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Friday, 9 February 2018

From a Train Window: An Interior

From Blushes 23
For the third time that morning, the train ground slowly to a halt. Signal failure, the guard had announced. Shuffling across the seat to avoid the full glare of the late morning sun, John regretted opting for a late start that day. But at least the carriage wasn’t crammed to bursting as it would have been during the rush hour.
He glanced idly down from the railway embankment into the back gardens of the row of semis below, noticing how each house had made use of exactly the same amount of space to create a little oasis of flowers and lawns, vegetable patches and patios. A movement from the house nearest the train caught his eye, the large expanse of sliding French windows allowing the full glare of the sun to illuminate the room.
Leaning forward, he pulled the carriage window down. There it was again. The same flash of movement, and a grin spread slowly across his face as he realised what he was witnessing. The silent drama continued, unaware of the grandstand audience of one. Or had someone else on that same train chanced to look the same way at the same time?
The figure bent over the table was definitely female. She must be young, as he could see the knee-length white socks as they kicked into the air. The skirt, turned up her back, revealed a bottom apparently still clad in pale knickers. The implement was indefinable. A slipper, perhaps, or a hairbrush?
The train gave a sudden jerk, and began to move. He craned his head out of the window to catch a last view of the domestic drama being played out as if in mime behind the glass, silently painful.
Face pressed close to the cool surface of the table, Annie breathed heavily as the plimsoll — for that indeed it was — rose and fell onto her thinly-protected bottom. Had she known skipping school would have resulted in this, she would have thought again about slipping down to the river for the morning. Typical to bump into Mrs Saunders, who ran her Guide group. And even more typical of old Saunders to resort to a more ‘traditional’ form of punishment than that approved by her school.
The room was warm. Too warm. Annie could feel the slight stickiness of her nervousness. The spanking over, she stood, clasping hands to throbbing hot cheeks. The skirt fell, covering her guilt, and Mrs Saunders led the way to the front door. In the rear garden next door the retired gentleman pruning his roses smiled to himself in the knowledge that Mrs Saunders had once again been carrying out her community responsibility for today’s young ladies.
The sounds of distress from her house were a regular occurrence, the visits from pretty little things, many in school uniform, a pleasure to witness. It irritated him that the dividing fence was too high to permit a view of the proceedings, so he had to content himself with the aural experience.
Friday evenings were his favourite time. When Doris was out and there was a veritable queue next door as Mrs Saunders dealt with the guilty youngsters sent there by parents and teachers alike. Some with notes, some with verbal pleadings. All went away clasping a little pink slip which indicated that they had received their just desserts, proof to the person sending them that the job had been done as requested.
The little sideline at number 42 had started in a small way with rare disciplinary visits to the middle-aged widow. Since then, her neighbour had seen all sorts of youngsters enter the house. Even, on two occasions, rather older girls whom he recognised. One, an assistant at the chemists in the town, and the other an usherette at the cinema he attended for their special Senior Citizens’ afternoon shows. She had been slippered, he knew, the sound clear through the adjoining wall, the yelps proof of her unfamiliarity with that implement.
‘And today is Friday,’ he thought to himself. ‘I wonder who’s on the menu for tonight?’ Sitting looking out of his front window, he saw a likely candidate bouncing down the road, a very pretty girl with dark hair framing her face in a fashionable bob, cut high at the back. What he would have called ‘a little cracker.’ Seven o’clock. Dead on time! Out of uniform, the youngster looked older, but she couldn’t be more than sixteen. She disappeared from view.
A knock at the door. Timid at first, then rather firmer. ‘Coming,’ yelled Mrs Saunders. ‘Ah come in dear. Back again I see.’
The girl handed over a slim envelope. The contents scanned briskly, and slipped back. A grim set to her mouth as she led the way into the still-bright dining room.
‘We’ll have those jeans off, if you please, Lisa.’ The pop of the stud followed by the buzz of the descending zipper, the two leaves parting to reveal a pair of brightly-coloured panties as the jeans were tugged, wriggled and heaved off the teenage hips. Plonking down into a convenient chair, Lisa pulled off her ankle-boots and worked the jeans off her legs. Brown and smooth, nicely-shaped, with the lightest dusting of fair hair on her thighs.
She stood, nervously fingering the hem of her blouse, as Mrs Saunders pushed an old saddle trestle into position in front of the French windows. Bought for a couple of pounds in the local auction rooms, the trestle had proved very useful.
The bright-pink knickers had worked their way between her cheeks and into her crotch, outlining the curve of buttock and labial privacy. A wedge of bare flesh visible below the lower edge of the fabric, the top of the division between the cheeks, fringed by blonde down, appearing above the waistband.
‘Sixth form isn’t it now?’
‘Yes, miss.’
‘Should know better, eh?’
‘Yes, Miss.’
‘Well, this isn’t going to be pleasant, Lisa, so let’s get it over with. Go to the cupboard and pick something out.’
The soft buttocks undulated gently as she crossed to the tall wall cupboard and opened the door. Inside, on hooks, a choice of two crook-handled canes, two leather tawses, a thick leather paddle and a large plimsoll. Lisa eyed up the lethal array. Her bottom had already been acquainted with the slipper, and the canes looked long and fiercely stinging. She opted for the shorter of the two straps, and took it down from its hook before closing the cupboard door.
‘A good leathering will do very well, Lisa,’ agreed Mrs Saunders. ‘Over you go.’
Lisa lowered herself gingerly over the padded trestle, gripping the crossbar on the far side and wriggling her hips higher on the main beam. Finally, as she remembered from her previous visit, she spread her legs until her bare toes touched the edges of the supports. The position was humiliating in the extreme, but with Mrs Saunders it wasn’t something Lisa really thought about. There was plenty to concentrate on, with the forthcoming attraction being her now very prominent backside, the pink fabric straining to contain it.
Fingers gripped the brief knickers and Lisa heaved herself a fraction off the main bar to allow their downward passage, no word of command required, obedience and compliance the rule.
With her legs spread wide, the material rested just below the apex, the delicate smoothness of inner thighs giving way to the darker-hued flesh and pubic puff which lay undisguised to the gaze. Mrs Saunders turned her attention to the thick length of leather, laying it gently across the now-bared cheeks. The sun cast a warm late afternoon glow into the room, the holiday tan on the girl’s legs and back betrayed by the paleness of her softer region, the dark hair tumbling to hide her face.
A knock at the door. Lisa’s head tilted up. ‘Wait there. I won’t be a moment.’ She saw Mrs Saunders disappear through the door to the hall, a short conversation. Another girl’s voice, high and nervous. A first-timer? The front door closed, then another. The next applicant had been put in the “waiting room”. Lisa looked back between her legs to see two birds fighting on the lawn, the object of their argument a long worm half-removed from the ground. And here she was.
Lisa looked up as Mrs Saunders came back, stepped smartly up to the side of the trestle, and delivered a smarting practice shot with the tawse. Her buttocks tensed involuntarily.
‘Just relax, dear. This won’t take long.’
The cheeks lost their concave appearance, and the leather wrapped itself willingly across their plump fullness with a noisy crack.
Lisa could see the strap hanging by Mrs Saunders’ leg as she waited for her to stop wriggling. It disappeared, and the second stinging, deeply-burning blow arrived a moment later. Lisa suppressed her instinct to cry out.
She could still see the birds battling over the worm, and watched a train pass by on the embankment at the end of the garden. If only they knew what went on in here, she thought.
Four more times the tawse was laid across the teenager’s bare buttocks, the reddening bands of colour deepening in hue, tinged with purple on her right cheek where the strap’s tails bit more deeply. A cry was forced from Lisa’s lips, more a moan, as she strove to contain the churning in her stomach and the pain in her bottom.
‘You may get up, my dear, and take this back.’ Lisa slumped down from the trestle onto her knees, and stood up slowly, touching her tender rear-end with care before taking the tawse and putting it back on its hook. She wished now she hadn’t chosen to wear jeans, as getting them on would be painful, walking home in them even more so.
‘Here’s the slip for your mum, Lisa. I hope you don’t have to come over to see me again under these circumstances. I’ll see you at Guides next week though, won’t I?’
‘Yes, Mrs Saunders.’
As Lisa slunk out of the door, Mrs Saunders called: ‘Jane, come along please.’
A tall fair-haired girl, long coltish legs, slim. She had been recognised as the girl from the cinema by the neighbour as she scuttled past his front window. Sensibly dressed in knee-length summer dress, no tights, open shoes, her long hair worn scraped back from an attractive if angular face, now creased with worry. No first-timer, Jane. Given the choice of a visit to Mrs Saunders or having her wage packet docked for “stock shortages”, Jane had for the second time decided that pain was preferable to penury.
‘Disappointed to see you back here, Jane. What have you been up to this time?’ asked Mrs Saunders sympathetically.
‘Stock shortages, again, I’m afraid, but I don’t understand how the stuff went missing. I’m so careful with my checks and things.’
‘I’m sure you are, dear. But it says here,’ she brandished the note, ‘that you are £32 short.’
‘I know. That’s what he said.’
‘Well I don’t see how I can let you off with a slippering this time, Jane. You’re a bit old for that aren’t you.’ It was a statement, Jane realised, not a question.
The cupboard was opened, and Jane’s mouth went dry as she saw the longer of the two slim yellow rattan canes pulled off its hook.
She lifted up her skirt without being told, and at a nod from Mrs Saunders pulled the striped briefs down to mid-thigh. She felt the cool breeze from the partly open French windows cool on her flesh.
‘Just touch your toes, dear.’ Jane bent to obey, noticing a smudge of dirt on her right shoe. She wiped it off without thinking as her fingers pressed down.
The cane raised, the garden silent, the birds departed now that the object of their fight had been divided into two almost equal portions. The rumble and rattle of the train, the squeal of brakes, and silence again. Jane looked past her legs to see the carriages on the embankment, and noticed a pale face peering out of a window.
The arrival of the first scorching stroke made her forget anything other than the discomfort applied to her naked bottom, searing a red brand from hip to hip.
Gazing in delight from the train, John congratulated himself for staying late at the office that Friday afternoon. If he had left on time with the rush hour crowds, he would have missed another delight. It wasn’t often one had occasion to thank breakdowns and signal problems, but on this occasion British Rail had unwittingly provided a ringside seat to another great show. It was clear the girl was being caned, and hard. The sight of her pale, defenceless backside being soundly thrashed made him curious as to how she had come to be in such an unfortunate position. And who the energetic lady could be, administering the beating with such skill.
The girl half-stood for a moment, there was an exchange between the two participants, and she lowered herself down again to receive a further three evidently-painful strokes, for the recipient jerked forward with each blow. By this time, he was hanging out of the carriage window to improve his view. But the reflections in the glass and the low evening sun made it difficult to see as well as the previous day.
The girl stood, clasping her bottom, and he saw she was taller than the woman holding the cane. The older woman disappeared and the French windows slid open as the girl stepped onto the patio and walked down the garden, touching her bottom tenderly.
She looked up suddenly, and caught sight of him. Their eyes met for a moment, and the train started to move. She smiled hesitantly, wondering if he could have witnessed her embarrassment. He smiled back, and without thinking called out ‘Ten out of ten!’
She laughed at that, knowing he must have witnessed it all. Later that evening, at the cinema, a man she thought she recognised kept looking at her strangely. When the queue for ice-creams had gone, she started up the aisle with her tray, and he held out his hand for her to stop.
‘Do you have a Cornetto left?’ he asked.
‘Yes, strawberry or vanilla?’
‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ he whispered.
‘It was me what?’
‘You know. I saw you from the train, out in the garden after you’d been…’
‘Oh that! Yes, I’m afraid so.’
‘She seemed to be hitting you awfully hard. How many did you get?’
‘Six of the best. They were bloody hard, too, but not as bad as what the girls get in this film.’
‘Really?’ The lights started to dim, and the music for the titles began. ‘I hope you’ll be ok.’
‘Thanks,’ she whispered, and melted into the darkness at the back of the stalls.
The certificate came up on the screen to announce that The Story of ‘O’ had been passed as suitable for Adult audiences only.

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