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Saturday, 30 June 2018

Working Weekend – Sunday

Photo-story from Janus 102 continuing on from the previous story in Janus 101.
Pretty Brenda Watkins yawned, pushing a cloth over a grubby set of dials. Sunday morning, and back down in this grim place again. She had slept badly, tormented by dreams of the exhausting, painful and humiliating experiences endured here yesterday. Voluntarily, too! But if that had been awful, today promised to be hell.
Quite simply, Brenda wanted to keep her audio typing job in the office four floors above. She wasn’t very good at it, but it gave her pride and a sense of belonging. A good report from the caretaker, Mr Tubbs, for this weekend cleaning ordeal she had agreed to undertake was vital if her boss, Mr Meldrum, was not to fire her for incompetence, as he had often threatened.
Basically Brenda Watkins was a good girl, who did as she was told without thinking too closely about it. By nature mild and acquiescent, she had returned this morning at eight sharp in the same unseasonably skimpy clothing as yesterday. Why? Because Mr Tubbs had told her to, following the embarrassing whacking he gave her on her near-naked bottom for ‘slowness’ — in exchange for which he had let her go home early.
Now, in the dingy diesel-tanged gloom, increasingly weary as the morning wore on, Brenda rubbed and buffed with duster and cloth over more of the same surfaces that she had covered yesterday, plus others she had missed. But Mr Tubbs had not shown up.
Brilliant, she thought. Perhaps the evil perv would not turn up at all! — had got drunk on some filthy pub-crawl last night with dirty-minded friends as horrible as himself, and would be sleeping it off, slumped in disgusting repose in the foul backroom where she imagined him living. Her heart rose at the thought. Or maybe he had simply forgotten she would be here, in which case she would give it a little longer then slip away, and…
So youm be ‘ere, then.’ Brenda looked up in dismay on hearing the dreaded voice with its almost incomprehensible accent. How long had he been lurking behind the pipes and ducts watching her? ‘Buck yer ideas up, mi lass, or I’ll fetch a boot to yer saucy arse, right niftily at that!’
Brenda’s knees and haunches ached, her hands were sore, and her buttocks inside the achingly tight sawn-off jeans still felt tender from where he had struck them with that heavy strap. But his sudden presence galvanised her into greater activity, dusting guard-cages, buffing conduit pipes, bringing a sheen to the tiles…
Tubbs looked down at the strenuously-working girl as she knelt on the hard floor beneath him, long blonde hair shaken awry as her shapely body, unconsciously erotic, strove to please. He salivated at the sight of his very own living wet dream right there before him again — for if Brenda Watkins had been tormented by nightmares after yesterday’s events, Tubbs’s sleeping hours had been illuminated by pantingly sexual dreams of what had occurred between them.
He could never quite forget, of course, that this testicle-tingling piece of stuff had been sent to him, the firm’s cleaning contractor, by office manager John Meldrum as a very special treat. Naturally she did not know that she was the latest and greatest in a series of favours exchanged between the two like-minded, though very different men, each hoping to outdo the other in a competitive spirit. He licked cracked lips as his gaze feasted on how her hips jerked and swayed to every movement, how her tightly-clad arse wiggled and shook in the skimpy pants, and how the luscious breasts swung and thrust against the flimsy blouse.
‘Oooagh!’ He made a strange guttural sound and rolled his eyes. She paused. Was he ill? ‘Get youm on, girl!’ he snapped. ‘More elbow grease!’
Brenda sprayed polish on the greasy floor, feeling her shoulders ache more keenly as she pushed the duster faster in a hopeless effort to bring up the shine.
‘Lazy young besom, barn’t youm!’ growled Tubbs. He reached up, higher than the girl could possibly have stretched, and gathered dust from a hidden angle of machinery. Leaning down with a gloating sneer he held the dust-coated finger under her nose. ‘What be this’n, then?’ he sneered. ‘Youm s’posed to be cleaning the place, girl. This’m’s nought but disgrace, youm’s gonner have to do better if I’s to give a good report to Mr Meldrum!’
‘But it’s not fair,’ Brenda pleaded, blinking back tears of disappointment. ‘I’m doing it as hard as I can!’
Tubbs snorted — an unpleasant enough noise, but more comprehensible than his oddly-phrased verbal utterances. Brenda flinched at the expression in the pink, puffed face. She smelt the tang of oil and aluminium as he shifted his ungainly stance and planted his fists on his hips.
‘Stand up!’ Brenda did so, stretching her aching limbs. She stared in alarm as his angry features worked to form further speech. ‘Pick up yer cleaning gubbins in yownder bucket.’
Divining his meaning, the girl obliged, and Tubbs goggled at her deliciously shapely body as she stooped to put the various bottles, cloths and dusters back into the plastic bucket.
‘In my office. Now, youm idle little shirker! NOW.’
As Brenda did as bidden she noticed how the sweat gleamed on the man’s craggy brow, and that his staring eyes were glassy from some strange passion she could not comprehend. She half-hoped he was about to collapse with high blood pressure, or even heart failure, as she entered his office and put down the bucket beside what passed as a desk in this untidy, fusty-smelling room.
‘Stand there, girl!’ Brenda stood meekly as Mr Tubbs, like some grotesque headmaster from a Finishing School in Hades, lowered his bulky boiler-suited frame into a chair behind the desk. ‘Barn’t youm ‘shamed?’ he barked, scarcely glancing at the naked monochrome female smiling sexily up from the page 3 of yesterday’s newspaper. Why bother to look, when the real flesh-and-blood article was standing in front of you?
‘I-I’m doing my best,’ came the girl’s protesting whine.
‘Best? Youm don’t know what best be! Youm a slack, idle, useless besom what needs a boot up the pants!’ Tubbs paused to light a cigarette, watching her flinch from the acrid fumes. ‘Middlin’ nice pants, too,’ he added slyly. ‘Thinner’n tissue, shorter than short and tight as can be.’ A thread of saliva dribbled from his mouth.
‘It’s very, very hard!’ Brenda Watkins protested.
‘That it is, an’ all,’ he remarked, giving a sly smile.
‘I’ve done my very, very best to clean this place!’ she went on almost petulantly.
‘Well it barn’t good enough!’ Tubbs growled. ‘And youm, my girl, can get youself offa these premises. Go on, home with youm! Be sure I’ll be telling Mr Meldrum how useless youm were, so that’ll be that.’
‘No! No! It isn’t fair,’ Brenda protested with a show of spirit. ‘You’ll put in a bad report, and I’ll lose my job, and I want to keep it. It’s just not fair, I have done my best!’
Even to a man of Tubbs’s primitive instincts it was fairly obvious that the girl was about to turn on the waterworks, which would never do. The hidden video camera was in its place and whirring softly, the sound masked by the groans and hisses of the plumbing all around. He ejected a stream of smoke through gritted, uneven teeth, then leaned back. ‘Tell youm what,’ he said. ‘I’m a fair and reasonable man, don’t no one say diff’rent. So I mun be prepared to put in a passable report if us can come to an arrangement.’
Brenda Watkins stared in dismay as his ravaged features collapsed into a smirk. ‘Y-you mean like yesterday?’
Tubbs nodded. ‘Youm be brighter than Mr Meldrum gives you credit for. If youm be prepared to take a spot more punishment on that tasty bot o’youm, then I’m prepared to let you off the rest of the cleaning.’ He blasted more smoke between his teeth.
‘A-and you… will you give Mr Meldrum a good report on me?’ the girl ventured. ‘If I agree, I mean.’
‘If youm don’t agree, that’s your free choice. I mun still give a good account of youse work, but yer’ll have to work the day out.’
‘So there’s yer choice,’ came the gravelly tones. ‘Carries on working all day, or else takes a choice of either a little smackie-bum, or a dose of cane what I promised yesterday. Take yer pick, youm’s free as a bird to go.’
Brenda’s eyes widened in unhappy contemplation of the alternatives. ‘If it is just a spanking,’ she said doubtfully, ‘it won’t hurt as much as the cane. Only I really don’t think I can work any more — I’m aching all over…’
‘A spanking it be, then.’ Tubbs rose, stiffly, inwardly exulting. ‘On youm’s pretty beam-end, now. Youm knows the part I mean.’
‘On my…’
‘Say it!’ His heart set off at a canter.
‘My bottom?’ Joy flittered through Tubbs’s crude soul like an exotic butterfly in an abattoir as he excitedly placed his chair where the hidden camera could see it better. ‘Please don’t smack too hard.’ Brenda Watkins’s pleading voice echoed around the bleak walls and into the sensitive microphone. ‘It still hurts from yesterday.’
Tubbs was already sitting on the chair. ‘We’ll ‘ave them shorts down, for starters,’ he said. ‘Turn you this way — thaa’s right…’ His shaking fingers unbuckled the belt and tugged the denim skimpies down her long graceful legs to drop in a heap around her ankles.
His clammy hands touched and clutched, causing Brenda to tense as she felt his fingers on the flesh of her leg and left buttock, probing the springy softness.
She winced, hearing him gasp, but endured it without complaint. Best to get it over with!
She felt the stubby fingers squeeze there again, and then she was sinking awkwardly across his thighs till her weight was supported by them and his palm was pressing down in an intimate way on her buttocks and the small of her back.
‘Not too hard,’ she whimpered again.
Tubbs positioned the girl across his lap, feeling her silky skin beneath his stroking hands. Bloody lovely, it was — a sodding dream coming true all over again. How the hell was he going to live without this in the future? He gave a slap to the petal-soft moons, watching how they quivered.
Then he raised his hand high and began to spank in earnest. Smack, smack, smack: deep, resonant juicy impacts that brought gasps and little squeaks from the girl. She shifted, pressed down on his lap, as the spanks began to change from tingles to stings to scorches, and it seemed to Norman Tubbs that his senses were starting to float.
Smack, smack, slap. His left slid beneath her body the better to hold her, and as his right palm swung and pounded with luscious noises over every quivering inch of her buttocks, his left hand found other treasures, ‘accidentally’ nudging against her breasts to the squirming movements she made.
Smack-smack-slap-smack-spank! Brenda was in a haze of pain and embarrassment. After the first few impacts of his leathery hand against her bottom-cheeks the separate stinging shocks seemed to coalesce into a single, growing fire-pool. Smack-smack-slap. His obscene grunts, the muscular movements of his thighs beneath her tummy and groin were horrible enough, as was the way his palm seemed to linger and squeeze for a fleeting instant after every smack, as if to rub the sting even deeper into her bottom.
But she could feel, too, how his left hand began to push at her breasts. But even worse, as she was jerked inwards against him during the movements of their bodies while he spanked and groped, there was the unmistakable sensation of something rigid pushing against her naked hip.
Smack, slap, spank, SMACK! Brenda’s face was as hot with shame as her bottom was hot with the fiery rain of his walloping hand-slaps, during which his other hand began to squeeze and grope more at her breasts, and the pressure against her hip seemed to grow firmer and stronger. Another scalding slap. Brenda kicked a leg up behind her and gave a mortified shriek.
‘No! No more! NO!
Tubbs paused, panting. The hidden camera quietly whirred. ‘I barn’t hardly begun yet,’ he grunted, resting a hand on the back of her upper thigh and squeezing, squeezing and stroking…
‘No. Please.’ Brenda struggled to find words. She knew that when her boyfriend did certain things — well, that was different. Now tension cramped her stomach. She jerked her body away. ‘No more spanking,’ she gasped. ‘I-I made a mistake…’
‘Get you ‘ome, then,’ Tubbs said heavily. ‘A little bit longer and I could’ve ge’en youm a good report. Pity. Still…’ He let the girl up, giving a final squeeze that made her flinch. ‘Be sure I’ll let Mr Meldrum know.’
‘I’ll have the cane.’
‘Wha’?’ Tubbs stared at her, hardly daring to hope he had heard correctly.
‘I didn’t know that spanking would be so…’ Brenda could not help a grimace of disgust. She wanted only to be away from this man, but she also wanted to come in to the office tomorrow without facing dismissal from Mr Meldrum. ‘So I’ll take the cane. Not too many. And then it’ll be finished.’
Tubbs struggled to calm his heaving senses. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘If it’s what youm wants…’ He stood up. ‘Stand youm against the table there and bend forrard over it.’
The girl did so, with evident apprehension. From behind his desk Tubbs now produced the cane he had shown her yesterday. It was light and whippy, with a satisfying shiver when he shook it. He looked at the girl’s rounded arse, so provocatively presented to him — nigh on naked, rosy from the slaps and pinches it had already received. Her legs looked good, too. He yearned to get down on all fours and lick them. Lick them all the way up, and then all over the ripe soft mounds of that fantastic, fabulous, beautiful…
‘Push it out, girl! I want ter see it up — nice and round.’
Brenda obeyed, arching her spine more so that her hips rose and pushed her bottom out. She shut her eyes, buttocks twitching in dreadful anticipation.
Crack! It sounded like a gunshot, and she hardly heard it coming. But she felt it. The first stroke took her full across the meat of her bottom, a brief burning streak. Even before her gasp was fully expressed, Tubbs had brought back his arm and swung in a second time.
The springy stick snicked wickedly in, imprinting its shape across both rosy buttocks again. He was rewarded, as the cane sprang away, with a high-pitched cry and a drumming of her feet on the floor. ‘Hold youm still!’ he ordered, transported to a plane where fantasy merged with reality.
Swish-thwack; swish-crack; swish-CRACK! The sounds rang out loud and harsh as he continued to bring the cane smartly down across that maddeningly erotic target: whop-whop-whoppings punctuated by girlish gasps, whimpers and squeals. He was not caning especially hard for, gross though his thoughts usually were, Tubbs found himself applying the stick with the same sort of consideration he might have given to something uniquely special which he did not want to damage.
But for Brenda Watkins, bent humiliatingly across the desk, her world was filled with a succession of pain-filled heat-flashes through her out-pushed rear and the noise of her chastiser’s odious gruntings. Amongst the other sounds in that bleak room she was vaguely aware of a soft whirring nearby, but her unsuspicious mind would never have related it to the purring of a video camera. Purely and simply she was being punished. On her bottom. And it hurt. But it meant that she could go home soon. And keep her job.
Crack! ‘Owww!’ Another stroke drove into the soft underfolds at the base of her buttocks, adding its fire to the conflagration elsewhere.
Whop-whack. ‘Push that arse up! Out! Out! Out!’ His hoarse instructions reached her, causing her again to strain her bottom backwards like a sacrificial offering. The cane struck again, making another track of stinging pain which brought tears to the brink, blinked back, lip bitten hard to keep them from spilling…
Thwish-thwack! Brenda rapidly drummed her feet, as if to shake the blaze from her burning bottom. It certainly hurt a lot more than she’d thought, but at least his horrible hands weren’t on her any more, slimily squeezing…
Thwack! ‘Ahhhh!’ Her fists clenched and unclenched on the desktop. She kicked up her leg, rubbed ankles frantically together. No more. Please, no more…
For the timeless moments it took him to administer a dozen swift, accurate strokes to that glorious arse of a thousand masturbatory fancies, Norman Tubbs forgot about his own empty existence, the dead-end job he would be in until retirement, the smarmy smart-suited Meldrum from the office and their constant quest to outdo each other in raunchy ‘treats’. He forgot the whirring camera, and how he planned to ply Meldrum with a copy of the tape so he would have to come up with something even more special next time…
No. Tubbs saw only this gorgeous fair-headed girl bent bare-bottomed beneath him, bucking and jerking to his stinging cane-strokes. For the moment she was his girl, his fairy-bleedin’-princess with her pants down having her tasty arse tanned before giving her all to him with sighs and kisses…
Whack! The final stroke sang through the air and snapped across twin pillows of reddened flesh, and his beauty whimpered and gasped. Then, quite suddenly, his arm had no more strength.
For several seconds Brenda Watkins was unable to move from the desk. Her bottom throbbed and burned. When she felt his coarse hand on her right buttock, softly squeezing, she was surprised to find the sensation almost pleasant.
But the hand moved on to her left buttock, caressed her leg, and his stubby fingers were threatening to probe into crevices that concealed her private places.
And still she stayed there, seemingly frozen, stomach knotted. She could not understand the gentleness of his clammy, vulgar touch, nor the heavy sigh he heaved. She did not know why he left her then and walked away, leaving her bending across his grubby desk in his grim little room, hot and hurt from shame and pain.
At last she stood up. In sudden panic to be as far away from this revolting man as possible she did not even pause to put on her shorts, but snatched them up and hastily climbed the wooden steps, appalled and elated in equal measure because although she would never forget how horrible this had been, she knew now that she would keep her typing job. The irony of the notice ‘Mind Your Head’ at the top of the stairway was lost on Brenda Watkins: it was her bottom she minded about…
In Mr Tubbs's office the hidden camera continued to whirr, recording the empty space where a simple girl had been punished and a stupid old bastard had fallen in love.
The camera continued to operate till the end of the tape. But no one came to switch it off. 

Friday, 29 June 2018

Morning Inspection

From Uniform Girls 19
A quiet suburban street. Buttercup Drive. Pretty, neat little gardens fronting trim but rather small brick houses. Box-like one could call the houses and maybe some of their occupants sometimes did, but they were perfectly adequate properties and they were the norm, what young married couples were routinely allocated by local housing authorities. So there was not much point in complaining and calling them box-like. And anyway who was going to complain? In public? In 1994?
Diane Whitley, 21, housewife, looked out of her well-polished front window and gave a little shiver. Outside it was a raw March morning, dry but with a biting wind, but that wasn’t the cause of her shiver for Number 20 like all the other identical houses in Buttercup Drive was well heated and draft proof. No, the shiver was caused by what she could see up the street, outside Number 4 it looked like. A big, shiny black limousine. She looked at her watch. It was 09.30. At 10.30 that shiny black car was due outside Number 20. She turned to look anxiously round the room.
Diane was tall, dark and pretty and her shapely form was clothed in what looked like a maid’s uniform. A tight, black leather skirt, with white blouse, black tie and a white apron tied at her waist, plus dark stockings and high-heeled shiny black shoes. An unusual outfit, it might be thought, for a young woman in her own house but the reason for it was that big black car, and its occupant. The Inspector.
In 1994 of course all young people, including young adults, were regimented and inspected in almost any area of life you cared to mention: the reaction to those earlier decades of youth freedom, of youth excess. Young housewives were certainly not exempt from this regimentation for they were, as future mothers, the guardians of the nation’s future. You could indeed argue that they therefore needed extra training and indoctrination. And so before they were allowed to marry girls had to attend a training course in wifely duties and discipline. And once they were married there were check-up visits. By an officer of the Department of Social Discipline. An Inspector…
Diane had had a phone call on Monday, two days ago. An authoritarian voice that she recognised because she had been inspected before by the same official: Inspector Deenham. That was some weeks ago but the memory of the visit was the cause of her shiver. That and of course memories of the training course itself. For a check-up visit a young wife wore the uniform she had been issued with on the course. Essentially a maid’s uniform.
Diane began another nervous check of her lounge. It looked in immaculate order but so it had last time when Inspector Deenham had professed to find something — a speck of dust on the windowsill. And with a triumphant gleam in his eyes…
Diane shivered again and her hands automatically went to her hips. Her maid’s outfit, like all the other maid’s outfits, had long hidden zips up either side, from hem to hip. It was a fair bet that Joanne Woodford at Number 4 who also of course this morning would have her maid’s uniform on would at this moment have the zips unzipped. And at Number 4 there would be sharp yelps of pain, unless Joanne was a lot better than Diane at controlling herself.
Because on a visit of the Inspector from Social Discipline a young woman could be fairly sure of being caned. Her skirt unzipped to its fullest extent and pulled up to her waist and her knickers taken down. To be then bent over her own sofa or the table, bed or something, for the Inspector to deliver a series of mind-boggling cuts across her bare bottom. As a result of a speck of dust or something similar in your house. That was the excuse; really of course it was simply because the Inspectors loved caning pretty young women’s bottoms.
That was what everyone said, though naturally only in private, you would not want to be heard making such a slanderous accusation against an important State Official. But privately you could say it because there was no real suggestion that houses such as those in Buttercup Drive were bugged. Bob, Diane’s husband and 21 like her, had said it this morning when he went off to work, to the computer factory. A wry look and, ‘I suppose he’ll be getting his jollies: that Inspector.’
Meaning of course the cane.
Diane, flushing, hadn’t answered. She had had her maid’s outfit already on, had put it on when she got up. There was now talk that a new regulation was going to be brought in requiring young married women up the age of 25 to wear the uniform all the time in the house. Indeed some people in parliament apparently wanted to make them wear it all the time, even when out shopping etc. Them were always moves to bring in more regulations and regimentation for young people and there was nothing they could do about it. Nowadays you didn’t have the vote until 30.
But at present you weren’t required to wear the uniform except when an Inspector was visiting. You could, though, be stopped on the street if it was thought what you were wearing was ‘unsuitable and antisocial’. And also it was rumoured that Inspectors were now making impromptu calls and not always phoning beforehand, and then they could decide that what you had on in your own home was ‘unsuitable and antisocial.’ Some vague fear of this had made Diane put the uniform on right away, when she got up, rather than wait until later. Although like most young women she really hated having it on.
Young men of course were made to conform, to toe the line, as well. Bob, like all the rest, had done his two years National Service and there was Community Service also. But there was not any caning for young males. No having to bare your bottom and get down over table or chair. No, all of that sort of thing was reserved for young women and girls. It was not thought proper that a male should be caned whereas it was entirely proper for a young woman. They needed to be reminded of their proper subordinate place.
Diane glanced at her watch again. 10.10. It was getting rapidly closer. Twenty minutes, unless he got so engrossed with Joanne Woodford and overran his time. But last time Inspector Deenham had been right on time. That short sharp ring of the bell — not in fact necessary because Diane, cowering in the lounge, had seen him striding up the little path.
No doubt in other little front rooms in Buttercup Drive other eyes had observed the big black car which was clearly an official vehicle. Observed it with similar emotions to Diane’s because even if he wasn’t calling on you today there was tomorrow — or the next day or the one after. There was bound to be someone soon. Yesterday Diane had seen the car at Number 17. Penny Lyall. Not the same car but a very similar one and not Inspector Deenham but one of his colleagues. And it might as well have been Inspector Deenham because they all looked alike: stern-faced men in sober suits and carrying black briefcases. Although this one was not so old as Inspector Deenham. Inside the briefcase contained their Record Book and files, plus those other essential items: a strap perhaps, and a bent-over cane.
Suddenly she noticed a thread of cotton on the carpet. She bent to frantically snatch it up, almost ready to burst into tears. Diane hated the cane, really hated it and the thought of it made her feel quite sick. Since Monday and that horrid phone call she had been able to think of nothing else. Waiting for it was the worst part. But no, that wasn’t true. Even worse than waiting for it was getting it. And now, in just a few minutes…
She didn’t want to but somehow Diane found herself going to the window again where you could look up the street. Just in time to see that dark-suited figure getting in the car. She rushed away, not wanting to see. Her eyes darted round the little room. It was a prison cell and very shortly the dreaded warder would be here. She desperately wanted to run, escape, not to be here when now in just a few seconds the bell would ring. That, though, was unthinkable, failing to keep an appointment with a State Official. You could be taken away for that. To somewhere like that big country house where her Training Course had been. Where it seemed that just about all the time one or other of the Instructors was telling you to ‘come with me, please.’ And then…
The bell rang: a deafening jangling it seemed. Diane froze. Then tottered to the door.
‘Good morning, Mrs Whitley.’ His bulky figure coming in past her. ‘Still very cold, isn’t it? No sign of spring.’
Diane mumbled something, she wasn’t sure what. Closing the door behind him. Somehow pulling herself together she stammeringly asked if he would like coffee. Some girls had the hopeful idea that by being nice and friendly you could buy them off; but you never met anyone who could actually say that she had been friendly and made coffee etc. and then hadn’t been caned. But just maybe if he was in a good frame of mind?
Mr Deenham said that yes he would like a cup. He sat heavily down on the sofa. He had had a cup of coffee up the street, at Number 4, and then when he had finished and had a cursory look round had given the young woman six with the cane across the bare bottom. Caning a pretty young woman’s bare bottom generally put George Deenham in a good mood and as he had spent most of his time since becoming Inspector caning young housewives’ bottoms he tended to be in a good mood most of the time. Yes, another cup of coffee would be very pleasant. And then… down to business.
He looked round. The room was in apple-pie order, naturally. As he was quite sure all the other rooms would be. You very rarely found one that wasn’t. But standing instructions were that the young woman was to be caned, nonetheless. As a reminder and just in case she did ever tend to slack off. There was the truly horrendous example of the recent past to show what could happen then. Women doing just as they pleased. Young people running riot. Young women, married or not, fucking wherever the fancy took them. Truly, truly horrendous.
The coffee shortly came and Inspector Deenham indicated that the young woman was to sit next to him on the sofa. He eyed her thoughtfully as he drank. A very attractive woman, at the moment looking very nervous, scared. They usually looked like that, not surprisingly, because they knew they were going to get the cane and that was not generally a very nice thought. Very occasionally you got a slightly bolder one, who might even have been getting a little thrill from the thought of baring her hindquarters to a strange man. George Deenham, though, could put the cane on so that any such fancies quickly went out the window. The bold looks replaced by squeals of pain. But this one, this Diane Whitley, just looked scared. And very pretty too.
He put down his coffee cup and dropped his hand onto the nyloned knee next to him. With the pretty ones it was advisable to spend a little time probing moral aspects, not confine oneself to looking for dust on windowsills. And on his other visit here, as noted in his Record Book, he had been in a hurry and had not had time for that.
‘Sex, Mrs Whitley. Shall we talk about sex for a moment? Tell me about your sexual habits.’
The question came completely out of the blue for Diane. And there was in addition the hand on her knee which was making her shiver. Some girls said they were asked about their sex lives but Diane had never been, not by this Inspector last time or by the other one she had had before. It had only been the house, looking for faults in that. And then the cane. She made a helpless little squeaky sound.
‘Other men, Mrs Whitley. Do you over indulge in intercourse with other men?’
Diane shook her head vigorously. ‘N…no… Certainly not.’
‘Not the postman or the milkman? Or any casual salesmen? Come on, Mrs Whitley. Don’t tell me you never do. Salesmen, I know, if they find a pretty housewife can be very persuasive.’
No,’ she squeaked. ‘I d…don’t do any of that.’ And Diane didn’t. She didn’t want to anyway and nowadays of course any illicit sexual activity by a young woman was treated very seriously. A period of corrective training. Prison in effect.
The hand on Diane’s leg had pushed her skirt back slightly and was now on the lower part of her thigh. ‘Hmmm. And what about relations with your husband? Conforming to the norm, are you? Nothing excessive but on the other hand not being awkward and refusing?’
‘Yes,’ whispered Diane weakly. ‘Just… normal.’
‘I see. So everything is in order. Well, shall we give you a little test? What if an Inspector from the department of Social Discipline, say, on his routine visit asked for sexual intercourse. Purely as a check-up of course. To see that there were no problems in that area. Would you agree to that?’
Diane bit her lip, feeling the blood flushing her face. Even more than his first question about sex this hit her out of the blue. Was it just a hypothetical question? there was also his hand which was now sliding up under her skirt. She wanted to push it away. But he was the Inspector.
Shaking her head Diane heard herself stammer, ‘I…I don’t know…I mean…’
‘Come on, Mrs Whitley. Surely an Inspector’s word and judgement are final. Isn’t that what we are taught on the Training Course?’
Yes it was. But you were also taught that any form of extra-marital sex was a major crime. So if he meant it she was caught either way, regardless of any personal feelings.
‘Let me say that the Inspector would not necessarily have to record the matter in his Record Book. Every detail of a visit does not have to be recorded. It could be simply a matter between the young woman and her Inspector. An unrecorded detail of his inspection visit.’
Did Inspector Deenham mean it? Or was it just a dreadful test. A trick question in fact. Diane took a deep breath.
‘I…I… think… I would have to do what the Inspector told me to do.’
Inspector Deenham gave her a quizzical look. The hand up her skirt, now up beyond the nylon top, gave her soft bare thigh a sharp pinch. ‘I see, Mrs Whitley. Good.’ The hand came out from her skirt. Inspector Deenham got to his feet. ‘Good. Let’s have our look round now, shall we?’
Diane got to her feet, her head a whirl of frightening possibilities. She could normally expect that in a very few minutes now she would be caned. Told to unzip her skirt and take her knickers off. But was Inspector Deenham going to make her do that awful other thing as well? Sex. Screw her. He had asked her those questions but in reality if he wanted to Diane would have no option but to agree. Making a complaint about an Inspector was unthinkable. So he could simply do it anyway. But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. It would be directly against everything you were taught. Chastity etc.
They went on the tour of the little house. The lounge first, then kitchen, dining room. And then upstairs; bathroom, the two bedrooms. Everything was in impeccable order, contents of cupboards perfectly neat, chairs polished and placed exactly as they should be. Nothing at all that Inspector Deenham could point to so at the end he was forced to fall back on vague generalities.
‘Good, Mrs Whitley. Quite good. But perhaps not quite perfect, eh? And we must aim for absolute perfection. So please prepare yourself. We will do it in here; I will just go down and get my cane.’
They were in Diane and Bob’s bedroom. Last time he had caned her in the lounge and the previous Inspector had caned her in the lounge too. There was no reason why he couldn’t choose to cane her in the bedroom. But… Diane’s fumbling fingers undid the zips of her tight black dress, then lifted the opened skirt. The dark nylons were fastened by a black suspender belt and there were brief black knickers. This was all part of the uniform. She slid the knickers down. Preparing yourself for a caning: there had been plenty of practice in that on the Training Course. She was shaking all over.
Inspector Deenham came back in, eyed her, then sat down on the bed. He curtly told her to take her knickers right off. That was not usual. So it meant… he had opened his case and taken out his cane. Flexing it, straightening it from being bent in the briefcase. Diane placed her knickers on a chair.
‘Come here, please.’ A brusque command.
She stood close in front of him, split skirt held high. Showing her pussy. Looking straight ahead, at the window, the roofs of all the other little houses outside but not really seeing them. Inspector Deenham’s hand was on her pussy.
‘So you are a perfectly chaste housewife, Mrs Whitley? No liaisons, no quick little afternoon sessions?’
‘Y…yes Inspector.’ Her voice croaky. The hand was intimately fondling.
‘But I think you said that if an Inspector asked you for sexual intercourse you would agree. Is that right?’
Hesitating and then another ‘Yes Inspector.’ The hand was confirming to do intimate things. Diane’s knees felt like they were going to give way. She was going to be screwed by this awful man — and presumably caned as well.
Inspector Deenham’s voice was suddenly harder. ‘That is not the correct answer, Mrs Whitley. It indicates that you are not chaste at all, not really. You are on the contrary willing to be persuaded, coerced. That is not what you were taught. You have not learnt the lesson. What have you to say?’
Nothing really. Stumbling, incoherent words. He had been just tricking her all the time. She had walked into it… but there had been no way of knowing. So she was not going to be screwed after all — though Inspector Deenham’s hand was still there, teasing that bulge at the tops of her thighs. She was not going to be screwed, but on the other hand…
‘I think you will agree, Mrs Whitley, I have no choice but to deal with this extremely severely. I shall therefore give you 12 strokes instead of the customary six.’ The hand still teasing, probing.
‘And after the 12 I shall assess the situation. I may well decide to follow it with a second set. Understood?’
Diane gasped out something. An unrecognisable panicky sound. Inspector Dearborn at last let go of her and stood up.
‘Get over the bed then, Mrs Whitley.’