From Blushes 21
Gillian Palmer fastened the black suspender belt round her slim waist, then drew on and attached sheer black nylon stockings. She glanced in her bedroom mirror and flushed. With the matching black bra it no doubt made her look distinctly sexy. But for whose benefit was she wearing this sexy underwear? This Mr Bayley? She pulled on the black silk knickers, snugly up onto fullish flanks and bottom. Mr Bayley…
Gillian’s mother had bought her the underwear and it was to wear to Mr Bayley’s. That was why she was putting it on now because she was going to Mr Bayley’s today, catching the train in an hour. ‘It’s nice to have something that’s grown-up-looking,’ her mother had said. Black sexy underwear clearly was grown-up, very different from anything Gillian had ever had before. You would never have dared wear it at school of course.
Not to a convent school: St Mary’s. A girl in her class, Monica Albright, had once worn black silk knickers to school — and quickly paid the price for doing so and showing them around. Someone sneaked on her with the result that Monica got three breath-stopping cuts of the cane across her hand. Convent schools did not approve of sexy black knickers. But Gillian was no longer at St Mary’s. She had now left school, two weeks ago. And she was going to stay with this Mr Bayley for a week. With sexy black underwear on under her demure blouse and calf-length skirt. Gillian shivered.
Did the black underwear mean anything? Could it possibly mean that this Mr Bayley was going to see it? Gillian didn’t know Mr Bayley and she doubted if her mother really did either. Mr Bayley it seemed had a big house out in the country whereas the Palmers lived in somewhat straightened circumstances in South London. They did not know people who lived in big houses. But Mr Bayley in his big house was going to give Gillian a little polish, add some gloss in the way of social poise and that sort of thing.
Was her mother having to pay for this? Gillian had asked and had not got a proper answer. A smile and ‘Never you mind about that, Jill. Just be on your best behaviour and do exactly as he tells you. Mr Bayley’s a very nice gentleman.’
So that was all Gillian knew. She would have been very surprised indeed if she knew that rather than Mrs Palmer paying Mr Bayley it was the other way about. Mr Bayley was paying her mother £50 for the pleasure of her, Gillian’s company for a week. And £50 in 1952 was a fair sum of money. As it happened Mr Bayley had also provided money for the purchase of that black underwear. Ah well…
Mrs Palmer had heard of Mr Bayley through the vicar actually. Which just goes to show that church attendance can have its advantages. ‘She’s getting to be a very attractive young lady, young Gillian,’ the Reverend Redshaw had observed. ‘A little bit more social polish and there’s no knowing what she could make of herself.’
Reverend Redshaw went on to say something derogatory about St Mary’s School for Girls simply because it was a convent school and not Church of England; but then he had mentioned Mr Bayley, Mr Bayley who was a most admirable man, generous to a fault with his time and anything else where young people were concerned. As it turned out ‘young people’ meant girls in the 16 to 18 age bracket. Marjorie Palmer, who was not born yesterday, managed to get this out of a slightly embarrassed-seeming Reverend Redshaw; but she was not put off by it as some mothers might have been.
For there was nothing basically wrong in admiring attractive girls if matters were kept within reasonable limits and the admirer was a well-off gentleman. And Gillian certainly was a very attractive girl. Mrs Palmer had very sensibly gone to visit Mr Bayley — one did not send one’s very attractive daughter out into the unknown — and found him indeed a very charming gentleman. Certain cards were laid on the table, so to speak. Certain positions were stated. And an understanding reached. Matters indeed went very smoothly while a number of glasses of sherry were consumed. Finally a sum of money — a cheque, nothing as common as used notes — changed hands. Marjorie Palmer said she would see about the underwear. Well why not, it was harmless enough given that the ground rules were now clear and understood.
‘Very nice, dear,’ said Mrs Palmer a quarter of an hour after Gillian was observing herself somewhat quizzically in her bedroom mirror. Now, downstairs, on this bright Saturday morning in June, Gillian had on a demure white blouse with a fetching floppy black tie and her smart dark tweed skirt. ‘Just remember to be on your very best behaviour. Mr Bayley is quite an influential man I’m told. If he likes you… well, there’s no knowing what he could do for you.’
And how could Mr Bayley fail to like pretty Gillian in those spicy underthings? Gillian of course knew nothing of any arrangements. All she knew was that it was decidedly scary to be going off by herself for a week with a stranger, charming old gentleman or not.
He was charming when he met her some two hours later at the station. A rather portly gentleman with smiling blue eyes in a rounded face. ‘Miss Palmer? Gillian?’ Gillian was wearing a pink rose on her coat as identification. Smiling Mr Bayley held out his hand, then took her bag. Had she had a good trip? It was a warm day.
Gillian said a shy hello. She was thinking inevitably of what she had on underneath her light coat and the blouse and skirt. The sexy black underwear which she and her mother had gone to buy three days ago. Gillian had been thinking about it throughout most of the journey that had been quite warm. There had been a man sitting opposite her for part of the way, a middle-aged man who had smiled at her and tried to start a conversation a couple of times. Gillian had had the funny feeling that somehow he knew she was wearing the black underwear. Nervously she had kept making sure her skirt stayed well down.
Mr Bayley had a big car outside the station and very soon they were out of the town, bowling along leafy lanes and quite soon in through open iron gates and up a gravel driveway. It was a big house, like her mother had said, with a big lawn and nice leafy trees around. Not at all the sort of thing you got in Garret Street, Clapham.
There didn’t seem to be a Mrs Bayley but there was a Mrs Winters who was the housekeeper, quite a motherly-looking person. That was reassuring, knowing that you were not alone in the house with Mr Bayley even though he seemed friendly and charming, engaging in pleasant chat in the car. But Gillian was only briefly introduced to Mrs Winters and then taken up to her room.
In the room, which was very pretty and with a nice view, Mr Bayley said, ‘How about a nice bath, as soon as you’re unpacked. You’re probably feeling sticky after the long trip.’
Well Gillian was a bit. She said yes that would be nice although she was not used to having baths at three in the afternoon and also she had had one already today, this morning. In the bathroom Gillian thought about locking the door but then when she looked she saw there wasn’t a lock or bolt. Well perhaps it was silly anyway to want to lock the door. There was a keyhole though and somewhat self-consciously she hung a towel over it. Not that she really thought nice Mr Bayley would be peering through the keyhole.
Nice Mr Bayley wasn’t, because he was looking in through a special spyhole conveniently situated at eye-level height in the wall opposite. Mr Bayley liked to get an early look at any young female guest and what better place than in the bathroom where the young lady inevitably had to strip down to her essentials.
She was very nice, the Reverend Redshaw had been quite correct in that. Very pretty and quite shy and now, as the skirt and then the blouse came off, seen to have a quite stunning form, tall and slim but with a nicely rounded bottom. Edward Bayley had rather a thing about pretty girls in black underwear. Yes, quite, quite stunning.
Oh yes! As the tight black pants were skinned down and the quivering bottom itself was revealed there was no doubt about it. Edward Bayley was going to have to make immediate and intimate acquaintance with that mouth-watering part of this appetising young Miss.
Yes. A quarter of an hour later and Gillian now back in her demure outfit and feeling lovely and fresh. Downstairs in Mr Bayley’s very posh drawing room. It had been a most refreshing bath with naturally no inkling that Mr Bayley, now smiling and chatting, had closely observed every little detail of Gillian’s nude body, every rondure and declivity, every dimple. Slim limbs, rounded bottom, delicately bushed sex, pert pink-nippled breasts. The lot.
And what was it he was now saying after his preliminary chat about the weather etc? Was Mr Bayley talking about that social polish that Gillian was to get here (not that she had any clear idea what that meant). Well not exactly, or not in any way that Gillian could have imagined. Mr Bayley was talking about discipline. Mr Bayley was saying how important discipline was especially for a girl just going out into the world. Had Gillian herself been properly disciplined?
Had she? Gillian wasn’t sure what he meant. She smiled shyly. Certainly she had never been in trouble at school or anything. Mr Bayley went on to explain what he meant. He meant the cane. Gillian coloured, thinking all at once of Monica Albright at school who had been caned across her hand for those black silk knickers. Black silk knickers like she herself now had on together with those other sexy things. Monica had been really crying afterwards. Gillian of course had never had the cane because she had never done anything to deserve it.
Mr Bayley, smiling, said, ‘The cane across a girl’s bare bottom, Gillian.’
Gillian gulped. It was a truly horrifying thought. A girl’s bare bottom. If girls were caned they got it across the hand. Didn’t they?
Mr Bayley had stepped forward, to take hold of Gillian’s arm, gently squeezing through her blouse. ‘All girls should experience it, Gillian. Especially very pretty girls when they get to about your age. You see life is full of temptations for very pretty girls and without having had something rather unpleasant like that, well, it is so easy not to think twice when temptation comes along.’
Gillian didn’t really know what he was talking about but she was trembling just the same, Mr Bayley’s hand left her arm and darted down and round to give her bottom two pats.
‘Those steps over there, Gillian. Would you kindly bring them out here in the centre of the room.’
Steps up against Mr Bayley’s bookshelves, for reaching high books. Gillian didn’t know why he wanted them out in the middle of the room but was happy to be helpful. She went to get the steps. Placed them near Mr Bayley without really looking at him. Then she did… and her heart almost stopped. Perching on the arm of his chair the smiling Mr Bayley was holding a cane.
He got to his feet, still smiling. ‘Now bend yourself over it, my dear.’
‘No!’ she squealed. ‘No! I…I haven’t done anything.’
How many girls had blurted that out when first confronted with Edward Bayley’s cane! Quite a few was the answer.
‘I didn’t say you had, Gillian. But you couldn’t have been listening, It’s training, for the future. Every pretty girl needs it.’
‘No!’ gasped Gillian again. ‘My mum… she never said anything about that. Not caning.’
‘Well I can assure you, young lady, your mother knows and finds the cane quite acceptable as part of your period of instruction with me.’ And this was true. Edward Bayley had in this very room looked Mrs Palmer squarely in the eye and said he would want to cane Gillian — in the interests of disciplinary training etc.
Marjorie Palmer had not taken a lot of notice about the bit about need for disciplinary training but she did know that some older gentlemen liked to cane girls and for the handsome consideration of £50 Marjorie Palmer was not going to demur. In any case a gentlemen who got his pleasure from caning was not going to want certain other favours from her daughter. (That was what she thought though other mothers could possibly have told her it was not necessarily true. Some gentlemen wanted one and then the other. Fortunately Mr Bayley was not in fact one of these.)
So yes Gillian’s mother did know. It was difficult for Gillian to believe it, though — but anyway with Mr Bayley clearly not joking she didn’t seem to have much choice. Feeling pretty dreadful Gillian made herself bend over the steps. Mr Bayley was immediately at her, positioning her just how he wanted her, and then sliding up the charming skirt.
Ah yes! What he had observed with such relish from his concealed viewpoint into the bathroom. The underwear contrasting thrillingly with the pale rounded flesh. His hands stroked the tight silk knickers, and then slid them down. The trim quivering cheeks. A girl’s most marvellous part. He patted it. A truly mouth-watering target. Edward Bayley patted again and then eagerly grabbed for his cane.
No delay; oh dear no. Swatt!…
A shriek of anguish from the stricken girl. The pretty bottom doing a delightfully desperate dance. A pretty bottom that had been stung. Red hot!
Again the thrilling sound of bamboo meeting tender flesh. Again the agonised howl.
A third biting cut across that so sensitive, virgin rear. Gillian gasping, fighting the pain, feeling the tears brimming in her eyes. Her poor bottom feeling like it was literally on fire. She was gasping ‘No!’ ‘Stop!’ but Mr Bayley wasn’t stopping. The cane came in again. And again.
When he did finally stop he made her stand up straight — on trembling rubbery legs. Tears freely running down the hot face now. Gillian’s skirt had fallen back down into position but Mr Bayley didn’t want that. His hands unfastening the button at the waist and then the zip. The skirt slid to the floor, to reveal once more the flinching flanks, the nice red stripes across the pale globes. He squeezed the gasping girl’s arm.
‘Not too bad was it, Gillian dear?’
It had been dreadful. Agonisingly painful and also dreadfully humiliating. At 17, grown up and left school. To have a man do that to you. Gillian didn’t answer. Words were not sufficient. Words anyway would probably not at present come.
His hand came down to stroke a still hot bottom. ‘The first time is a bit of a shock. Sit down and we’ll have some tea. Then you’ll feel better.’
Mr Bayley went out, but not before picking up Gillian’s skirt and placing it on a shelf, with the clear implication that she was not to put it back on yet. Shaking still, Gillian sat on a chair, with a little gasp as the seat met her humming flesh. She wiped away a tear. She felt devastated.
Shortly Mr Bayley came back, with a tray of tea things. Recovered just a little bit now she was more conscious of the fact that she had no skirt on and her knickers were still down round her stocking-tops. She gave him a look which evidently conveyed what she was thinking.
‘Leave your knickers where they are. I always think a pretty girl looks so charming with her knickers down. And it’s part of the training, isn’t it? A reminder of punishments.’ He laughed. ‘Punishments past and also future. Now how about a nice cream bun. That’s what girls with sore bottoms like, I find. Sometimes the cane can give a girl quite an appetite.’
It hadn’t given Gillian an appetite — quite the reverse. Her body and her mind were in too much of a state of shock to want to be eating, cream buns or not. There was also the fact that she was sitting there with Mr Bayley with no skirt and her knickers down. She felt a little bit sick. Somehow she did manage half a bun.
Mr Bayley ate quite a lot, and drank two cups of tea. Clearly what had happened had not spoiled his appetite but perhaps that was not surprising. When he had finished he said, ‘Very good. Now then.’
And then Gillian was being told to get over his lap. Face down. This evidently was why she still had her skirt off and her knickers down. Mr Bayley wanted another go at that pretty bottom. This time his hand. A fondling hand and then a smacking hand. Gillian began making more yelps and squeals. Her bottom was still very sore from the cane. She had been here less than two hours and already… What was a week going to be like…?
‘Did you have a nice time, dear?’
One week later and met at the station by her mother. What could Gillian say to that? A nice time? She bit her lip.
Mrs Palmer gave her daughter a hug. Gillian certainly seemed none the worse for wear. As healthy looking and as pretty as ever. She wondered vaguely if Gillian had cane marks on her bottom; but that anyway was not the end of the world for a healthy 17-year-old and indeed there was probably some truth in what Mr Bayley said, that it was good for them.
During the week Marjorie Palmer had been in communication with both Mr Bayley and the Reverend Redshaw, the former by post and the latter in person. Mr Bayley had written to say that he was getting on famously with Gillian. So much so that he would very much like to have her for another week in the near future. And he had mentioned a friend of his. Reverend Redshaw had mentioned another gentleman too. Both of these gentlemen it seemed were similar gentlemen to Mr Bayley. Not short of a bob or two and keen to help young persons. Young female persons, that was.
It was easy to see advantages in further visits. These gentlemen could very well do things for Gillian in the future. A good job, or even introducing her to a reasonably young man. Yes there was a lot to be said for it. In addition to the fact that they were all it seemed prepared to pay handsomely.
‘I expect it was a lovely house,’ observed Mrs Palmer.
Gillian said a thoughtful, ‘uh, yes.’ It was a lovely house and it was a great relief to be away from it.
Marjorie Palmer went on to talk about the dog Jimmy who had really missed Gillian. There was no point in talking about it right now, let her get settled first.