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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.’


  1. Replies
    1. Indeed she is and Blushes wasn't squeamish about letting us see her cunt.

    2. This comment has been removed by the author.

  2. And quite right too Harold

  3. I very much enjoyed this story. A most thrilling exploration of another possible aspect of the ideal dream future society (post Brexit? Ha! Ha!) as featured in the excellent Girl Training 1998 (a little optimistic there!) and another great one I don't think I've yet seen on this blog - Video Lessons.

  4. Yes and I suspect the author of both stories was the same, i.e. R.T. Mason, although Blushes never credited their writers. Video Lessons will eventually appear...