‘Ring Mr Pinfield for me,’ Mr Fosling says. ‘There’s a darling. He’s in my book.’ George Fosling is comfortably seated in his favourite armchair. He reaches out and squeezed a handful of soft bottom.
‘Yes Mr Fosling,’ the darling, owner of the soft bottom, says. She is in fact called Charlene. She waits until the hand has finished, then walks across the thick carpet in her shiny black high heels to the phone.
‘Don’t take all day,’ Mr Fosling adds mildly. Although he is sitting here in his comfortable armchair he is sportily dressed: white cricket sweater over a cream-coloured shirt; white flannels; trainers on his feet. He is fiftyish, not tall, bald, with horn-rimmed spectacles: not a particularly sporting figure. ‘Pinfield is under P,’ he adds helpfully.
‘Yes… I know… I’ve got it now.’ Charlene’s left forefinger points at it in the book while her right hand rings. Charlene is sportily dressed too. Well, apart from the shiny black stiletto heels. A white sleeveless top and tight navy-blue sports knickers, with white ankle socks. Plus as noted the perhaps incongruous high heels. There appears to be nothing under the thin sleeveless top. Not from the way her nipples are clearly pushing the front out. Presumably nothing under those navy knicks either. She is a decidedly pretty girl. this Charlene with the long shapely bare legs above the high heels. With also a pair of nice-sized boobs with those nipples showing. A brunette with short almost black hair.
The phone is ringing now as she carries the hand-set over to Mr Fosling. He smiles up at her. ‘A bit slow, Charlene darling. A good job the house wasn’t burning down, eh?’ Taking the phone from her as she stands at the side of the chair. Giving her another smile. ‘Drop your knickers, dear.’
Charlene’s soft mouth opens and then closes without any word coming out. She sucks in the ripe lower lip. Then her hands do what she has been told. Go to the top of the navy-blue knickers. Thumbs in the waistband to push… them down. Mr Fosling has placed the phone on the opposite arm of his chair, the receiver held in his left hand. So that his right is free… it reaches out to assist with the knickers, his forefinger hooking in the blue cotton material on Charlene’s left front flank… and then the right. So that the knicks are down nice and clear of the juncture of her thighs. A neat black bush is revealed which, a little tentatively as if Charlene knows she is unlikely to get away with it, her hand comes across to cover. This proves correct as Mr Fosling’s hand immediately and briskly brushes it aside.
‘Stand smartly, Charlene. Hands at your sides. Otherwise we’ll be smacking something.’ Then into the phone. ‘Sorry Harold. It’s me, George. Talking to Charlene.’ His fingers poke at the crisp black curls. ‘Not a very nice day, Harold.’
Indeed it is not. Through the French windows can be seen a most uninspiring morning: grey and overcast and spitting with rain. ‘So I don’t know about the common, Harold. Have you got your Valerie ready to go?’
George Fosling’s fingers give the black curls a little tug. Charlene emits a tiny squeak. Over the phone Harold Pinfield is saying yes, he has got Valerie ready. George has been planning to take both girls, Valerie and Charlene, out on the common for some exercise. Hard running plus physical jerks. Girls of their age need to be regularly exercised to keep them fit and also to keep their minds healthy too. Otherwise they can get bored and get up to who-knows-what. Harold Pinfield has got Valerie ready but he agrees it’s not very nice out. He doesn’t mind Valerie getting wet, though, he adds. She can have a bath when she gets back.
‘Get over the arm of the chair,’ George says looking up at Charlene. ‘Sorry Harold. Talking to Charlene again. Here, say hello to Mr Pinfield, Charlene.’ Holding the receiver out to her as Charlene now with Mr Fosling’s hand away from her pussy is bending herself forward, hands on the arm of the chair. ‘Hello Mr Pinfield,’ she says into the phone. ‘Hello Charlene dear,’ comes the reply. The receiver is taken away so that Charlene can continue on down, her nude hips coming into contact with the padded arm and then her upper body bending until it is in contact with Mr Fosling’s lap.
George Fosling is resuming his conversation. ‘Yes Harold, I agree. I don’t mind Charlene getting wet either of course. It’s more myself I was thinking of. I’m not too keen on going out in this weather. So actually…’ his hand is now toying with the silky flesh of Charlene’s womanly bottom-cheeks, ‘actually… I thought I might take them to the gym instead.’
This proposal seems to meet with approval. ‘Excellent,’ says Harold Pinfield’s middle-class voice. ‘As long as she gets a good work-out. No, the common might not be a good idea on a day like this. I wouldn’t want Valerie getting pneumonia or something. OK then, George. Same time?’
‘Yes: about half an hour.’ George Fosling holds the phone down to Charlene’s face which is against his thigh.
‘Tell Mr Pinfield you’ll see him soon, dear.’ Charlene obediently does this — in a voice that is a little bit agitated-sounding on account of her position and from what Mr Fosling is doing to her bare bum. His hand is fiddling around in that highly sensitive region where the undercurve of a girl’s bottom-cheeks meets the backs of the thighs. It is an area sensitive in its own right but also there is what it is immediately adjacent to. There is inevitably keen apprehension in a girl’s head when she is in this position and with a hand so positioned that at any moment it could with no trouble at all make the leap from what is getting her a bit jumpy, but not a lot worse than that, to something that would send her out into orbit. Because Charlene, who has been over Mr Fosling’s lap before, knows he’s quite capable of it. Of simply without warning doing it.
George Fosling replaces the phone in its cradle. ‘Yes Charlene. Half an hour or so. And it should take us ten minutes to get to Mr Pinfield’s house. Eh? So how long does that leave us?’
‘Uh… ohhhh!… uhhhh!… 20 minutes, Mr Fosling. Or something like.’
‘Or something like. Yes. So… plenty of time for a smacked bottom before we go out.’ Mr Fosling stops his fiddling about… and suddenly cracks his hand down hard. Onto a soft and relaxed and unprepared rear which, over the arm of the chair, is at present this pretty girl’s highest point. A yelping squeal from Charlene. When he hits you like that, out of the blue… you can’t help yelling out.
George Fosling’s hand slams down again. Producing another yelp. ‘You’re very noisy today,’ he mildly observes. ‘Where is all that self-control and discipline that we’re learning. Eh?’ This is accompanied by a third slammer… and then quickly a fourth.
Charlene doesn’t have any answer — except more yelped cries of ‘Aaaooohhh!…’ ‘Please Mr Fosling…’ ‘No…oooo!’ These cries have little effect — none in fact — as George Fosling’s hand continues to splat down. Charlene’s hindquarters hoisted over the arm of the chair are writhing and jerking. When Mr Fosling spanks a girl he really likes to let fly. Perhaps indeed he sees it as a useful form of exercise which otherwise he would not get. Because although he can be a sporty dresser, when George takes the girls to the common — or the gym — he does not himself reckon to take part in the lung-searing sessions he directs. But vigorous exercise of his right arm… is something else.
When George has had enough — which is when Charlene’s bottom is bright red all over and correspondingly the palm of his hand is tingling with the glow of repeated impact — Charlene is told she can get up. This she does — though it seems a bit of an effort. Her pretty face is red and flushed, her hair tousled.
‘All right, darling?’ he queries.
‘No!’ she says, making a face and pushing back the messed-up black locks. Charlene’s navy knickers remain down of course — she hasn’t yet been told she can pull them up. Mr Fosling is getting to his feet.
‘What d’you mean, no? That wasn’t much: a little spanking.’ He pulls Charlene to him, embracing her. ‘Was it, darling Charlene?’ he says softly in her pink ear. Charlene mumbles something — then winces as a hand comes onto her glowing bottom.
‘You heard what I said. We’re not going on the common, were going to the gym instead. Isn’t that nice? Aren’t you very grateful for that? I know how you hate it out in the rain.’
Charlene mumbles something else. ‘What?’ asks Mr Fosling, his hand gently massaging the cheeks of her bottom.
‘Nothing,’ says Charlene.
‘Nothing?’ queries Mr Fosling.
‘Well… I don’t l…like being out on the common all right. When it’s r…raining. But…’
What Charlene means is that the gym is not perfect either. They won’t be running and doing physical jerks in the rain but apart from Mr Fosling himself and what he’ll be doing in directing operations… there will be Mr Barlot. In all probability. Mr Barlot who owns the gym. He will very probably be there. And if he is he will want what he normally wants as, as it were, a fee. For gentlemen taking girls there to exercise. He likes to give them a massage. On the massage table in his room. And Mr Barlot in his massages likes to make sure he gets his money’s worth.
George Fosling chuckles, guessing what Charlene’s unsaid complaint is. ‘You’re just never satisfied, Charlene darling. Come on, give me a nice kiss.’
Charlene submits to having her ripe mouth joined with Mr Fosling’s. It is better than being spanked — just about. She allows her mouth to be pushed open so that his tongue can go in. She groans. Mr Fosling seems to be trying to push it right down her throat. His hand is still at her bare bottom and has slid down now to the danger area. Fingers push in between her legs. Where Charlene is dampish. A spanking can produce bodily secretions: sweating or whatever. Due to the shock to the system. Charlene groans again. Thinking for the moment of Mr Bloody Barlot.
Mr Fosling’s large tongue comes out and he breaks off his enthusiastic kiss. He removes his now damp-fingered hand. They have to get to Mr Pinfield’s, to pick up Valerie. Charlene can pull up her knickers. The spanking of course was primarily for earlier this morning: for being late up and not getting Mr Fosling’s cup of tea to him on time. She wasn’t very late, only about five minutes, but if a girl is being taught discipline etc. then clearly five minutes is five minutes. As Mr Fosling would say. As indeed he did say.
He squeezes Charlene’s bottom, now snug in the navy knickers, then goes to the French windows to get an update on the weather. It is worse, quite heavy rain now falling and looking as it could be set in for the day. Certainly not a morning to be out on the common. He has made a wise decision. And one which Maurice Barlot at the gym will undoubtedly be pleased with. George hasn’t taken the girls there for a week or more and nor has Harold as far as George can recall (they take the two girls out for exercise on alternate days) so yes, Maurice Barlot will be pleased. Extremely pleased to have the opportunity to give them each one of his special massages, up on his massage table. Which of course Charlene and Valerie both hate.
George turns back to Charlene. ‘Better be going then. Get your coat on. Need to brush your hair?’
‘Do I need my trainers?’ she asks.
George gives her an owlish look. ‘Do you need trainers? Yes Charlene darling, I think you do.’ He brushes his hand across Charlene’s front. Across where her nipples are pushing out the thin top. ‘Are yours bigger than Valerie’s? Would you say?’
Valerie’s and Charlene’s boobs are about the same size. ‘No,’ Charlene answers. Mr Fosling is rubbing her nipples now. With both hands. She nervously licks her lips.
‘These are bigger,’ he says. Meaning the nipples. ‘They stick out more. When they are sticking out I mean.’ With a smooth motion Mr Fosling’s hands go to the hem of the tee-top and slide it up, to bare Charlene’s boobs. With the top hoisted above her pert boobs he takes hold of the now fully erect nipples again. Squeezing them. ‘Yes, no doubt about it.’
He lets go. ‘But we mustn’t allow ourselves to be diverted, must we? Or Mr Pinfield, not to mention darling Valerie, will be wondering where we are. Yes, wear the heels, dear, and carry the trainers.’ Charlene is pulling down the top. She goes off, to get her coat and trainers.
Inevitably they are a bit late when they get to Mr Pinfield’s, what with one thing and another. ‘Not to worry,’ George says as he pulls up in the driveway. ‘You’d better come in and say hello to Mr Pinfield. He’ll expect that.’ He opens Charlene’s coat to give her bare thigh a squeeze.
Valerie is ready and waiting, similarly dressed to Charlene in a coat with knickers and top underneath. She has long white knee-socks rather than ankle-socks but similar black high-heeled shoes. She is perhaps an inch taller than Charlene, another pretty brunette, her hair shoulder-length. She is waiting in the hall behind Harold Pinfield when that gentleman opens the door. He is taller than George Fosling, of a similar age, with hair and without the spectacles; in grey jersey and slacks as opposed to George’s sporty outfit. George has made no apologies and is grabbing Valerie: to embrace her and give her one of those full-tongue kisses he has recently placed on — and in — his own Charlene’s soft-lipped mouth. Harold has at the same time gone to Charlene, to greet her likewise.
Breaking his mouth away, Harold Pinfield asks if his visitor would like coffee. He has one hand inside Charlene’s coat and is stroking her thighs. George and Harold are very close friends and it is virtually a case of what’s mine is yours. George says no, thanks all the same. But they had better get on out. Otherwise he won’t be able to give the girls a decent work-out before lunch. Harold seems a mite regretful at this. His hand is now stroking the crotch of Charlene’s tight knickers. But of course he accepts that the girls must have their daily work-out. Regretfully nonetheless, he lets go. It is a great idea, this scheme whereby they each take both girls on alternate days so that each also has alternate days to himself to get on with work (they are both writers). Because if you have a girl in the house she is a big distraction and it is all too easy to spend all day messing about with her and get absolutely no work done. Harold Pinfield will be able to get on at his typewriter now. Except that he is standing there looking wistfully at George’s car disappearing down the driveway, thinking only of the twin delights of Charlene and Valerie.
The two girls are in the back. Conversing in girlish whispers. Valerie knows they are going to the gym and not on the common. Her feelings mirror those of Charlene: i.e. it is not a nice day, with the rain now spattering against the car’s windows; but given a free choice the gym would not be what you would pick. Not given that it’s Mr Barlot’s gym and it’s ten to one Mr Barlot will be there and will want what he always wants.
‘What’re you two girls whispering about?’ Mr Fosling asks over his shoulder. ‘Some dreadful secret?’
‘Oh no,’ says Valerie. meeting his eye in the mirror. ‘Nothing like that. We wouldn’t.’ She can afford to be pert, cheeky almost, with Mr Fosling, more than she would with her own Mr Pinfield. Mr Fosling will be more lenient, in the same way that Harold Pinfield will be with Charlene. ‘We were talking about awful Mr Barlot,’ Valerie continues. ‘I s’pose he’ll be there.’
‘Should think so,’ says George. ‘What’s the matter: don’t you like a nice relaxing massage after a hard work-out?’
‘No,’ Valerie says. ‘Not that sort.’
‘Maybe I should give you one myself? Would that be better?’
Valerie doesn’t answer. Her eyes briefly meet George’s again.
At the gym the parking lot is mostly empty. Perhaps, Charlene thinks, Mr Barlot isn’t there — but Valerie points to a shiny black Mercedes. ‘How do you know?’ Charlene breathes in a half whisper. ‘Because I do,’ is Charlene’s answer. And he is, talking to the receptionist in Reception when they go in. Mr Barlot is Mr Fosling’s height and dark, like an Italian or Greek. He grins when he sees them. Coming over to shake Mr Fosling’s hand… and then playfully grabs at the two girls. He confirms that there aren’t many people in.
‘Gentlemen must be staying at home with their girls in this sort of weather,’ he says to Valerie, helping her off with her coat. ‘So it’s really good to see you lovely girls. And we haven’t seen you for quite a while.’ His hand takes hold of Valerie’s crotch. Gasping, she pushes it away… although the hand is very reluctant to go away. He laughs, and turns to George. ‘I’ll see them later then, Mr Fosling. A nice massage. Make sure you work them really hard now!’
Mr Barlot says they can use the main gym and it’ll probably be empty. He takes the girls’ coats, to hand to the receptionist, then briefly grabs at both navy-blue-knickered bottoms. He and Mr Fosling laugh.
The main gym is empty. It is a very large room, seeming a bit like an aeroplane hangar with no one else in it. There are wall bars at one end, some mats and a couple of vaulting horses — and a wide expanse of shiny lacquered wood floor. The two pairs of trainers are placed by one of the horses. The trainers will be needed for running but it is possible to do some other exercises, bending and stretching, physical jerks, in the high heels. So George Fosling will start with those.
Both he and his friend Harold are very keen on high heels and like to make the girls exercise in them as far as possible. They don’t make the exercises any easier, of course, it is easy to lose your balance and topple over. But, George or Harold would say, exercises are supposed to be difficult. There is a cane conveniently leaning against the vaulting horse. George picks it up, in his left hand. With his right he squeezes a handful of Valerie’s bottom.
‘All set are we, Valerie darling? Going to give one hundred per cent? Or even one hundred and fifty?’
Valerie groans. George squeezes another handful. ‘Because if we don’t we know what we have to spur us on, don’t we?’ Valerie groans again. That cane. Which Mr Fosling will certainly be happy to use. He may take pert little remarks from her, he may in fact fancy her in an extra way (she thinks), but none of that will deter him from whipping that cane into her bottom. Valerie knows that from experience. She forces a weak smile. What with the immediate prospect of the cane, and later on the aggressive (and invasive) hands of Mr Barlot…
They are made to start. Standing side by side with legs wide apart. Bending to touch the floor; stretching deep left and then right. Producing aches in places you were not aware existed. Down on their backs on the floor, cycling their legs in the air. More deep bends. High kicking. Valerie falls over in attempting one especially high kick. Tumbling on her back on the floor. Mr Fosling cuts the cane in across her thigh. Not hard — but certainly not completely painless either. Valerie yelps.
‘I’m not sure how hard either of you is working,’ he says. This may be true or it may simply be that he feels like a bit of action. ‘Charlene, make a horse for Valerie. We’ll give dear Valerie a taste first.’
Charlene has to take Valerie on her back, her own legs wide-spread for support and hoisting her up. ‘Making a horse.’ So that Valerie can be ‘horsed’. Mr Fosling tugs her knickers down to bare her bottom. In this position of course Valerie’s bottom is nicely thrust out. In an excellent position for the cane. This is the manner in which girls were caned in Victorian times and it is still, as far as George Fosling is concerned, an excellent one. ‘Hold still,’ he tells Charlene. Charlene is teetering a bit in her high heels and with Valerie’s full weight on her back. She’s not going to collapse flat on her face, is she? For the moment at least Charlene seems to have achieved a certain unsteady balance. Valerie is making little mewling sounds of alarm…
Oh my word! And clearly with reason! Valerie’s mewling goes into sudden overdrive: a frantic screech. As the cane cuts in. Mr Fosling may fancy her but clearly that does not preclude him delivering a stiff caning. He has fairly zipped it in. Charlene braces herself to stay upright under the no longer dead weight of Valerie. It is suddenly a very much live weight. Valerie’s bottom in particular of course, quivering and clenching in desperation. George Fosling, perhaps fearing an imminent collapse, is taking a quick second aim.
A second very telling stroke. squarely across the cresting curves of these splendid buttocks. The screech bursting forth again, rising like a siren’s wail, demonstrating anew that Valerie’s lungs at least are in excellent shape. Poor Charlene is definitely tottering now. George Fosling gets rapidly set again, arcing back the cane… and is able to land a third… THWAPPP!… just as Charlene does collapse and both girls descend in a heap to the floor.
Mr Fosling surveys them silently for a moment. Charlene with her knickers up, Valerie with hers down and three red stripes athwart her bared buttocks; the two girls tangled together, struggling weakly and making varied sounds of distress. After some silent seconds he says ‘Get up.’ They are in fact already attempting to do this. Mr Fosling reaches down to lend a hand, hauling on this and that. The two girls struggle to their feet.
‘Not a very good show, Charlene.’ Mr Fosling says, smacking that young lady’s thigh. ‘Though I will accept that Valerie was not making it any easier with all that writhing about.’ He grabs Valerie and pulls her to him. ‘Were you, Valerie darling?’
Valerie darling cannot think very far beyond her bottom. Which is still red hot. Mr Fosling now has his arms round her. One hand slides down to the fiery moons. Valerie lets out a shuddering wail. Perhaps her distressed state strikes a sensitive nerve in George Fosling — or a sensitive something (is that a sensitive something making its presence felt in the region of Valerie’s groin?) At any rate he seizes on her soft mouth with his own, imparting another of those enthusiastic and greedy kisses. His tongue slides in. Valerie is not in much of a state for clarity of thought but some instinct tells her that a show of co-operation at this point would be no bad thing — because Mr Fosling could easily start caning again. She therefore sucks with apparent enthusiasm on the invading tongue.
Charlene stands watching — and waiting. Unless Mr Fosling has changed his mind, or forgotten, it will be her own turn next to be up on Valerie’s back. With her knickers down and that dreadful cane… the thought, and looking at those red stripes on Valerie’s bottom, brings Charlene out in a cold sweat. Look at those stripes… which now can be seen more clearly because Mr Fosling has let go of Valerie: her bottom, and all the rest.
‘Your turn now to make a horse for Charlene, Valerie.’
Valerie protests wildly that she can’t. Not at this moment. She will simply collapse. Charlene half expects Mr Fosling to give her another one with the cane and tell her to do it. But he doesn’t. It all depends what mood he’s in. He instead gives her one of those looks, and gives Charlene one too, then says she can make a horse for Charlene later. They can start some running now. For this of course they are going to have to put their trainers on, there is no way you can run in high heels. And also, Mr Fosling says, they can take their knickers off too. Valerie’s which are still at half-mast, Charlene’s which are not. Both of them off.
At least, Charlene thinks, she has got off of the horsing — or anyway delayed it and he may then forget. But Charlene does not have long to enjoy this pleasant thought. As Mr Fosling grabs her.
‘We mustn’t forget dear Charlene completely, though. Must we?’
His hands go over her for a bit of groping — caning does seem to get Mr Fosling going, or it could simply be having both girls for his pleasure. He gropes, and then he is reaching for the cane. ‘Stand still darling,’ Charlene is told. Mr Fosling is holding one arm. She of course has her knickers off now. ‘Stand quite still and let the dog see the rabbit…’
‘Aaaagghhhh…!’ Charlene is performing a desperate dervish-like dance. The dance in particular involves wild gyrations of her stung bottom.
‘That’s more like it. Eh? Warm you up a bit?’ And in comes the cane again. THWATT!
‘So how are we?’ Mr Fosling asks. ‘Valerie darling. Feeling nice and fit now?’
Valerie darling shakes her head weakly. They are in the changing room, just herself and Mr Fosling. Charlene has gone in with Mr Barlot. (‘Take your time, no hurry,’ Mr Fosling advised). So Charlene is with Mr Barlot in his room. Lying on that table no doubt, on her back with nothing on — well, apart from her socks probably — and getting one of those awful massages. While Valerie is here with Mr Fosling in the changing room. She is in just her top and socks. Mr Fosling has pulled the top up to uncover Valerie’s delightful boobs. They maybe don’t have quite such sticking-out nipples as Charlene’s but they are really super ones just the same: high and firm. These boobs and all the rest of Valerie are at present glowing pinkly and all of her is also covered with a light sheen of perspiration. She and Charlene have been put through their paces and have not yet had their showers.
‘Fit or not fit?’ says Mr Fosling grabbing Valerie. Is there a certain extra gleam in his eyes? Valerie moans. She would do almost anything not to have to go in with Mr Barlot. Just for once. Mr Fosling’s tongue pushes in her mouth and she sucks co-operatively on it. If Mr Fosling said he didn’t want her to have a massage… not today… The greedy kiss stops. ‘I don’t want…’ she whispers. ‘Mr Barlot… Please…’
Valerie rubs herself against Mr Fosling. Rubs her hips against what is down there, like a live creature, a ferret or something…
‘No?’ queries George Fosling.
‘No… please…’ Valerie puts her soft mouth forward for another kiss. And one hand slides down. To push between them. Well, to make quite clear where she stands on this. If not perhaps anything then certainly almost anything. Taking hold of it. That ferrety thing. Through the white flannels. And then letting herself slide down as if her knees have given way. Down until her knees are in contact with the floor. And her face is about at the level where her hands are now… working… at Mr Fosling’s… zip…