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Wednesday, 7 March 2018

The Red Swimsuit

From Blushes 42
‘Come closer, Joanna.’ Mr Fenfield said. ‘Come here. How can I talk to you when you’re miles away. Did you have a good weekend?’
Saying ‘Yes, Mr Fenfield,’ Joanna stepped perhaps reluctantly forward a pace. And then flinched as he reached for her arm and pulled her close. ‘Don’t you like being close?’ Mr Fenfield asked, honey-voiced.
Joanna’s pretty face tightened. ‘Yes, but… l don’t… really like you doing that…’
‘That’ was Mr Fenfield’s hand sliding up under her skirt. Up the back of one silky-slim nyloned leg to the nylon’s top. And beyond. Onto the warm bare flesh which swelled above the nylon’s tautness. ‘You don’t like it?’ queried Mr Fenfield mildly.
Joanna was just 19 and a stunning specimen of 19-year-old English young womanhood. A strikingly pretty face, her pale complexion set off by a mass of chestnut-auburn hair, and below this face was an equally stunning figure: slim-waisted but ripely rounded above and below and set upon a pair of elegantly long legs. Henry Fenfield had seen her in Harrods, shopping with her mother, in a simple knee-length summer dress that was conspicuously tight around her bottom. Henry Fenfield had been quite overcome — by all of her but by the firmly-muscled haunches, reminiscent of those of a highly-bred racing filly, most of all. Following those superb haunches — at a suitable distance of course to get the full effect of their shape and motion — Henry had known he would have to gain closer acquaintance with this vision. Much closer.
It had not been too difficult. Girls with mothers who take them shopping in Harrods are not nobodies, and a girl as stunning as this one…
No it had not been too difficult to find out who she was and following that to get acquainted — with the mother in the first instance of course: a gentleman of Henry Fenfield’s experience needed no advice as regards the merits of the flanking, and especially maternal, approach. Because at 19, as we know, for a well-brought-up young lady a mother is still an essential mentor and guide. A well-brought-up 19-year-old will listen to her mother.
What Henry Fenfield could offer, in those honeyed tones into in this case Mrs Anthea Vanforth’s attractive ear, was himself as an older and sophisticated male companion. Again, as we well know, a girl at that age can greatly benefit from the companionship of such a gentleman; one who can guide her in the sophisticated ways of the world, into areas where a mother’s guidance can be strictly limited. Yes, Henry Fenfield could make a most impressive case for himself in this context. So impressive that the mother was quite overjoyed when he finally mentioned that he might be able to take Joanna for a week or two at his rather splendid country place in Sussex. Quite overjoyed. How absolutely marvellous for Joanna who, Anthea knew, was just at the age when she needed something like this. And in addition it would mean leaving herself a little more free time, private time. Time when husband James was away, at the office or wherever, and she could pursue… those little private pleasures. Which a very attractive woman of 41 does sometimes feel like allowing herself. Pleasures for which a 19-year-old daughter would tend to be in the way. And so…
And so Joanna was at this moment standing on somewhat trembly legs in Henry Fenfield’s study. Standing close at the side of his favourite armchair… with his hand softly stroking the silky underside of one bare upper thigh.
‘Yes, Joanna dear? You were saying?’ Those honeyed tones that Mr Fenfield could produce — even when he was doing the most awful things. (Quite a bit more awful at times, of course, than what he was doing now.)
‘It… it’s just… it gets me all nervous. And I really should… be doing my reading.’
Henry had set her a programme of instructive and mind-broadening books, to be read and then tested on. Also Joanna hadn’t unpacked yet, she had only virtually this moment got back. From her weekend at home. The train and then Mr Fenfield’s man, Mr Spinks — Sidney — meeting her at the station. She had sat next to Mr Spinks in the Daimler, rather than in the back, to be friendly. Mr Spinks had responded to this friendly gesture by putting his hand on her leg. Joanna had pushed it away, but later it had come back again. And yet a third time. But Joanna was sure she could handle Mr Spinks who was only Mr Fenfield’s chauffeur and handyman. However Mr Fenfield himself…
‘Nervous, Joanna? We should not be nervous. Not with me. Should we? Tell me, are you wearing knickers?’
‘Yes…’ The frantic word popping out from the soft full lips. Mr Fenfield could be awfully… well awful. At times. Joanna had been here one week. In that week Mr Fenfield had done things, made Joanna do things, that could make a girl sweat just to think about. Should she have told her mother? Some of those things? ‘How was Mr Fenfield, darling? Did you have a lovely week?’ She should have said something. Although her mother hadn’t seemed wildly interested, as if she had other things on her mind. If her mother had pressed her Joanna probably would never have said… something. Because some of the things… were… `Ooooh…!’
‘Yes. We have I see.’ Mr Fenfield’s hand was up there. Seeing for itself. Joanna did have knickers on, well of course, travelling on the train. French knickers, of ivory silk, which in fact had been purchased in Harrods on that very day that Henry Fenfield had first espied Joanna, her mass of chestnut auburn hair and in particular, as we have noted, her splendid bottom. Which now in the ivory silk French knickers he had his hand on. Anthea Vanforth had bought two pairs for Joanna and also two pairs for herself. They would be just heavenly for her lunch date the next day…
But Mr Fenfield was speaking again. ‘Perhaps as a test for this nervousness, Joanna — which I find wholly unfortunate and which we really must work to eradicate — perhaps as a test we should take the knickers off. Do you think?’
Mr Fenfield’s hand was of course up at Joanna’s knickers as he spoke. Rumpling the frothy material which was tight over the ripeness of Joanna’s bottom-cheeks but loose at the lace-edged legs. Loose so that Henry Fenfield’s hand could… slide up inside.
Ohhh… No… please…’
Some of this was directed at what Mr Fenfield’s hand was doing and some at the proposal that she remove her knickers. Removing her knickers, Joanna knew, from experience learnt last week, would inevitably be followed by other sweat-inducing developments. One of a number of possible developments or, quite possibly more than one, several, one following the other.
‘I… really should do… some reading. And… unpa… ooooh!’
‘Take them off please, Joanna. I think I want them off. And I’ve got some news for you. We have a visitor this evening. And as it is likely to be a nice warm evening I should like you to give him a little demonstration of swimming. Mr Granford his name is. Now then, are you taking the knickers off? Or shall I take them off for you, Joanna? Or perhaps get Spinks in here to do it?’
The two alternatives to doing it herself were both quite horrific and Joanna knew from experience, last week, that one of them at least — taking her knickers off himself — Mr Fenfield was quite capable of carrying out. Because he had. That first time he had told her to take them off and she had stood there virtually paralysed with disbelief. Mr Fenfield had grabbed her and simply yanked them off. He hadn’t done the other, got Mr Spinks to do it. Not yet. But even that was not impossible. With a whimpering sound Joanna made to respond. Mr Fenfield had taken his hand away now. She slid her own hands up. Feeling that sicky sort of feeling as her mind fastened on what had happened before.
‘I expect you’d like a nice swim, eh Joanna? After a tiring journey.’
Joanna wasn’t thinking about swimming. Or this visitor. She was too concerned with the dreadful present. Her knickers coming unwillingly down under her skirt. Down the long nyloned legs. Henry Fenfield insisted on nylons and a suspender-belt. Or at least would not countenance tights. The first morning after Joanna arrived he told her that. Tights were simply not allowed. Knee-socks he could tolerate — at times. But never tights. Proper nylons he wanted most of the time and if she didn’t have any — nylons and a suspender-belt — then he would drive Joanna right away into town and they would buy some.
Joanna didn’t have any and so that was what Mr Fenfield did. And ever since…
Slipping the knickers off over her black high heels (Mr Fenfield also insisted on high heels most of the time). He took the knickers from her, holding them up briefly for inspection, then tossed them onto the coffee table. He pulled Joanna close again.
‘A nice swim later, Joanna dear?’
Henry Fenfield’s hand was of course sliding up her skirt again. Joanna gave a squeaky yelp, unable to contain it. Her knees were going to collapse. In no time the hand was on her bottom again. This time it was Joanna’s bare bottom.
‘My friend Mr Granford is going to be quite thrilled with you, Joanna. He is a great appreciator of a pretty girl with a delightful shape. And this particular part…’ Mr Fenfield’s hand was cupping one nude cheek, fingers deep in the dividing cleft, ‘this part especially. Mr Granford loves a pretty bottom. And in your new swimsuit, Joanna…’ The hand squeezed. ‘You didn’t know I’d bought you a new swimsuit, did you’?’
Joanna couldn’t think about swimsuits, not with that diabolical hand, though it fleetingly crossed her mind that the suit could be something awful. But the hand…`Keep still, Miss,’ was sliding down… and in… ‘Aaaooww …!’ ‘Keep still…’ In between her legs. Which was one of the awful things Joanna had been fearful of. Mr Fenfield’s hand sliding right in there. He had done it before… and he was doing it now. She was going to collapse, her knees had turned to rubber. She was going to collapse in a heap on the floor.
But Joanna didn’t. Because Mr Fenfield did the other dreadful thing. Pulled her down over his lap. Chestnut-auburn head down and bottom up. Bottom in the demure grey skirt but the skirt was of course being pulled up. So that it was bottom bare. Ripely rounded cheeks, twin pale moons, with a deeply dividing cleft at the lower extremity of which peeked a glimpse of curling hair more auburn than chestnut. From the lowered head came a frantic yelp. At the other end the black high heels kicked weakly. Having her bottom bared in this humiliating posture was sickening; but Joanna knew that something quite a lot worse was about to come. She squealed again. Henry Fenfield said. ‘I haven’t started yet.’ And gave a playful sort of slap to one flinching buttock.
But then he did start. His hand cracking down. And again. And again. Each one bringing forth a gasping yelp of anguish. Because it hurt. It wasn’t only a sickening sort of thing, to be like this, in this position, at 19. It also hurt. Killingly. And the more he did it the more dreadful that awful pain became. Joanna’s poor bottom feeling like she’d been sat down bare-bottom on a hornet’s nest. And was being held down… while each and every hornet had a go…
The swimsuit was a simple tank suit in bright cherry red. Mr Fenfield produced it a bit later, after the bare bottom spanking following which Joanna had some tea and then went up to her room to do some reading. Or try to do some but it was almost impossible to concentrate with the hot, fresh memory of the spanking still whirling around in her head. With that happening when she had scarcely been back two minutes… well, it was not a good omen at all. Then Mr Fenfield was suddenly there, this red swimsuit in his hand. ‘Our guest will be arriving shortly so I should get changed now, my dear.’
Joanna had been expecting something awful: a bikini perhaps that was almost non-existent; or if it was a one-piece, cut so brief that… Mr Fenfield was holding it up. The suit looked like it might well be cut tight at the hips but the top… looked all right.
Mr Fenfield was smiling. ‘This is how it is to be worn, Joanna.’ Turning it. ‘This is not the front, it is the back. This is the front.’
Joanna’s eyes widening. He was saying the back was the front. It didn’t make sense. Perhaps she was still affected by the shock of that spanking and Joanna’s brain wasn’t working very quickly. ‘What…?’
Henry Fenfield still had that smile, or smirk, on his face. ‘Well all right. It’s to be worn back to front. Or should I say front to back. That way, Joanna, my friend Arthur Granford will be able to fully appreciate your charms.’
Joanna blanched. Her brain had got it now. Crystal clear. The suit was cut low at the back, no higher than the wearer’s waist. That was to be at the front according to Mr Fenfield. So that… colour was flooding back into her cheeks. ‘No…! Please…
Henry Penfield came close. His right hand, the one not holding the swimsuit, rubbed over Joanna’s firm and splendid tits which were demurely hidden under a white blouse and a lacy bra below. They were firm and out-thrusting, certainly not needing the bra for support. Joanna flinched at the hand but her thoughts were on the swimsuit. Worn back to front. ‘No! Please no!’ she repeated.
‘Don’t you want Mr Granford to see how lovely they are?’ asked Mr Fenfield, continuing to caress the thrusting globes. ‘I should have thought any girl with a pair as, ah, outstanding as these would be happy to show them off. And it’s all part of your training, my dear. Self-confidence. I shall be most interested to see how you conduct yourself.’
There were some more hot-faced pleas of protest. Henry Fenfield asked if Joanna wanted Mr Spinks to be sent up to put the swimsuit on her. There was no answer to that. ‘Right away then,’ he said and went out.
Joanna looked at the suit and felt sick. Mr Fenfield couldn’t. But of course he could. He had shown last week what he was capable of doing. Things that made you feel sick. In the interests of self-control and discipline most of them, according to Mr Fenfield. That was just an excuse, she knew it was. An excuse to do those awful things. Like this awful thing now, wearing this swimsuit back to front. Joanna felt a desperate urge to phone her mother, tell her. Ask her to plead with Mr Fenfield. But he wouldn’t let her do that, she knew.
And also, and incidentally, Joanna would not have found it easy to contact her mother at this particular moment, or indeed all this evening. Anthea Vanforth was not at home. With husband James away for the day on business she was in a hotel room. In the hotel room’s bed in fact. Being at this moment, as Joanna looked desperately at Mr Fenfield’s swimsuit, very pleasurably and energetically fucked. By someone who naturally was not James Vanforth. But that of course, being quite unknown to her daughter, is incidental to Joanna’s plight.
Mr Fenfield called up, ‘Are you ready, Joanna?’
No, she wasn’t. But if he meant did she have the swimsuit on… the answer was yes. Joanna had pulled her dressing-gown on over it. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to look in the mirror… or indeed glance down at her front. She had just grabbed her dressing-gown and pulled it round herself. The swimsuit was cut very high on the hips — and was stretched almost to ripping point between her legs. It seemed to be a size or two too small — probably deliberately on Mr Fenfield’s part — and of course having it on backwards… but it wasn’t down below — where at the back it cut up across Joanna’s bottom baring half of it — that was making her sweat. It was up in the front. Or the absence of a front.
‘Come down, Joanna. Our visitor.’
There was no avoiding it. She had to go down. Take the dressing-gown off. And stand up straight with her shoulders back, Mr Fenfield said. `No cowering or cringing. A nice straight back, a good posture, that’s what I want to see.’ He meant when she wasn’t in the pool of course. Because as well as swimming Joanna was going to have to serve drinks etc. In the back-to-front swimsuit.
The visitor was already sitting by the pool. Joanna could see him through the French windows now, from the hallway: a gentleman of Mr Fenfield’s age or thereabouts. She had to go out there. With her dressing-gown off. She couldn’t! Looking around, there was Mr Fenfield… and Mr Spinks.
‘Ah Joanna, there you are. Well you can’t wear that of course. Have you got the suit on underneath?,’ Joanna nodded, unable to speak.
Henry Fenfield shook his head. ‘Take it from her, will you, Sidney? Take her in the drawing room and take it off. Then she’s to come out. I don’t want her in that thing, certainly not.’ He went off, outside, to his guest.
Joanna emitted a despairing wail. Mr Spinks’ eyes had a greedy look. ‘Come on then, young Joanna.’
In the drawing room he was straightaway grabbing at the gown. There was no point fighting him… and anyway Joanna seemed to have no strength. `Lordy me!’ Sidney Spinks breathed as the gown came apart. ‘My word! Look at these!’ With his greedy hands on them of course. On Joanna’s big bare tits. Christmas has certainly come early for Sidney Spinks.
‘Don’t…’ she whimpered weakly. ‘No…’ But Mr Spinks was bending. His head down. And his mouth… she gave a yelpy gasp… as Mr Spinks’ wet mouth sucked greedily on one erect nipple.
Outside. Somehow she had stumbled away from the dreadful Spinks. Outside by the pool where Mr Fenfield was chatting to Mr Granford. Joanna’s head in a terrible whirl. From what Mr Spinks had done… and from everything else. This swimsuit. The dressing-gown was off now of course and Joanna had only the back-to-front swimsuit on. Her big nude tits sticking invitingly out, nipples fully erect courtesy of Sidney Spinks. Mr Granford looking wide-eyed. Was she going to faint? Joanna wondered. ‘My word, Henry. You didn’t tell me…’
Henry Fenfield smiling. ‘Isn’t she lovely? Of course she still needs a bit of training. Don’t you, dear? I thought we’d give her a bit later on. But right now Joanna’s going to jump in. Show us her back-stroke.’
It was like an awful dream. In the warm water of the pool. Swimming on her back. So that the two men — not to mention Mr Spinks who was also watching from the wings — could admire Joanna’s tits. And then… wading across the pool with a tray. Drinks. Standing dripping at their sides. Her vibrant bare tits dripping, her bottom half bare in the back-to-front suit dripping too.
And after that… in the dream other things. More awful things. Mr Fenfield had brought out his cane. Joanna was kneeling on one of the pool-side chairs. The wet swimsuit now stripped down to her knees. Mr Granford had been handed the cane…
The cane across Joanna’s wet bottom… that wasn’t dream-like. Oh no, you couldn’t think that was a dream…
‘How long is she staying there?’ asked the man who was once again, the second time now this evening, fucking Anthea Vanforth.
‘Oh… I don’t know… oooooh…!’
‘If she’s enjoying it… there’s no hurry…’
‘Yes. She is enjoying it… ohhhh! No… there’s no hurry… certainly… ohhh… not!’ 

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