The girl standing against the little rosewood table is dressed in what resembles a child’s outfit of bygone years: between the wars perhaps. Very short bottle-green shorts which are held by dark-red braces over a plain white short-sleeved top; and on her head, perched on the wavy medium-length chestnut hair, a matching green beret slanting sharply to one side. But she is certainly not a child, she is in fact 18 and the rear view as she stands facing the table shows a very well-developed 18-year-old. The shorts in particular indicate this because they are not only very short, leaving bare virtually the whole length of her full and shapely thighs, but also are notably tight. Hugging like a second skin a bottom which is ripely rounded, hugging intimately into the deep dividing crack between the jutting cheeks.
In this tight and immodest encasing of the girl’s bottom the thin cotton shorts make quite evident that there is no other garment on this ripe and rather blatant part of her. No knickers that is. On her feet she has white four-inch-high stiletto heels worn with white ankle socks. This somewhat erotic footwear tends to throw into even greater contrast the little-boy shorts and the ripely swelling womanly bottom that they tautly constrain.
Apart from the girl the room is empty. No other person and it is sparsely furnished too: a pair of club armchairs over by the fireplace but that is all other than the rosewood table. The room is quite large and high-ceilinged, dating from more spacious times, and the limited furnishing makes it seem even larger. On one wall there is a full-length mirror and opposite this is a tall window. The room is decorated in muted pastel shades so that the only real colour is supplied by the red and green of the girl’s outfit. The window opens onto a garden of soft greens with here and there splashes of bright flowers. It is raining steadily in the garden on this June afternoon.
The girl remains standing, motionless, her hands on the table top, her head bent, her face pensive. It is a pretty face with large hazel eyes and the mouth lipsticked in a shade that matches the red braces but she is not otherwise made up. One hand on the table performs an intricate little pattern. She seems to be waiting. Expecting…? Perhaps she has been sent here for some misdemeanour. Has been told to stand at the table, like a naughty girl in the corner, and not for instance wander around or sit in one of the armchairs or gaze out of the window. She must stand here at the table in her erotic outfit of sexy high-heels and flirty beret and the skin-tight shorts yanked high up into the crack of her bottom by the red braces. Sent here to wait on this rainy afternoon.
After some time she does turn round, perhaps that is allowed. To rest the ripe jut of her buttocks against the table. At the front the shorts are perhaps even more revealing, where they are pulled taut over her mons veneris. Resting her rump against the table as she is now, her pubic bulge is thrust out in the over-stretched cotton to display every detail. Including at the undercurve of the bulge the lips of her pussy in precise definition. Higher up the tight braces stretch on either side of firm pointy boobs which also evidently have only the single cover of blouse.
The girl’s hands come up under her chin. She chews at her lower lip. Waiting. For something. Someone. Who will eventually come?
It is a woman who somewhat later opens the door and enters, on smart black high-heeled shoes. She is in her late thirties perhaps and with the smart courts is wearing a stylish black suit of collarless jacket and full skirt over a crisp white blouse. She is a good-looking blonde with a nice figure. She goes over to the girl who has glanced sharply up at the woman’s entrance and then dropped her gaze but stands more erect now, fully on her feet, her hands down at her sides.
Coming close the older woman’s hand takes the girl’s chin, making the girl look at her. ‘Sarah.’ The voice is soft. ‘Have you had time to consider the error of your ways then?’ The trite words are delivered in a modulated upper-middle-class accent.
The girl, Sarah, in a mumbling voice, says, ‘Yes Mrs Orling.’
‘Why were you such a naughty girl? Mr Sandford went off in quite a huff. We just can’t have that sort of behaviour. Can we?’
Sarah says a contrite, ‘No Mrs Orling.’
Mrs Orling lets go of Sarah’s chin and her hand drops down. To cup that thrusting bulge at the crotch of the tight shorts. The bulge of Sarah’s sex. She gives a little squeak.
‘Poor Mr Sandford.’ One finger slides in along the lips of Sarah’s pussy. She squirms. ‘Why weren’t you nice to Mr Sandford? When you’re such a sexy girl anyway, Sarah. Mmm? Aren’t you?’
Mrs Orling’s hand is really working at Sarah’s pussy now. She has her backed up against the table and Sarah is groaning, but with pleasure it seems, opening her thighs to let the hand get full access.
‘Yes you are a very sexy girl, Sarah. So why weren’t you nice to Mr Sandford. Nice and friendly. Mmm?’
Sarah, writhing on the hand between her legs, stammers, ‘I… don’t know. I… sort of… didn’t feel like it. Not… then…’
‘Well you have to feel like it. Or if you don’t you have to be nice anyway. Sometimes perhaps we don’t feel like it but we still have to do it. Do what he wants. And Mr Sandford is such a nice gentleman anyway. I should be most annoyed if I lost Mr Sandford, Sarah.’
‘I’m sorry…’ Sarah gasps. ‘I will. Next time… Really…’ Her cunt feels really steamy because she is a highly sexed girl.
Mrs Orling smiles. ‘You’ll have to be punished of course Sarah. What do we do with naughty girls. Mmm? send them to bed without any supper? or give them the cane perhaps? On their bare bottoms. Would you like that?’
‘No…ooo…’ Sarah gives a shuddery squeal.
‘Hmm. Well let’s have these shorts off anyway. You’re going to have to phone Mr Sandford and apologise. Tell him you were in a funny mood. Feeling ill. Something. Apologise and say you’d like him to come over for another visit as soon as he can. And promise that you’ll be extra nice this time. All right?’
Shuddering, Sarah stutters ‘Yes Mrs Orling.’
The older woman, having unfastened the clasps of the red braces, is tugging down the tight shorts. Down the length of Sarah’s trembling legs. The white high-heels are lifted one by one… and Sarah is nude below her waist except for the shoes and ankle socks. That surging bottom which is all it promised to be when contained in the bottle-green shorts: ripe globes of flesh like exotic pale fruit. And at the front the pale flesh adorned with a luxuriant bush of curling dark brown hair, where Mrs Orling’s hand has been so busily at work. The hand goes briefly back there, and then Mrs Orling turns Sarah and bends her slightly forward from the waist. Her hand slaps crisply in on the jutting nude nates.
‘Something,’ she says archly. ‘There will have to be something. Unless you can persuade me otherwise, Sarah. Is that possible, do you think?’
‘Yes…’ Sarah’s voice is shaky. Her whole body is shaky. From what Mrs Orling has already done and now that hand which slides in under the trembling thrust of Sarah’s bottom-cheeks and in between her legs. A shuddery groan as Mrs Orling’s fingers make this time a rearward invasion of Sarah’s stickily-wet pussy.
‘Yes?’ Mrs Orling inquires. ‘Do you think so? Well let’s go into the bedroom shall we? let’s see if you can convince me.’
In the bedroom Mrs Orling gives Sarah a conspiratorial smile and takes off her suit jacket. Then slides her skirt up to her waist. She is nude underneath: no tights or stockings and no knickers. Smiling still at Sarah and keeping her skirt up she lies face-up on the bed. Her legs are over the foot of the bed with her black high-heels still on the carpet. Sarah smiles back. A hesitant, nervous smile. She takes off the green beret and removes the dangling red braces. This leaves her in just her blouse and socks and shoes. She bends down over the bed. Over Mrs Orling’s face. Kisses her. The older woman’s ripe mouth relaxes and Sarah thrusts her tongue in. A deep, wet sexy kiss. Mrs Orling groans appreciatively. Sarah’s hand slides down. To find Mrs Orling’s waiting pussy between her slackly open legs. Her fingers slide in between the wet lips, to Mrs Orling’s engorged clitoris. Sensuously rubbing it, as a little while earlier Mrs Orling had been rubbing Sarah’s. Mrs Orling makes a moaning sound.
Sarah breaks off the kiss. Stands up. Steps round to the foot of the bed. And kneels down. Pushes Mrs Orling’s knees apart. And slides her head forward, in between Mrs Orling’s open thighs. Sarah’s mouth at Mrs Orling’s pussy. Her tongue licks the hairy lips open and slides in. Mrs Orling, moaning, brings her legs up behind Sarah’s back, gripping the tonguing girl, pulling her further in. Sarah’s mouth sucks the stiff clitoris, working it with her teeth. Mrs Orling yells out. A deep, throaty animal-like yell.
Mrs Orling gets up. A satisfied look on her face, like a cat that has got at the cream.
Almost licking her lips. Pushing her skirt back into position and then embracing Sarah.
‘That was lovely, my dear. You were very, very good. So perhaps you won’t be punished after all. But you’ve got to be very good for Mr Sandford as well. Haven’t you? And any other gentleman. Every time.’ She is stroking Sarah’s lovely bare bottom.
Sarah says, ‘Yes, I will. I promise I will.’
‘I certainly hope so. Or next time we certainly will be punished.’ Mrs Orling gives the bottom a friendly pinch. ‘We’ve got Mr Filbert coming round this evening of course. That’ll give you a chance to show your very best behaviour.’ She pushes Sarah away with a smack to her bottom. ‘And there’s something else that I’d almost forgotten. Some pictures of you. Mr Ingfield. You remember Mr Ingfield who came round for the first time last Friday. You were clearly on your best behaviour then, Sarah, because he was very pleased with you. Anyway he’s now phoned and asked for some photos. To show to some friends of his. Only very close friends naturally. He told me what he wanted. Silly pictures. Silly pictures of the sort that amuse gentlemen. Gentlemen can be quite like silly boys at times, can’t they? Anyway we can do them now.’
Sarah’s pretty face looks dubious. Silly pictures? ‘What… sort of pictures?’ she asks. Mrs Orling smacks her bottom again. ‘You’ll see. Just silly pictures. Go back into the front room and I’ll get the camera. Oh and take these.’ She picks up the red braces. ‘We need these. For Mr Ingfield’s silly pictures.’
What Mr Ingfield wants is pictures of Sarah wearing the braces in a funny way. In just her blouse and high-heels and socks and with the braces stretching from her shoulders down between the bare cheeks of her bottom and between her legs and up again to fasten in front. Sarah shakes her head vigorously when Mrs Orling explains exactly what Mr Ingfield wants. It is not just silly, it is horrible. The braces stretched between her legs, tight in the crack of her bottom… No! And especially not posing like that, being photographed. In a sharp voice Mrs Orling tells her not to be a silly girl. It is nothing to get excited about, just some silly pictures. If Mr Ingfield wants them he is going to have them. I’m sure you don’t really want a caning, Sarah dear,’ Mrs Orling adds grimly.
‘Oh Christ…’ Sarah wails. But she is not going to argue with Mrs Orling, not with the threat of the cane. Sarah has been caned, a couple of times, and it is not something she wants a repeat of. Mrs Orling says every girl should have at least one taste of it so she understands what discipline is all about. One taste is more than enough; Mrs Orling slicing the cane in with seeming relish and certainly achieving her stated object that you won’t want to sit down afterwards for several hours at least.
‘Just some silly pictures,’ Mrs Orling repeats, now proceeding with the braces. ‘Hold these ends in front please… and open your legs.’ She is stretching the red elastic down Sarah’s back from her shoulders. One hand makes a preliminary reconnaissance in between Sarah’s legs, stroking her pussy. ‘When we’ve done the pictures perhaps we’ll go to bed for a little while. Mmm? Before Mr Filbert gets here. That would be nice.’
One hand at the front pulls the straps through. ‘Oh Christ.’ Sarah wails again. It feels simply horrible. The two braces are being stretched way beyond their normal length and cutting hard into the crack of Sarah’s bottom and into her crotch. Into her pussy. With an effort Mrs Orling manages to fasten the two ends together.
‘There. How’s that. Feel nice? I bet it feels really yummy, tight into your pussy like that.’
‘It’s awful,’ moans Sarah. ‘Really awful. And it hurts. Cutting into me.’
‘Don’t be a baby,’ Mrs Orling tells her briskly. ‘Now then.’ She places a newspaper on the floor. ‘He wants you standing on this. The white four-inch heels on the newspaper he said. Don’t ask me why. Perhaps one of his friends is a newspaper person, could that be it? Men do get funny ideas. Anyway stand there with your hands on your head. Facing me and sticking your pussy out. And then the back view. Your pretty bottom.’
The photographs Mr Ingfield wants are awful. He wants some of Mr Orling smacking Sarah’s bottom. Spanking Sarah’s bare bum with the red elastic tautly stretching between the two trembling cheeks. Mrs Orling has got the tripod and trigger delay for this. And after that.
‘Keep very still, Sarah,’ Mrs Orling laughs. With a large pair of cutting-out scissors in her hand. ‘You don’t want your darling nipples nipped off.’
Sarah shivers in fright. What Mr Ingfield wants now is circles cut in the front of her cotton top. So that her boobs will stick out through them. And Mrs Orling says she has to cut it while Sarah had the top on, to make sure the circles are in just the right place. Sarah gives a squeal of fright as the sharp scissors bite in. Why do they have to do these things for nutty Mr Ingfield? But of course there’s no point asking that question. Sarah knows the answer anyway.
After the photos they do go to bed. Mrs Orling’s big bed in her splendidly appointed bedroom. Sarah has everything off except the ankle socks. ‘I rather fancy you in just the socks,’ Mrs Orling says. ‘Sexy Sarah in her socks.’ Mrs Orling herself puts a shorty nightie on over her still trim but voluptuous figure. They have quite a torrid time. Mrs Orling of course is very keen on girls. As for Sarah, she enjoys going to bed with Mrs Orling when she is in the mood the same as she quite likes being with gentlemen visitors when she’s in the mood. The problem is that when you’re not in the mood you don’t really have any choice. Sarah is not really keen on it this afternoon, not to begin with at least. She didn’t like posing for those photos and there is also Mr Filbert coming later. She didn’t enjoy it with Mr Filbert last time. But right now. Mrs Orling is soon able to get Sarah interested, turn her on. Mrs Orling is expert at turning girls on.
Mr Filbert comes round at six, his appointed time. It is still raining outside, the same soft but steady rain that has been falling for most of the day. ‘Been outside getting wet?’ he asks Sarah jocularly as he enters, giving her bottom a fondle. Sarah shakes her head: no she has been in all day. This morning the session with Mr Sandford when she got into trouble for not behaving very well and afterwards being sent to the front room, then the two sessions with Mrs Orling, the photos for Mr Ingfield… The day can disappear before you know it. Mr Filbert says he would like to go outside, out into the summer-house ‘Don’t you love to hear the soft rain falling?’ he asks. ‘The sound of all the plants drinking it up?’
The summer-house is not too bad, cool and dry. And there is the sound of dripping all around, if you like that sort of thing. Sarah is wearing the same outfit she had on for Mr Sandford earlier: the bottom-hugging green shorts with the red braces, her white high-heels and ankle socks, the green beret. Mrs Orling said to keep this on for Mr Filbert as he hasn’t seen Sarah in it before. ‘But aren’t these shorts very tight? Over your whatsit for instance.’
Sarah’s ‘whatsit’ is her pussy. Mr Filbert’s hand cups it, to test the tightness presumably. Or possibly just to have a feel. They are in the summer-house now, Mr Filbert sitting in the wicker armchair with Sarah standing in front of him.
‘Well… a little bit tight,’ Sarah agrees. She is going to be nice she has told herself. She had better be or she’ll be in serious trouble. Not that she has any real reason to dislike Mr Filbert, a pleasant enough gentleman of sixty or so. But… She can remember what he wanted last time and she didn’t want to do it. She thinks she won’t feel like doing it today, but she had better act like she likes it. But maybe he won’t want that.
Mr Filbert having tested the undoubted tightness of the green shorts is now taking them down. The clasps of the braces are unfastened front and back, and the shorts are being tugged down. Right off. Mr Filbert then perches Sarah astride his thigh. Facing him and with her nude thighs on either side of his own trousered one. He moves her backwards and forwards, so that Sarah’s bare pussy is rubbed against his flannel trousers. He grins.
‘Big girls like this don’t they. Mmm?’
Sarah smirks and grinds her groin against Mr Filbert’s leg. ‘Not bad,’ she says. Doing it with Mrs Orling of course has satisfied any desire for the moment and that wasn’t really a good idea, with Mr Filbert coming — except that Mrs Orling wanted it. But quite possibly Sarah will get interested again, she does have a pretty keen sex drive as Mrs Orling says. She rubs her pussy into Mr Filbert’s leg some more, thinking that she’s maybe going to get his trouser leg messy but that’s his problem. Leaning forward she kisses him, her tongue thrusting into his mouth.
Sarah does get going. Sitting astride Mr Filbert’s thigh like this and rubbing her cunt into his leg is pretty good. She is soon getting nicely hotted up. Which is just as well because Mr Filbert does want what he wanted last time. Wants Sarah down kneeling between his legs. Wants his big stiff cock in her mouth. Last time Sarah didn’t like it but now with her cunt beginning to feel really steamy, it’s OK, good in fact. Her hand grips the throbbing stem of his thing, her fingers not able to completely encircle it, pumping. The big purple-pink mushroom head, eager to be sucked, looks almost too big for her mouth to handle. It is not too big, though, she can do it. Take it fully in her mouth. Knowing that Mr Filbert wants to come in her mouth and not minding, keen on the thought in fact, it is a turn-on: the thought of all that spunk spurting in her mouth.
Afterwards Mr Filbert tells Mrs Orling Sarah has been very good indeed, possibly the best girl he has ever had. So Mrs Orling is naturally very pleased with that. Mr Filbert is in such a good mood that he asks if Mrs Orling has any champagne — which of course he will pay for. Mrs Orling smilingly obliges — she always keeps some in the fridge against such a request from a euphoric gentleman visitor. And there is not only the champagne; Mr Filbert further says he would like to take Sarah on holiday with him. Venice.
At this Sarah has the feeling that she is floating on air (she has also by now got a glass and a half of champagne inside her). Venice! When the prospect has otherwise been only of spending the whole summer here in rainy England, here with Mrs Orling doing such distasteful things as posing for pictures with a pair of braces stretched between her legs, cutting into her pussy. It is a fabulous thought — even though Mr Filbert will presumably want more of what he has just had in the summer-house. Every day? Twice a day? Even so…
But… Mrs Orling is not viewing this suggestion with the same delight. it is very generous of Mr Filbert to offer but Sarah does have her commitments. It is a marvellous idea but it would be rather inconvenient. Highly inconvenient. Mrs Orling of course is thinking of other gentlemen visitors. What are the likes of Mr Sandford and Mr Ingfield going to think if Sarah has swanned off to Venice? They will not be best pleased.
‘We’ll have to talk about it,’ Mrs Orling says finally. Mr Filbert before he leaves wants another session with Sarah, in her room this time. The same. Twice within an hour is pretty remarkable for a gentleman of sixty, a tribute to Sarah’s undoubted attractions and probably also the champagne.
‘Well I’ll leave it to you to persuade Mrs Orling,’ Mr Filbert says when they have finished. Sarah, swallowing what she has in her mouth, says she will, she certainly will. Venice! Outside in the garden, here in dreary Old England, it is still raining. Today, tomorrow. It will probably rain all summer. But Venice.