From Blushes 33
‘That young Sharon,’ said Harry. ‘A minx. A choice young creature but a minx. That way she walks.’
His wife gave him a look. ‘Don’t tell me you’re getting interested in those young ones, Harry. Not at your age.’
‘Not interested. Oh no, not that. Well I might be interested in that pretty young bum of hers. I wouldn’t mind giving it a good paddling, which is exactly what it needs. I’d be interested in that. Young minx.’
‘She’s not that young,’ observed Mavis. ‘Nineteen, twenty —’
‘I know how old she is. An awkward age for a girl. And I can see her getting into a deal of trouble if she’s not careful. Unless someone pulls her up short. A good walloping. She’s never had it of course.’
Mavis gave the fire an energetic-poke. An owlish look at Harry. ‘Well I don’t know that I should tell you what I was going to tell you, Harry.’
‘What’s that then?’
Mavis shook her head. ‘I said I didn’t know that I should tell you.’ And for a full 30 seconds she didn’t.
‘Well, I saw her mother in the shop. They’re going away she said. Her and Mr Calfield but not Sharon. She was saying as how she didn’t like to leave Sharon by herself what with all these things you can hear nowadays. She would like to know Sharon was all right. Well, that’s natural.’
‘Yes?’ prodded Harry, all eager now; ‘Go on.’
A bland smile from Mavis. ‘Well I don’t really know that I should have. Not after you saying what you did. But I said we could have her. For the week. It’s only a week.’
‘Cor!’ breathed Harry. He could see in his mind vivid and heady scenes. Harry had an active imagination. He had exercised it on more than one occasion in the past in respect of Sharon Calfield. Those imaginative scenes swam before his eyes. He experienced a surge of excitement. Was it possible, with this stunning intelligence that Mavis had conveyed, that certain of those scenes might be translated into hard reality? Well, if he was to be in charge of young Sharon. That young minx. ‘Cor…’
As it happened the visions in Harry’s head were to a certain extent mirrored in the mind of Mavis. Not so much in terms of sensual pleasure — well, not really — but rather the emotion of revenge; of paying out another individual. For a slightly younger version of the present 19-year-old Sharon had seen fit to cheek Mavis Birtling on a couple of occasions. Nothing terribly serious but sufficient for those couple of incidents to be committed to Mavis’s retentive memory. Mavis pictured her own pleasing scenes. No, it was not true to say there was no sensual pleasure attached to them: there was considerable sensual pleasure. She could almost feel the crisp Splatt! as her open palm smacked sharply down…
Sharon Calfield: ‘No Mum. Not that Mrs Birtling. Why…?’
Sharon, naturally, had her own idea of how she wished to spend the week of her parents’ absence. It included spending extended periods with a certain Derek Fingford. Periods of night-time as well as daylight hours. Derek Fingford was in love with her and Sharon might be in love with him, though it wasn’t easy to be sure. Her parents did not approve of young Mr Fingford who was no more than the butcher’s assistant. And there was also Sharon’s boss, Mr Alright, of Alrights, Chemists and Toiletry Purveyors. Mr Alright was quite keen on Sharon and sometimes liked to take her out for a drive in the country, which certainly beat standing behind a counter. She might also let him see her in the evening, when she wasn’t seeing Derek. Oh yes, Sharon could have a very busy and interesting time while her parents were away. But having to stay with the Birtlings — well that would certainly cramp a girl’s style. Her mother however said it was all decided.
Sharon said something not very nice, not at all ladylike. Not the sort of thing one would expect to come from those full, rather innocent-looking, pink lips, unless of course one knew Sharon intimately. But it looked as if she would have to make the best of it. Perhaps it wouldn’t be too bad, perhaps the Birtlings would leave her to her own devices, after all why should they bother what she was doing? That Mrs Birtling… she had been a bit rude to her a couple of times in the past but no doubt Mrs Birtling had forgotten. And Mr Birtling? He was OK, a cheery smile whenever she saw him. Sharon tended to get cheery, friendly smiles from most men. She was well aware that they found her very attractive. Of course a girl knew what they were thinking, what they would like to do. A one-track mind some of them had. Well look at Mr Alright. But Mr Alright was her boss and so would expect certain favours, a girl had to be realistic. But they were all after that sort of thing. Mr Birtling. Yes, she was pretty sure he fancied her. What was he thinking, having her come to stay? Well, he could think again. But still, it might not be so bad.
Harry Birtling: ‘Those socks!’
Harry’s eyes were on the socks, certainly. Splendid dazzlingly white knee socks which can do an awful lot for a girl’s legs, accentuating as it were the soft fleshiness of the flesh. Yes his eyes were eyeing the socks but more than the virginal socks, the flesh they accentuated. Scrumptious knees. Succulent thighs.
Sharon was sitting cross-legged on the settee, a thoughtful look in her big blue eyes, her pen held reflectively up to that soft, vulnerable-looking mouth. Sweet bare thighs that made a man’s head buzz, thighs that he could almost imagine sinking his teeth into. The thighs, their silky inner sides, could be seen right up to where a girl’s thighs start, or finish. Where there was the briefest, mouth-wateringest, crotch of a pair of brief knickers as virginally white as the socks. Modestly, at Mr Birtling’s appearance, Sharon pushed down her skirt over this ultimate delight, though making sure he had first had a good look. She smiled her sweetest smile, keeping her knees wide apart, the thighs for the most part still on show.
‘They’re my yoga socks, Mr Birtling. I wear them for yoga.’
‘Yoga.’ Harry repeated the word as if it were new to him. In fact his mind was where his eyes were: on the smooth inner slopes of Sharon’s thighs.
‘Yes, Mr Birtling. I do yoga. I have a book on it and I’ve been to classes as well. Would you like to see some?’
Without actually waiting for an answer Sharon put her pen and books down — her evening class in accountancy — and got up. And proceeded, with her hands for support, to stand on her head in front of Harry. Naturally her full skirt fell down, about her upper body and head. Harry’s lower jaw dropped open. Not content with what she was already showing, Sharon, teetering slightly, parted her legs. Harry could not believe his eyes. The brief white knickers were skin-tight and now seemed to be partially transparent. There it was, plain for the eye to see. Sharon’s… well, her…
Harry gazed at it, with an intensity that in another form would have burnt the skimpy knicks right off of Sharon. But his hot gaze was almost immediately interrupted by two things. The first was the abrupt entrance into the lounge of his wife, and the second was Sharon falling over. As she explained, seconds later, in an unhappy heap on the floor, she was not yet really expert.
Sharon Calfield: ‘No! No. Really. I don’t… Anyway.’
The ‘Anyway’ referred to what had happened a little earlier, at the Birtlings. This ‘Anyway’ was for a second going to precede Sharon’s indignant recounting of that unbelievable happening to Mr Alright, but she quickly decided against it. It was absolutely too humiliating. That bitch Mrs Birtling. Who did she think she was? Hitler or someone?
‘Anyway what?’ asked Mr Alright, hot-faced and indeed hot all over from the intimate proximity of Sharon and her body and his, as yet this evening, frustrated need to enjoy it.
No, Sharon was not going to tell that Mrs Birtling had unbelievably spanked her bare bottom. Mrs Birtling couldn’t do that. But she had. ‘Tell your mother when she gets back if you want to,’ Mrs Hitler-Birtling had informed her. Mrs Birtling had remembered those cheeky remarks, she had referred to them. The primary reason, though, was Sharon’s yoga display. ‘What ever do you think you are doing, Sharon?’ she had ranted. ‘Strip shows in my lounge. What next?’ And the next thing Sharon knew she was over Mrs Birtling’s lap. Mrs Birtling was a large, strong woman. Mr Birtling, who should have backed Sharon up and explained, said nothing. Stood there and watched.
‘Nothing,’ Sharon said in reply to Mr Alright’s query. They were in the back seat of his car in that quiet little lane that he liked to take her to. Sharon should have been out with Derek this evening but Mr Alright had insisted. She didn’t feel like it. Not after Mrs Birtling. Sharon could still feel Mrs Birtling’s hard hand cracking humiliatingly down onto her bare bottom.
‘No,’ she said again. Mr Alright, though, was not in a mood to take no for an answer. He insisted. And what can a girl do when her boss has her in the back seat of his car and insists?
I’ve got to get back,’ she said right afterwards. Struggling her knickers up for the second time in a couple of hours but of course in two very different situations. ‘That Mrs Birtling that I’m staying with. She’s a real bug… a real tartar.’
Harry Birtling: ‘Well done, gal. Very well done. You let her have it and no mistake. She won’t forget that in a hurry.’
Harry could see again the stunning scene. It had been one stunning scene after another. First Sharon standing on her head and showing off her puss and then Sharon upside down over Mavis’s lap with her knickers down and Mavis’s hand cracking down in piledriver strokes. Unbelievable! Tremendous yelps and squeals from Sharon and her marvellous bare bum squirming this way and that and rapidly turning a bright red hue. Absolutely fantastic.
Mavis gave a grunt of satisfaction. It had indeed been a highly satisfying experience. ‘I still don’t know what she thought she was doing, the young hussy. Yoga?’
‘She said something of that sort. Young minx. What I think is…’
Harry said what he thought. It did not greatly surprise Mavis. But there was no denying what Harry said. A second dose would be highly beneficial.
Sharon had been told to be back for 9.30. ‘And don’t be late, my girl. I can see we are going to need to be strict with you.’ Sharon, after what had happened did not intend to be late. Mrs Birtling was a large and powerful woman, much too much for a slimmish 19-year-old girl to consider taking on. Mavis in fact had to go out later so she would not be in when Sharon got back. That was alright, though, there was Harry. Harry would be in and Harry had said that he might get on with that ‘second dose’ he had spoken of. Strike while the iron was hot.
But Sharon did not get her second dose. Not a second dose of spanking at least. Harry was all set to deliver it but Sharon, with Mrs Birtling not around, suggested something else. Well, it would be a lot better than another dreadful spanking and after all Mr Alright had just done it. Mr Birtling, Sharon was sure, fancied her, like all men seemed to fancy her. And also, she thought, it would in a way pay Mrs Birtling back.
Harry, after some furtive glances around, as if perhaps the walls, the furniture, might have eyes, was prepared to accept this alternative. Yes, definitely. There was a whole hour before Mavis returned.