From Blushes 21
A schoolgirl but a very full grown one. Five-foot-eightish and statuesquely built with it. Except that Sandra Stolford’s figure did not truly resemble a statue, it was much too flowing, burgeoning; bottom and breasts in eye-catching motion when she moved. The bottom and the breasts were very well developed and the development of the latter was right now particularly evident in that as she stood in Mr Carswell’s sitting room Sandra did not have a bra on. Her school blouse and a vest underneath but that was all. The ripe, unharnessed glands jutting impressively. Trembling enticingly at her every movement.
Sandra was not in fact too happy about her bra-less state, although naturally she herself was the one who had not put a bra on — or more correctly had taken it off. At the end of school this afternoon because she had been planning to walk home via the garage where a certain Kevin Mills worked. And if Sandra had to be wearing her school uniform the effect of this, defining her undeniably as a schoolgirl, could be in part counteracted by not having a bra on and being able to let her blazer accidentally on purpose open to show those splendid tits, biggest in the school, thrusting impressively out.
This had been Sandra’s plan and she had indeed removed her bra in the loo but then outside the school gates there was her mother’s car and there was her mother inside it. Sandra had thought for a second of ducking back inside the gates but her mother had seen her and called sharply out. Sandra was caught. And driven here, to Mr Carswell’s. Bloody Christ! Bloody Christ because she had missed seeing Kevin and also Bloody Christ because of, well, Mr Carswell.
Sandra’s mother had been threatening her with Mr Carswell, for a number of things, a number of shortcomings. Things in the house, e.g. not making her bed and not doing the washing up, and also of course Kevin Mills. Anne Stolford did not think a common garage mechanic a suitable companion for her daughter, especially when she should be studying. Sandra’s dad agreed with that and even went so far as to call him a ‘grease monkey’ but Mr Stolford wanted above all a quiet life. Sandra’s mother, unfortunately, was made of sterner stuff.
‘If your father won’t deal with you, my girl, I know someone who will.’
This someone was Mr Carswell. Sandra’s mother had got to know him through the library committee which she was on. Mr Carswell had spent some time out in Burma where his family apparently had a tea business. According to Sandra’s mother girls out there could be given quite a hard time of it if they didn’t toe the line and Mr Carswell had offered to likewise deal with Sandra if she continued to cause problems for her mother.
Sandra of course simply hadn’t believed it. It was incredible to imagine her mother discussing her with a complete stranger and even more incredible to suggest that this man might ‘deal’ with her. Sandra had merely assumed her mother had made it all up in order to scare her, and she had ignored it. But this afternoon after a number of ‘I warn you, Sandra!’ there her mother was at the school gate making her get into the car. And driving her out to this house on the other side of town. Mr Carswell’s house.
‘I’ll pick you up later.’ And Mrs Stolford had driven off taking with her Sandra’s school bag which incidentally also contained Sandra’s bra.
It was all indeed incredible. But here she was left with this Mr Carswell — and as it happened with no bra on. This particular fact was now quite evident because Mr Carswell had taken Sandra’s blazer before telling her to wait here in this room.
Was it possible it was all simply an empty threat to scare her? Mr Carswell who had gone out somewhere for the moment was not particularly scary looking. Not all that old, or tough looking. A fancy little beard. Not bad looking in fact. Not the sort of person you could imagine beating girls with a riding crop. Which was what Sandra’s mother had said — either simply to scare her or because he actually had done so.
Sandra looked around. She could have sat down but this Mr Carswell hadn’t actually invited her to and so, well, she had stayed standing. Not that she was scared of him. She had just her blouse and short pleated skirt on, and knee socks and sandals. Rotten school gear. But no bra and Mr Carswell had given her a good look when she took off her blazer.
He had said he wouldn’t be long. Well, he had better hurry up and her mother had better hurry up and collect her. Or else… well, she would just leave and catch a bus home. It was pretty diabolical being treated like a little kid like this. Sandra looked in the mirror… and pulled her shoulders back, pushing her big tits out. She didn’t look like a little kid.
Suddenly Mr Carswell was back again, saying he was sorry he had to go out. He had better be sorry, Sandra thought, and then looked at him properly. Her heart missed a beat. He had a riding switch in his hand.
‘Right, take your skirt off, Sandra.’
Take her skirt off. Sandra’s blood pounded in her ears. ‘Look…’
‘Take it off.’ His voice now with a hard cutting edge that you could imagine ordering about poor helpless Burmese girls on a tea estate. Surely it couldn’t be true… He couldn’t think… She would just leave if he tried it. But Sandra’s hands were at her skirt, fumbling with the fastener. Cringing she slid it down and stepped out of it.
Regulation navy-blue school knickers disclosed. Schoolgirl knickers that when you were 17 you didn’t really like to be seen dead in and which rather cancelled out the fact that you had the biggest boobs in the school and which at this moment were unbrassiered and thrusting firmly out. The navy-blue knickers were skin-tight over a splendidly ripe rump which Mr Carswell eyed with evident interest.
‘A nice big target, Sandra. Now bring that coal box over here.’
A shiny brass coal bucket. Ultra-conscious of the fact that she was displaying those school knickers Sandra reluctantly did as she was told. It was quite heavy even though it had nothing in but she was a big strong girl.
‘Now stand in it,’ he told her.
He was joking. No he wasn’t. ‘Stand in it I told you.’
Again the tone of that voice, even though Sandra told herself she wasn’t scared, did not brook any argument. Not with that whip he held in his hand. She stepped into the bucket.
Mr Carswell sat down on the nearby chair. ‘That’s better. This is how I had those girls out in Burma when they needed straightening out. Of course it was a wooden bucket out there. And do you know what I did then? Do you, Sandra?’
He was presumably going to say he whipped them. This was really getting to be a bit sick-making. Sandra unhappily shook her hand.
‘Well first of all I had made them take all their clothes off. So she’s standing nude in the bucket, right Sandra? Then I took another bucket and filled it with cold water. And poured it over her head. And then I whipped her bottom. When a girl’s bottom is all wet, Sandra, the whip really stings.
Sandra did feel sick now. She could picture it and the picture made her go all weak at the knees. Even if he was making it up he had to be some kind of sadist.
‘That’s what I shall do to you, Sandra, if I hear any more complaints from your mother. I shall take you out in the garden and do exactly that. I might even invite a few people round to watch. I might even invite that boy that you’re running around with. All right? Do you understand?’
He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t. Her mother wouldn’t let him. Or would she? Sandra blinked. The thought was so awful she felt just a little bit like crying.
‘So be warned, young lady. I am not joking. Right?’
Sandra forced a nod. All she wanted was to get out of there. He wanted to scare her, with that switch and making her take her skirt off and, OK, he had. He was some kind of nutter and therefore you didn’t know what he might do. If she humoured him he would let her go. Sandra nodded again, to show she really meant it.
‘OK, good. That’s that; and now we’ll see about right now. Something for the trouble you’ve caused already. Take your knickers down.’
The words spun in Sandra’s head. He had said that, hadn’t he? She glanced at him. Yes he had said it all right, and he meant now, here.
‘No. Please… I… I’ll not cause any more trouble.’
Any trace of defiance had gone, to leave just abject fear. Of that crop; of the humiliation of having to take her knickers down.
‘Take them down. Sandra. Or I’ll take them down myself and then you’ll get it twice as hard.
He was a madman. People went mad out in places like Burma. The heat; and being able to beat native girls whenever you liked. Her mother had left her with a madman. And if she didn’t do what he said…
Sandra’s hands went to the waistband of the navy-blue knickers. Thumbs in and then easing them down. Off of the bounteous bottom. ‘Further down!’ Clear of her bum and halfway down her thighs. To show the full, hair-covered bulge of her pussy. Sick-making. It was absolutely sick-making. As if she were some sort of native girl he could humiliate as he liked. As if…
Oh Jesus Christ! A desperate yelp rending the air. A frantic shriek. ‘No! You can’t!’ Though of course he already had.
‘Don’t you dare move,’ he rasped. And then: Crack…! again. A second shriek of agony; Sandra’s ripe bottom writhing in shocked response, as the slimmer bottoms of those Burmese girls no doubt had wriggled and writhed. Her hand came back to protect those magnificent but suffering globes… and received a sharp cut of its own.
‘No hands! Hold your blouse up. Two hands.’
No real option, not when you were in the hands of a madman. Sandra lifted her blouse higher, above her waist. Crack…! The crop cutting in again across the full meat of her bum, causing renewed dervish-like movements.
‘I’ll tell my mum! You’re killing me!’
The frantic cries seemed to cut little ice with Mr Carswell who merely grunted and cracked the whip in again. Then two more, lower down, across the fleshy backs of the thighs. More desperate shrieks.
‘How does it feel?’ Mr Carswell queried, pausing.
What a question. He had to be a madman. ‘You’re… killing me…’ The words half gasped, half sobbed. Sandra realised she was crying.
‘Oh I don’t think you’ll die yet, Sandra. Not a big girl like you. With those nice big boobs, eh? And no bra. Is that how you always go to school?’
Sandra didn’t answer. Her mind was mostly occupied with her burning bum and the fear that if she wasn’t careful she would really break down and blub.
‘Like showing them off, do you? Well let’s see them. Lift your blouse right up and your vest.’
‘No!’ she gasped… and got another stinging cut across her flank.
‘Get it up!’
She did it. Pulled the blouse and vest up at the front; up until they were held high above her boobs. Those large firm tits that Kevin went really bonkers over. Bare in front of this dreadful Mr Carswell, as everything else — her bottom, her pussy — was bare.
‘That’s better. I bet those boys go really mad about them, eh?’
Crack…! As he spoke the crop cutting fiercely in across her unprotected bum again. ‘Aarrooowwhh!’
‘And I bet you let them have a really good go, eh?’
Crack…! ‘Aaaaooowwwwhhh! Stop! Please stop!’
‘Why should I stop?’
Crack…! ‘Now bend over. Put your hands on your knees.’
‘There’s some washing up out there, Sandra.’
Sandra’s mother spoke quietly, matter-of-factly. Sandra flushed and didn’t answer. But in about 15 seconds she got up and went out to the kitchen. Meekly she went to work. Her mother had picked her up from Mr Carswell’s timing it very well, when he had finally finished whipping her with his switch and, trembling and crying, she had been allowed to get her skirt back on and straighten up. Her mother’s timing had been so good that it seemed likely she and Mr Carswell had agreed a time.
She hadn’t spoken in the car — while Sandra unsuccessfully tried to hide the sobbing sound which kept coming at intervals. Back home Sandra had run straight up to her bedroom, where she had another good cry and then lay on her bed staring silently up at the ceiling. Half an hour later her mother called up:
‘Come down, Sandra. You can’t stay up there all evening.’
And Sandra after thinking about it for a little while had meekly come down. To sit silently in the lounge, until her mother looked in and mentioned the washing up. Mrs Stolford wanted the new situation to be quite clear. Sandra was now going to toe the line. And Sandra, after that experience at Mr Carswell’s was not going to argue. Could you argue when your mother had a madman she could put on to you? Gritting her teeth Sandra did the washing up.
Yes there were no two ways about it: she had no choice but to toe the line. Sandra was not going to be taken round to Mr Carswell and his whip and his coal bucket again; there was no way she could take another session of that. So from now on she would meekly do whatever she was told: a remarkable transformation. As for Kevin Mills — well, at least for the present she would have to stop seeing him.
Yes, a remarkable transformation, that was what Anne Stolford told Mr Carswell. One session seemed to have done the trick. She was very, very grateful. Ian Carswell smiled. Actually he would have been quite happy if this one session hadn’t been so effective. He would then have the excuse for a second go at her. Could Mrs Stolford be really sure? It was so easy for a girl to promise and then backslide.
Mr Carswell could be very persuasive — and claimed to know very well the ways of young females, both English and those of the East. One more session and then the lesson would be well and truly learnt. Sandra’s mother felt she couldn’t argue with an expert.
The next weekend, after Sandra’s behaviour had continued to be impeccable, Sandra thought they were going shopping but her mother drove instead out to Mr Carswell’s. ‘No!’ screamed Sandra. Anne Stolford, biting her lip, said she’d pick her up in a couple of hours. ‘It’s for your own good, Sandra. To make sure you don’t fall back in those old ways.’
It was quite a warm and sunny day and he took Sandra out into the garden. ‘You remember what I told you,’ he said, ‘About the two buckets.’
‘No!’ yelped Sandra.
‘I’m going to go easy on you. There’s no one else, just the two of us. Quite private and we’ll keep it that way if you co-operate. Otherwise I shall call in some more people to watch, and if necessary hold you. OK?’
She felt sick. Sick… sick… sick… There was the brass coal bucket and another bucket full of water. And Mr Carswell’s crop of course.
‘Just co-operate and it won’t take long. Take your dress off and then your knickers and everything else. And stand in the bucket.’
Sandra looked wildly around but there was no escape.