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Monday, 25 June 2018

Working Weekend – Saturday

Photo-story from Janus 101
Got an absolute darling for you this time, Mr Tubbs. Drool factor 101 — you won’t believe your luck. Big bouncing beauties up front, and an arse to break your heart, soft and round and sweet as a peach.’
‘Make sure she shows it off to advantage, Mr Meldrum.’
‘You dirty old bastard.’
‘It takes one to know one…’
Had Brenda Watkins heard this exchange between her suave departmental head, John Meldrum, and their rough-and-ready cleaning contractor in the Midlands company where she worked, her angelic blue eyes would have widened in wonder at who on earth they could be talking about. She would certainly not have been able to imagine that her physical appearance was regarded as anything special by them, nor that these two men made a game of providing each other with ‘favours’, each trying to top the other in unusualness, excitement and ingenuity.
Now it was eight o’clock on Saturday morning — not even a working day! Whatever was she doing, walking down these back steps into the murky basement of the company building, sawn-off jeans tugged into the cleft of her bottom as Mr Meldrum had appeared to be suggesting?
‘But I’m an audio typist not a cleaner,’ she had protested three days earlier when he called her into his office for yet another dressing-down. The additional nought she had inadvertently added on an invoice to one of their hitherto major customers had thrown the department into turmoil. It was the latest in a long line of costly and confusing errors on her part.
‘Audio typist?’ snapped Meldrum. ‘Doleful dole-fodder, more like. Even my cat spells better. You’ll work this weekend at something you’re more suited to, to help you wake your ideas up, or else pick up your cards on Friday. You’ve already had two final warnings — it’s your choice, and don’t say I’m not being fair. I am.’ Brenda Watkins’s big blue eyes had swum with tears: it nearly broke Meldrum’s heart — thinking of the fun old Tubbs was going to have with this otherwise hopeless girl! But he owed him a good one for the kinky party the bald-headed bastard had got him invited to the week before last.
Saturday morning, and at a time when she would usually have still been languishing in bed! Brenda felt a bit scared of the grimy twilight below the building. She’d come because she knew she wasn’t up to her job and she was really a good girl who did what she was told. Though 24, with honey-blonde hair and a figure fit for a lecher’s paradise, she had always been of the disposition to do what people demanded first, then try to work out why afterwards.
She didn’t even know that this was the air conditioning plant. Unkind people sometimes said she wasn’t very bright. Were there rats down here? She froze at the thought. It was cold.
‘Get working, girl!’ growled Mr Tubbs, suddenly appearing. ‘That’s what yer boss sent youm to me for!’ There were rats down here — well one, at least, standing stolid and pugnacious in a greasy boiler-suit, eyeing her flimsily-clad form with gleaming eyes. Oh! Meldrum was right, what a little peach. Tubbs was going to have to cook up something really special to top this treat.
He eyed the long bare legs, the flimsy white top bulging with beauties barely concealed. His sluggish pulses quickened. So Meldrum’s little typist had consented to come here and work her gorgeous arse off this weekend, and all for his entertainment! As if that wasn’t enough, she had dressed — or undressed — to his exact specifications. After checking that she had come to work out of her own free choice Tubbs rapped out a few instructions in a curiously hoarse voice using his own strange dialect, then retreated amongst the pipes and racks and industrial shelving to gloat over this manifestation of his wildest masturbatory visions.
As Brenda vacuumed, dusted, washed and polished, the chill soon went out from her body. She could not imagine why the man stood so silently staring, nor why he had wanted her to wear this ridiculous get-up in the middle of winter. But after a while, as she stooped, crouched, stretched and straightened about her tiring tasks in the grim semi-gloom where cleaners refused to venture without a double-time deal, she gradually became aware of how the thin denim clung and slackened against her buttocks as she moved, and how the shirt-top tautened across her breasts, teasing her nipples in a vaguely pleasant way.
She lost track of time. A couple of hours may have passed, and he allowed her no break. Sweat dampened her brow and armpits and between her legs as she continued to move about the vast subterranean area with damp cloth, duster and spray-polish can. He had thoughtfully provided a bucket, too, filled with soapy water. She plunged in the mop and swashed acres of the dirty floor until the water had to be changed and her back was aching.
And all the time Tubbs watched her, a 3-D motion interactive actual reality image projected into the basement he usually had to clean himself as none of his staff would do it at normal rates. He watched those lissome legs and supple shoulders, the bodice that swelled and quivered as she wielded cloth and duster and mop. Wasn’t doing it bad, neither, he decided — according to Meldrum she was a crap typist who should’ve been booted out weeks ago. But this, this she could do. If pushed.
When the girl finally paused for a rest, leaning exhaustedly on the mop-handle, eyes closed as if yearning for sleep or dreaming some dream he could not possibly hope to share, Tubbs let her languish a minute or two on the slender phallic symbol, a lazy lass lolling amid the oily grime, her lickable ears listening out for him, pert nostrils tainted by the residual tang of grease and diesel, even though the machinery was turned off.
‘Oi! Youm! Get on with it!’ he roared. ‘This is a punishment for being bad at yer job, not a holiday camp!’
Galvanised by the ghastly voice, Brenda continued. On and on and on. Maybe three hours had ached and sweated past by the time she made her way through to the boiler room, carrying the bucket which she had refilled several times. Here she groaned in real distress, seeing fresh grimy spaces reeking with the need for cleaning.
It was too much. Willing workhorse though the simple girl was, the prospects of another two or three hours of this made her knees quiver and brought unshed tears to the brink of spilling. Her dusting and cleaning and polishing became slower and slower, as though she were a machine whose batteries were running down; her actions in bending and twisting, stooping and crouching became more and more lethargic.
As Tubbs continued to relish the sight of that glorious female anatomy, hips swinging, the bottom’s unconsciously erotic juttings as she bent or crouched, the wobblings within the straining shirt-fabric at her every movement, he knew that his moment had come. For a moment his crude senses swam, and he found himself unable to swallow. Then he gave a gulp, and stepped imperiously forward.
Brenda looked uneasily up at the man. To Norman Tubbs, not normally renowned for his imaginative faculties, she looked like a fawn at bay. Her azure eyes widened on seeing in his hand what looked like a strap split down the centre to form two thick flat fingers of shiny leather.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘Can I go now?’
His bloodshot gaze roamed the uncleaned depths of the boiler room. ‘Youm in’t finished yet,’ he said. ‘Your boss sent you to me today because you was rubbish at your office work, and you’ll get booted out on your pretty arse if youm don’t pull your finger out.’ Seeing how she flinched, Tubbs warmed to his theme. ‘We’ve no fancy ways down ‘ere, y’know,’ he went on, relishing the way she quailed before him, staring at the tawse. ‘No tea-breaks and coffee-breaks, no natterin’ with the other girls, nor sneakin’ out to have a fag or a pee or doin’ yer nails…’
‘Please, I…’ Brenda could not take her eyes off that strap. ‘…I want to go home.’
Want to go ‘ome? I’ll give youm want to go ‘ome…’ He grabbed at her wrist, she snatched it away. ‘Youm’s a good girl, and I’m tempted to put in a good report to Mr Meldrum. But if youm can’t finish a simple job…’
‘I’m exhausted,’ Brenda wailed. ‘I’m not used to this! I’ve never done hard labour before…’ Her voice tailed off.
‘All right,’ said Tubbs, ‘let’s discuss this like grown-up people.’ He lifted the tawse and brought it down on the palm of his hand with a gentle smack. ‘I’ll let youm off early, but only if youm makes up for the work youm ‘asn’t done by taking a few on yer tasty bum.’ He slapped his palm harder. ‘Entirely up to youm.’ She flinched. ‘Well, do we ‘ave a deal or not?’
Brenda watched in shock how his narrow eyes glittered. The man’s breath hissed in and out. Was he actually offering her a sort of spanking in return for an end to this back-breaking misery?
‘You mean… spank me, with that thing?’ she queried hesitantly.
‘Got it in one,’ Tubbs confirmed. ‘Youm in’t quite so silly as youm looks, girl.’
Brenda weighed up the options. A few clouts on the backside from this fairly harmless perv, and she’d be free for the rest of weekend. To her, taking account of all the circumstances, it did not seem too bad a trade. It had to be better than carrying on with the cleaning work, and that was better than losing her job. She nodded slowly. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘but not too hard, please.’
Heaven’s gate opened up for Norman Tubbs. He took a few deep breaths. ‘Youm wearin’ anythink under them things?’ he queried in his strong Midlands accent.
‘Yes,’ she said, puzzled. ‘My bra and pants. Why?’ The very sound of those pantingly erotic words, falling so innocently from her sweet young lips, had him salivating.
‘Off,’ he croaked, indicating her skimpy outer clothing. ‘C’mon, can’t punish youm proper if youm wearin’ them, can I?’
‘But… I… I…’ Brenda started to protest, but it was nothing really. What was a little embarrassment compared to the back-breaking drudgery of another four hours of cleaning, scrubbing and polishing?
She unbuckled and unzipped. Unsure whether this wasn’t going a bit far, Brenda wriggled the shorts down her legs and kicked them off. Only to find the stiff strap gently tapping the front of her chest.
‘And that.’
‘Youm ‘eard, girl.’ Tubbs stood as close to her as he dared, enjoying her reluctance as she unbuttoned the top and took it off. Then he stepped back, ogling Miss Watkins in her skimpy black underwear. His heart slammed, and thrills raced around his lumpish frame.
‘Now…’ Gulp. ‘I want youm to turn around, put your hands up on that pipe, and stick yer bottom out so I can get a good swing at it.’
Tubbs hardly believed that this beautiful young woman would actually do what he wanted. These sorts of things only happened in fantasy, or else you had to pay loads of money and it never really felt as right as it should. Yet Miss Watkins made a little face, then obediently turned. She didn’t know what it meant to him. The girl leaned forward with her weight on her hands. The pipe was still quite warm. She yelped, then found that her hands could bear it.
‘It’s a bit hot.’
‘Hot?’ he growled. ‘That’s nothing to what that charming arse of yours’ll be feeling in a moment. Stick it out! Hollow yer back and push it out, come on — I want to see it!’
And Brenda did. She felt his coarse-skinned fingers fumbling behind her as they gripped and tugged at the rear of her panties, drawing them tightly up between her bottom-cheeks to fully expose each buttock.
Ahhh, that’s lovely, sighed Tubbs inside. He pushed a little at the base of her spine and she responded, arching her back and jutting out that luscious near-naked arse just right for him. He swung back the twin-tailed tawse, sighted on his target, then brought the leather swiftly to it.
It contacted the curvaceous flesh with a meatily resonant slap. Her body jerked, her head tossed back, yet she made no sound other than a surprised squeak. Tubbs drew back his arm again, spread his legs for a firmer stance, tugged upwards on the pantie-scrap and swung in a second time.
Splattt! As the girl’s bottom received the speeding tails her hips jerked inwards and she gave a shriek. The impact and her simultaneous cry echoed and re-echoed around the gloomy spaces, magnified by pipes and ducts.
Again Tubbs targeted and swung, enjoying the rifle-shot sound of the impact, her screech, the jerkings of nubile hips as her hands clawed for a renewed grip on the warm piping. ‘Push that arse out — OUT!’ he yelled, his voice deafening him, thick with dark pleasure.
Brenda felt her bottom burn, licked with tongues of fire. Splat. Once more her buttocks ignited with a flash of almost insupportable pain, the heavy leather tongues sinking into the sensitive softnesses of her seat, as if knowing it too well. Thwack! The quivering curves of her out-pushed bottom seemed to suck in fiery slaps, absorb them, then strain involuntarily back again, ready for more. But what else could she do? Her body was reacting as it would. And still this was better than doing hours’ more cleaning.
She began to turn her head, to try and anticipate when and where the next stroke would fall. Tubbs was working into a sweat himself now, transforming every succulent inch of those pale, beautiful buttocks to a glowing rose, enjoying the fabulous feel of the soft skin of her lower back where his fingers still gripped her panties taut. The convulsive movements of the girl’s yielding body at every impact of the tawse inspired him to slap it down just that little bit faster, as if to punish her harder for her jerks and twitches, her grunts and gasps and yelps drowned temporarily out by the explosive crack of each supporting stroke.
He found himself talking, uttering impassioned expletives as the tawse rose and fell. ‘I’ll smack yer wicked arse…’ — crack! — ‘That’s it, shake it about…’ — slap! — ‘I’ll make it red and tingling I will…’ — thwack! — ‘youm sinful witch, I’ll make ‘em bounce…’
For Brenda, it seemed that her bottom was being repeatedly blasted by a million tiny needle-points. When she arched her back and swung her hips to left and right, as she began to do in an increasing effort to shake the intensifying sting away, the rear of her panties, still drawn tightly up deep between the cheeks of her roasting bottom, felt oddly titillating as she strained back against it while jerking and shaking to each hefty crack of the leather. Her eyes began to watch, as if mesmerised, the tawse rise behind his shoulder and hurtle down in a hissing blur to slap against her buttocks again and again.
A final resounding thwack, and it was over. Or was it? ‘All right, girl.’ Tubbs was panting. ‘Stand up straight.’
Brenda stood upright, gasping herself, and massaged the ferociously smarting cheeks of her behind with both hands. Then she blinked at him, shiny-eyed. ‘Can I go home now?’
‘If youm wants to,’ said Tubbs, feeling his pulse-rate gradually falling to a safer level. But when she reached for her clothes, he stopped her. ‘Youm does understand,’ he said slowly, ‘that as youm didn’t finish, I can’t give Mr Meldrum a very good report.’
‘That’s not fair!’ she groaned in that peculiar high soft whine she had. ‘I’ll get the sack.’
‘If youm wants a good report,’ he said, ‘there’s one more stage to go through.’
She looked enquiringly at him. ‘What, then?’ she asked in a little hapless voice.
‘Take off your bra and panties first.’ Tubbs’s pulse was moving back to a canter. Brenda sighed. He retreated a few feet, still watching her.
The girl unhitched her flimsy bra and pulled it off her shoulders, slipped her panties down and stepped out of them. Then, embarrassed, she stood with her hands protecting the last of her modesty.
‘Hands away,’ he said, stepping forward, and she stared in dismay at the long, slender cane he now held. ‘Stand to attention!’ he barked.
With her hands at her side and her back straight as a guardsman’s, Tubbs ogled the delicious sight of her fantastic breasts, the pretty little pussy nestling in its nest. He began to run the shaft of the cane caressingly over her naked body, teasing the satiny skin, softly touching here and there, ruffling the silky fuzz between her legs.
‘Does youm really want a good report?’ he asked. She nodded, blinking back tears. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘youm can get along ‘ome now.’
‘I can?’ Brenda almost smiled for the first time that miserable morning. It was over… wasn’t it, this awful weekend business? She could have a good long lie-in tomorrow, then soak in the bath and…
‘Same time tomorrow morning, eight sharp.’
Tubbs watched her face crumple with dismay. ‘Youm ‘asn’t finished ‘ere yet,’ said Tubbs gloatingly. ‘And of course, if youm wants a really good report, you’s going to ‘ave to ‘ave a dose of the cane on that luscious arse of yours next.’
He could see she was most perturbed. ‘Life’s a bastard, in’t it?’ he said with as close as he could get to a grin. ‘Well, do we ‘ave a deal?’
Dumbly, Brenda Watkins nodded.

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