, in skill and aggression. The ball went from end to end. After about three minutes it did finish up in one of the goals.
Yelps of triumph, plus groans. Sergeant Baxter picked the ball up. ‘Claire, you can take your shorts off.’
An attractive well-rounded brunette protested that the goal hadn’t been her fault. Sergeant Baxter told her not to argue and take them off, or he’d do it for her. Harry recognised the girl from the album and he felt suddenly weak. There had been a photo of her doing a handstand, no shorts of course. She was soon in that same state, i.e. shortless. A couple of the other girls whistled. The trainer told her to take her shorts over to Mr Murgatroyd.
Flushing slightly she stood in front of the two seated men and held out the shorts. She was perhaps 20, bulging in all the right places. At the centre of her exposed flanks was that well-developed bush of black hair which Harry had seen in the photo. The handstand had been up against the wall, her sneakers maybe a foot apart. Jack Murgatroyd took the shorts.
‘We don’t want goals let in tomorrow, lass.’
‘Oh no, Mr Murgatroyd.’ Then a squeal as the team owner’s right hand, the one not holding the shorts, came out and cupped what Harry had seen displayed upside down. Jack Murgatroyd gave one of his cackles, removed his hand and told her to turn round.
‘Give ‘er bum a belt, Harry lad!’
Harry swallowed. The bottom a foot or so from his face was a delectable example of feminine hindquarters: twin globes of firm resilient flesh. It was his second close-up viewing of bare female buttocks in less than half-an-hour, not to mention that photo album, whereas before this, well, Harry couldn’t recall when he’d last seen one. His own wife Martha, 38, still had a very presentable rear of her own but believed it was a sin to show it. Harry swallowed again.
‘Go on, man, give it a wallop!’ And lest his guest was in any doubt as to what was required, the dustbin manufacturer got heavily to his feet and delivered a hard splat of his own. It produced a gasping grunt from the recipient. There was nothing for it, no real alternative. Harry steeled himself and told his hand what it had to do. It did it, made quite firm sharp contact. There was another gasp from the girl. Harry’s hand had a hot tingly feeling and he himself felt slightly faint. It was not easy to take it in. He had smacked this pretty girl’s bare bum. Incredible.
She was now walking back, bare rump swaying. Sergeant Baxter blew his whistle and the contest resumed. Harry Ainsworth resumed his seat. Jack Murgatroyd reached over and slapped his leg. ‘Nice eh! When you get your team you’ll have 12 or 14 of your own you can do that to. And do all the rest as well of course.’
Harry shook his head weakly. The rest?
Shortly there was another goal and a second girl was having to remove her shorts. She duly brought them over to hand to Mr Murgatroyd. This girl, another brunette, was quite slim and looked younger than the maturely-built Claire. Old enough to have hair on it though, Harry thought coarsely to himself, his eyes gleaming and the chapel quite forgotten. He was invited to deliver another smack and this time found it no strain at all.
That made the score 2-0 but then the other team picked up, galvanised perhaps by the prospect of one of their number being on the receiving end of Mr Murgatroyd’s cane. At the end of play the score was 2-2 with four girls bare-bottomed. This of course didn’t suit any of them. There were groans all round as they trooped over to their boss.
Eight freely-sweating girls, four without shorts. Harry was feeling a bit faint again. At what was close in front of his eyes and also what was in prospect. For presumably this double caning would be carried out in front of his keen gaze. His glazed eyes went from one girl to another. A couple of the shortless ones had their hands modestly in front of them.
Jack Murgatroyd got to his feet. ‘You other four may as well get your shorts off too. So we can all see what’s what.’
Exactly what Mr Murgatroyd meant by that was not clear; possibly he simply wanted shorts off because he preferred his girls that way. Complaining, the four nonetheless complied. Eight bare pussies now. Harry felt he should stand, like all the others, but was fearful of revealing his highly-aroused tumescent condition. It was all right for Murgatroyd, he was used to all this. That gentleman was now arranging matches in his hand.
The matches were drawn, one by one. The short ones went to Claire, the first girl with her shorts off, and a young-looking blonde who hadn’t had to take hers off until a few minutes earlier. There were yelps of glee from the others.
‘Don’t you others feel so spry,’ growled Mr Murgatroyd. ‘You lot are getting another 30 minutes hard work-out under Sergeant Baxter.’ He guffawed. ‘Is that right, Bob. Under the sergeant!’
Sergeant Baxter delivered a ferocious wink. ‘One or two of them might at that, Mr Murgatroyd.’
Six bare-bottomed girls went off with Sergeant Baxter to where the vaulting horses were. That could be very interesting, Harry Ainsworth the chapel drop-out told himself. He pictured bare bottoms, and wide open thighs, flying over the horse. But that kind of thought would do nothing to alleviate his tumescent state and he was now going to stand up. He tried thinking instead of Mr Jonas Entwhistle, the fiery-eyed sin-seeking preacher his wife had invited for Sunday lunch a week ago. That did have some effect.
The canings were evidently not to take place in the gym. The two unhappy losers were pulling on cherry-red track trousers over their bare bottoms, in order it seemed that they could walk modestly through the house to Mr Murgatroyd’s study. Perhaps, Harry thought, his host might also have a chapel-going wife though it seemed doubtful. He got carefully to his feet. He was not entirely back to normal but by dint of concentrated thought things had improved considerably.
A few minutes later they were back in the study, this time with the two girls. Mr Murgatroyd turned the key in the lock and gave a broad wink. ‘We don’t want any interruptions, do we?’
‘Not too hard, Mr Murgatroyd,’ wailed Claire. ‘I hate that bloody cane.’ Her companion didn’t look as if she relished it very much either.
Their boss grinned. ‘No complaining now, you lasses; it’s all part of your training. Just let’s see your bums again. Eh Harry!’
Harry gave a weak smile while hoping he looked like a man used to this sort of thing. He wondered if he should sit down as he was becoming erect again, but that avenue of retreat was quickly closed. He was to take part it seemed.
‘We’ll have ‘em across the chair, Harry. Claire first. You can hold her hands while I do the whacking, then we’ll change round for young Janice. Right then, Claire, let’s be having you.’
Both girls had their bare bums showing and Claire gave a squeal as Mr Murgatroyd’s large paw reached out for her bared bottom. She was pushed forward to the chair. With a groan she allowed herself to be pushed down onto it. Harry took hold of her out-stretched hands, feeling a surge of excitement. She gasped a ‘Bloody Hell’ but at the same time her eyes looking up into Harry’s had a bold aroused look.
Jack Murgatroyd, instead of producing a cane, had produced a leather strap which he first brandished playfully at the watching Janice before taking up his position at the side of the full out-thrust bottom over the chair.
‘Six eh, Claire my dear!’
There was a muffled ‘Bloody Christ!’ from the chair.
Then a sharp reverberating crack! as a whippy leather strap met taut female flesh. ‘Aaoowww! Jesus Christ!’
Claire shook her head from side to side while further down her bottom was doing much the same sort of thing. She was now gripping tightly onto Harry’s hands. He felt his throat go dry. The front of his trousers was tenting impressively out. The strap cracked down again. Another shrill cry from the stricken girl, another invocation of the name of the Almighty. A throaty growl of excitement from Jack Murgatroyd. The girl was writhing in Harry’s hands. The strap came down again. Harry gritted his teeth. He was afraid he was going to have an accident.
The accident was avoided by a iron-willed concentration on mental pictures of his wife Martha and Preacher Entwhistle, both bearing expression which said that nothing Harry did could ever be hidden from them. At the sixth and final stroke Harry let go of Claire’s clenching fists and mopped his brow.
Claire got to her feet and, vigorously rubbing at her red-striped rear, called again on the Almighty. Now it was Janice’s turn — and Harry’s. He felt a desperate urge to back out — to plead inexperience, a sore arm, anything — but to his credit he didn’t. He took up the leather strap, looked, blinking, at the trembling flanks of the now bending girl, fiercely focussed his mind as he had done before and let fly.
He let fly with a good hard thwack! Harry continued to let fly in like manner until he had delivered the requisite six strokes. It wasn’t too bad at all. He had produced six excellent stripes on the pale flesh, accompanied by frenzied squirmings and assorted howls. Yes, Harry Ainsworth felt he had not done at all badly.
That indeed was what his host told him as he handed Harry a scotch. ‘Well done, Harry lad. He did do well, didn’t he, Janice.’
Janice, red-faced and breathing hard, did not offer an answer. She accepted a consolatory gin-and-tonic.
Some little time later she was being further consoled as she sat on Mr Murgatroyd’s lap. Opposite, Claire was likewise seated on Harry Ainsworth’s. It was a heady experience for that chapel regular but, well, he couldn’t politely refuse, could he, when Jack Murgatroyd had suggested it? It would have been boorish. And Claire, recovered it seemed from her strapping, was not at all reluctant.
‘Are you staying the night, Mr Ainsworth?’ she enquired, batting lashes on big brown eyes and also squirming her bare bottom on Harry’s lap. He certainly hadn’t planned to; it had just been an evening visit to get some idea of what was involved in this ladies football. What he had seen, what he had experienced, seemed like a dream. What was happening now was decidedly dreamlike too. The soft bare bottom on top of Harry’s crushed but erect manhood; these full firm tits thrusting out of her shirt; the hot-eyed, wet-lipped face.
‘Yes, stay the night,’ called Jack Murgatroyd from across the room. ‘That Claire needs a man on top of her before tomorrow’s game.’
Harry swallowed. He thought despairingly of Martha; of that stern-eyed preacher.
Claire giggled. ‘Mr Murgatroyd is awful. But I’m staying the night. My husband Gary, is on the night shift.