The St Mary’s Ranger Group was famous for its fund-raising efforts. For its ability to get money for deserving causes from otherwise hard-headed (and tight-fisted could it be said?) businessmen and other well-heeled individuals. This ability was nothing short of amazing. Or was it? Well, is it so amazing that pretty girls in fetching uniforms can persuade grown males to part with cash (for a good cause of course)?
The donors were almost invariably men (and even if we are talking about the odd female here and there, well, it is also not unknown for ladies to fancy a pretty girl). But very usually men. Yes, was it so amazing? With the likes of Sue and Corinne. Debbie and Annabel. Lisa.
They seemed to operate on a kind of bob-a-job-type basis. Except that naturally one does not nowadays get much for a ‘bob’ (five pee as we now say). Oh no, one is certainly talking about somewhat more substantial sums. For a job. A job? Girls on the job? What are we talking of here? Well, in the first place we are talking about very pretty and attractive girls. And girls who are of the age of consent. Seventeen and up (up?) generally speaking. Girls who are able to give their consent, they are consenting adults in the eye of the law. When on the job. If one can put it like that.
What are these jobs then? They’re not really on the job, are they? These extremely attractive St Mary’s Rangers. No, they can’t be. But then what exactly do they do? To drum up these considerable sums. For the Church Tower Appeal for instance. Which has been the Reverend William Beacon’s pet project. That was one and it certainly cost a few bob. And the new Community Hall, that would have cost a few pee too. So what did the girls do to persuade various well-heeled gentlemen in the area to cough up, contribute?
Do they… ah… just smile sweetly? Or do they perhaps… sit on a gentleman’s knee? Allowing those sweetly-curved blue-uniformed bottom-cheeks to be seated in a gentleman’s lap (and of course necessarily at the same time on his male member). Well, they might consent to that. But surely not really… on the job? No, surely not.
No one knows of course. Well, presumably the gentlemen concerned know. They know what they get for their generosity. What little favour. The sweet smile. Or the sweet bottom in their lap. Or… that other…? No. No one surely is going to suggest that. But this of course is not strictly true. Certain persons may well have suggested it. Indeed have suggested it. Individuals in the Dog and Whistle. Which is the local of certain insensitive and coarse characters. It has certainly been suggested that some of the girls are prepared to get on the job. That certain of them in exchange for generous donations have provided that ultimate pleasure. The pleasure of getting it up (as it would be coarsely put in the public bar of the D and W).
But then such characters, these certain regulars of the Dog and Whistle, Len Spinks and Ron Gundrey to name two, would say that. Characters who of course have never made any contribution themselves to worthy causes but are happy to make these unseemly innuendoes.
Len Spinks, coarse character that he is, will if he gets the chance make these comments to girls directly. Certain girls. Debbie Marsham for one. Debbie is an extremely pretty brunette. Extremely shapely too in her Ranger outfit of tight light-blue blouse and demure navy skirt. She is a very sweet, pert girl and she can be made to blush most fetchingly if you say certain things to her. Certain suggestions relating to the Rangers’ fund-raising efforts for instance. Debbie does her best to avoid being caught by Mr Spinks, aware that he will pretty certainly start his blush-making remarks. Mr Spinks is undoubtedly a Dirty Old Man (although in fact only in his thirties). But she has certainly been caught on a number of occasions.
‘How are those good works then, Deb?’ That is a typical opening.
‘Oh… hello… Look I’m… ah… really busy…’ is a typical response. Trying to slide away a bit sharpish. But Leonard Spinks cannot easily be shaken off. He will physically block a girl’s path.
‘Don’t rush about so, young Deb. You’ll wear yourself out. Then you’ll be too exhausted for those good works. I mean you need all your energy for that. A good performance.’
And then Len Spinks may as like as not make a certain unpleasant gesture. His left forefinger and thumb forming a circle. Into which he then inserts his right forefinger. Sliding it in and out in a salacious manner. The circling forefinger and thumb of course represent a girl’s vagina, her sexual tunnel. Indeed they represent Debbie’s sexual tunnel. And the stiff right forefinger of course is a man’s stiffly erect penis. The erect penis of one of those generous donors. Going in and out of Debbie’s tunnel.
Debbie will pretty certainly have started one of her blushes at this performance. Though pretending not to understand what he means. ‘Look, I don’t know what you’re on about. But I’ve got to go…’
‘Of course you know, young Debbie. And I’m not saying you shouldn’t do it. Not if it’s in a good cause. Look, what about me? For a quid. I could afford a quid. For that Tower Appeal. If you let me have a nice one. Let’s go somewhere quiet…’
‘Don’t be disgusting!’ red-faced Debbie bridles. Well it is disgusting to suggest a girl will do it for a pound. A nicely brought-up and genteel girl like Debbie Marsham. As indeed all the St Mary’s Rangers Group are, because those in charge — Mrs Eileen Fenfield who is Leader and the Rev Beacon — would not have any common girls in the group.
But getting back to Len Spinks, he will behave in that objectionable manner if he gets half a chance. Len Spinks and likewise Ron Gundrey. The girls are well aware of this, as are Eileen Fenfield and Rev Beacon. ‘Try and avoid those dreadful characters,’ is their advice. But you cannot always avoid them. Several girls have expressed concern and indeed distress at the things those two say. Well what if their mothers got to hear and… believe half of it?
Rev Beacon says he will have a word with those two. A quiet but firm word. Yes. Meanwhile…
Meanwhile there is the weekend coming up, for this latest discussion of Messrs Spinks and Gundrey takes place at the regular Friday evening meeting at the vicarage. The weekend is when a good deal of fund-raising is done. Visits to prospective contributors. Rev Beacon has a number of visits lined up for this weekend. Assignments for the girls. They can’t concern themselves with the likes of Len Spinks and Ron Gundrey when there are these appointments to be made. No, the girls concerned need to go home and get a good night’s sleep. Untroubled by such matters. ‘Forget them,’ Rev Beacon repeats.
Yes, the weekend! This weekend. Assignments! Is it possible that one could get a glimpse of these famous fund-raising efforts. Which no one really knows anything about, including Len and Ron in spite of their nasty suggestions. They certainly don’t know those things. The girls line of course is that they do only smile sweetly and explain the virtues of their good causes. Smile sweetly and bat their appealing eyelashes and say ‘Please sir…!’
But maybe we don’t quite believe that. Not completely. I mean not even sitting their delicious bottoms on a gentleman’s lap? Debbie and Annabel etc. will certainly deny it. So if one could… be a little fly on the wall…
Is it possible? A fly on the wall when, say, delicious Debbie Marsham goes off to see Mr Froster this Saturday morning. Mr James Froster has a splendid place a couple of miles out in the country and Debbie is going on her bike on this sunny October morning. A fly could easily hitch a lift, perching himself on her saddlebag say. Or even for preference somewhere on the front of Deb’s vehicle. Where he would have a splendid view of Deb’s lovely thighs as she pedals. Because although she pulls it back down from time to time the demure blue skirt does persist in riding up. Becoming less demure as flexing, sweetly-muscled thighs are revealed. Even no doubt the crotch of sweet brief white knickers.
Well that is something for a start. Debbie has got knickers on. She hasn’t gone slyly out without them. That at least is not part of the bargain: pretty Debbie Marsham with no knickers on. But surely anyway we never expected that. It would not be, well, ladylike. And anyway Debbie can always take them off when she gets there. Or allow Mr Froster to take them off. Well our Mr Fly if he is sharp is going to find that out. He is probably almost hopping about with excitement at the thought.
If he were a very cheeky fly of course he could be buzzing around and buzz right in there. Up into that warm tent of Debbie’s skirt. In with the headily flexing bare thighs. Warm and slightly moist. Perspiring somewhat. To maybe settle for a moment on one. Making Deb flip her hand back in annoyance. You can get pesky, annoying flies on a warm autumn morning. Anyway…
James Froster is not old, in his thirties it seems, in a smart grey country suit and tie. Greeting Debbie at the front door when she knocks after parking the bike. Does it seem that they have met before or would this be a first meeting? Maybe a fly is not smart enough to quite make that out, but the greeting is very welcoming. As perhaps one might expect. And… ah…
Mr Froster’s hand. Quite soon, almost immediately when he has Deb in the hallway his hand goes to her bottom. Sliding down behind our sweet and innocent Deb to her bottom. Sliding over that splendid, quite ripely swelling part of her. And Debbie does not jerk away. Or sharply push this hand away. No, demure Deb who certainly says she only smiles sweetly on these visits and would not dream of engaging in any sort of intimacies, is certainly, smilingly, allowing Mr Froster to feel her bottom. To give her a nice very friendly fondle. Of her beautiful bottom-cheeks. When she is scarcely inside the door. Well that is certainly something. No doubt a very excited buzz can be heard.
‘These flies,’ James Froster observes. While keeping his right hand firmly in place.
Well this is something. As long as our fly does not get too excited and buzz off, get lost, because this is a big house. No, he’s got to keep his head and closely follow…
They are going down some stone steps. To a sort of store room. Indeed there are nice crisp-looking apples laid out on a bench, ripening in the cool air. But don’t worry about the apples. It’s pretty Deb…
Mr Froster says something. Not having a knowledge of the English language our fly will not know what it is but it is probably a suggestion of some sort. To which Debbie smiles shyly in acknowledgement or acquiescence. Mr Froster turns her and reaches round… and takes hold of her tits. Those good-sized bulges in the front of the light-blue blouse. And again Debbie makes no show of shock or surprise. Well maybe those big brown eyes widen a little but she is certainly not fighting Mr Froster off. He has got hold of her tits. One in each hand. Squeezing them. With evident relish. And with no argument from sweet Deb.
Well, well. What about this? That sweet and seemingly innocent girl. And presumably those other Rangers too? Maybe Len and Ron were right after all. Len with his basic hand gestures, his finger sliding lubriciously in and out. Yes? Could it be?
Mr Froster lets go and makes some further smiling comment. An instruction? Because Debbie now turns and steps to the bench. Bending her upper person down over it, over the ripening apples. Presenting, in this position, her bottom. Yes. Because Mr Froster is at that part of her. His hands anyway at the rear fastening of Debbie’s skirt. Unfastening and unzipping. Then tugging the skirt down. To reveal underneath just a pair of brief white knickers tight to Debbie’s ripe-cheeked rear.
The skirt is tugged on down, to display the full splendour of this succulent seat. And then on down and off; the bending and bottom-proffering Debbie obligingly lifting one foot and then the other to accommodate the skirt’s final removal.
Well this is truly amazing. No doubt our fly will be falling off the wall in astonishment. Len and Ron certainly would if they were here to see this. Because surely Mr Froster is going to do it. And Deb is going to allow and indeed cooperate. She and Mr Froster are clearly very shortly going to be on the job. At it. He is going to slip those little knickers down and tail her. From the rear it would seem. Simply slide it in. It is unbelievable. Surely no one would believe this. And it’s just as well no one knows. Apart from this dumb fly.
But wait. Wait a mo. Because Mr Froster is not now at this moment sliding the little knicks down. Nor is he unzipping his own smartly-cut trousers to take out his no doubt very stiff organ to begin the act. He is instead going over to the side of the room. To get something. And that something is… a cane. A long, thin, whippy rattan.
Oh my! Here’s a thing. Well, if you have a cane there’s not much doubt what you are going to do with it. The uses of a cane are pretty much clear and to the point. There is only one real use. And that is… to cane. A girl’s bottom can be most stimulating. Some men will find it surpassingly stimulating. And here is Mr James Froster with this cane in his hand and a sparkling gleam in his eye…
He is going back to Debbie. Of course! His right hand slides over the thrust-out bottom. Sliding over the swelling tightly-knickered flesh in delicious anticipation. While pretty Deb with her forearms on the bench in amongst the Cox’s Oranges meekly accepts it. Though no doubt her pulse is thudding wildly. Because whether you’re prepared to allow it or not, and good cause or not, a caning hurts. Yes.
The cane is transferred into Mr Froster’s right hand. He has had enough of excited anticipation. It is now…
Yes, action! Debbie makes a gurgling sound. Her stricken rear end at the same time giving a sharp and anguished lurch. Mr Froster has really whipped the cane in. Really scorching that briefly-knickered seat. My word!
A second one, just like the first. Good and hard and wristy, that is. And almost on top of the line of the first. More of a high-pitched yell this time from pain-convulsed Debbie. And definitely more desperate bottom-churning, the frantic clenching of cheeks. Well, one red-hot one on top of another undoubtedly does cause a girl to wriggle her bum.
Mr Froster is leaning forward. Is that it? No. Well we don’t know but what he is doing is tugging down those little knicks. Baring Deb’s bum. Just look at those two stripes. Two bright red stripes that are almost one. Squarely across the full under-fat of what pretty Deb sits on. Except that she won’t want to sit on it for a little bit. No…
My goodness! Mr Froster has sliced another one in. As soon as he has got her knicks fully down off her bottom. Whipped the cane smartly in again underneath. Where a girl’s bum joins her thighs. That one stung! Just look at delightful Deb writhing and rolling. My word! This is certainly the stuff to give the troops! Who could have dreamt it! If Len and Ron were here, hidden in that cupboard, say, and peering out… well they would be coming in their Y-fronts. No question. But as it is of course there is only our Mr Fly. Buzzing around, maybe he is getting turned on. Sensing the heady excitement in the air.
Mr Froster continues for a bit. Whacking it in. Making Deb’s bum do the dervish-dance. Eventually he stops. He has given her a good dusting-up but has not attempted to kill her with it or anything. James Froster is not one of your actual sadists. Well it would seem not. He stops and straightens the gasping girl up. Deb is gasping. Her face bright red, grimacing. With that hot pain in her bum. Her hands tentatively feeling at it. She tries to force a smile for Mr Froster.
Mr Froster’s hands also have a continuing interest in Debbie’s bottom. His hands doing some no doubt sympathetic feeling, in competition with Debbie’s own. Then he is at those lowered knickers. Snaking them on down. Steadying herself on his shoulder Debbie cooperatively steps out of them. So that now she has on only the tight blue blouse and her Ranger hat. Plus of course shoes and socks. But nothing essentially below the waist. There is her splendid red-striped, ripe-cheeked rear to her rear… and to her front, at the tops of those lovely thighs, an enticing girlish bush of brown curls. Debbie slides one hand in front of this latter. Shy perhaps of that buzzing fly seeing it.
Mr Froster is meanwhile now at her blouse. Unbuttoning the little buttons. And pulling the blue blouse open. To reveal that this girl has nothing underneath. Nothing except these very saucy, quite mature-looking, pink-nippled boobs. Which he now takes hold of. Deb makes a face and says something. So there you are: she may have worn a pair of pants this morning but nothing else under the Ranger uniform. Not a stitch.
What now? What now is that after a bit of this groping, at Debbie’s lovely boobs and other choice areas as well, which causes some squirming about on her part but no actual objection, Mr Froster is conducting his visitor out. Back up the stone steps. Clad as she is and carrying her skirt and knickers. Buzz-buzz. Our fly is in close attendance. As they proceed up into the hallway and then up the main stairs. To the bedrooms! Ah. Buzzing about in his excited way our fly almost allows himself to be crucially separated, shut out as they enter a bedroom. But he just makes it, before the door is shut behind them. Mr Froster flaps his hand. That pesky fly has followed them.
Deb laughs: ‘I hope he’s not going to watch!’
The fly doesn’t understand these words but that is just what he is going to do. Controlling his fly-like instinct to buzz about all over the place, he settles down on the window-sill. To watch. The action. And the action now is Mr Froster and Debbie on the job. No two ways about it. That business downstairs was evidently a warm-up, to get him nicely in the mood.
Deb placing her skirt and knickers neatly on a chair and then getting on the bed. Lying crosswise on the cover. On her back. Her legs up. As James Froster prepares himself. Removing his jacket and tie and then the sharply-creased trousers. His Y-fronts. His large erect member jutting as he comes forward. To part those pretty knees, the shapely thighs. And then coming down on her. His big knob at the furry wet mouth. Slipping in.
A little gasp from Debbie. The beady eyes of the fly watch. Giggling, Deb gasps, ‘He’s not watching is he? That fly.’
Well, it is just as well flies can’t talk. Just as well they are simple dumb creatures. Or there would be hell to pay. Debbie’s mum! The mind boggles. And everyone. Len Spinks and Ron Gundry. Mrs Fenfield and Rev Beacon?
Actually those latter two are in a somewhat different category. One may well suppose that Mrs Fenfield and Rev Beacon have a pretty good idea what Debbie is at on this Saturday morning. What indeed Annabel and Lisa etc. are at too. Or more or less what they are at. Yes. The Rev Beacon will know, although that gentleman does not really have his mind on Debbie Marsham at this moment. Any fly with his eyes open this morning in the St Mary’s Vicarage may well be able to see the Rev William Beacon. With Sue. At this moment in one of the bedrooms. Sue does not have any appointment for good works this morning, and therefore she is available to Rev Beacon. The reverend gentleman is doing to Sue what Mr Froster is doing to Debbie.
As for Eileen Fenfield, who is an attractive full-breasted 30-year-old married lady, she is engaged in duties too. Duties that perhaps could loosely be called ‘counselling’. If one had to designate them. Not with one of the Ranger Group, no, it is in her secondary capacity as Assistant to the St Mary’s Scout Troop. Counsellor to a number of the senior boys. It is with one of these, Ted Bonter, that Eileen Fenfield is busy this morning. In her car, parked out in some secluded woodland. Growing lads of 17 can greatly benefit from counselling from a mature and attractive and of course experienced married lady. Eileen is in the middle of a sympathetic counselling session now, as any buzzing-about fly out here could attest. If he could tell of course. Eileen has Ted’s erect and very mature looking member out and is stroking it. Her soft and experienced hand firmly gripping the thick shaft and sliding sensuously up and down.