On this pleasant April afternoon in the smoking room of one of those unassuming but so exclusive gentlemen’s clubs in the area of London between the Mall and Piccadilly two of the members are taking their after-lunch coffee. Both men in the deep leather armchairs are senior civil servants, in their middle fifties, one from the Foreign Office and the other the Treasury. The latter has asked something about training.
‘That special training, George. I recall you mentioning it some time ago. Special training… ah… for the ladies. Anything of that…? On at the moment?’
He gets a little smile from his companion. ‘It’s funny you should ask, James. Because as a matter of fact, yes. I had a girl sent off on one of those little efforts this very week. A spouse actually. The wife of one of our young chaps who’s going to Bonn as a scientific attaché. Rather a spiffing girl. In fact a very spiffing girl. Which of course is why I had her go.’
‘Ah. Spiffing you say?’
‘Extremely.’ FO’s hands describe a voluptuous form in the air. ‘A lovely shape, and a lovely girl altogether. But of course can definitely do with a bit of training. At that age. She’s just 22 as I recall.’
‘She won’t enjoy it. Square-bashing I believe you said, and all the rest.’
‘No, I doubt that she will enjoy it. I shall keep closely in touch of course. As it progresses. See how she is enjoying it.’
‘I imagine those army boys can be pretty tough on a lovely young woman. Breaking her in, eh?’
‘I believe so, James.’
Treasury shakes his head. His eyes have a certain glitter. As perhaps he envisages aspects of the training of this lovely young Foreign Office wife. A pretty young wife in the hands of the voracious soldiery. Having their coarse and greedy way with her.
‘Ah. Any… ah… chance of meeting that young lady, George. After she’s had a bit of her training?’
FO says yes. Definitely. He would very much like friend James to meet her. Yes, very much.
A young woman in the olive-green uniform of the WRAC stands at attention in front of a desk. She is a very pretty young woman with thick medium-brown hair and a full, shapely figure. Big boobs stretch the fitted jacket as she stands with her shoulders pulled back, and the full, voluptuous swell of ripe buttocks likewise tauten the tightish skirt above her black high heels. The young woman’s name is Fiona Maplin.
She does not look very happy and Fiona Maplin is not happy. Not happy to be here in this uniform and standing at attention. With her hands straight down at her sides and her feet smartly together. Her eyes straight ahead and her chest pushed out (her boobs that is). The very idea is sickening. In this sickening uniform. Private Fiona Maplin…
The desk is that of Colonel Henry Bolling. This is Col. Bolling’s office as is proclaimed on the outside of the now closed door. And of course this is Col. Bolling himself seated behind the desk, his eyes keenly fixed on this brand spanking new Private Maplin standing anxiously before him. Fixed in particular perhaps on those full, thrusting tits in the tight jacket. She is not a regular WRAC recruit of course. No, Private Maplin is a special trainee. She has been sent to Col. Bolling’s unit for a period of special training.
Col. Bolling drops his gaze from what is standing so invitingly before him to the file on his desk. ‘Yes. Private Maplin. Fiona in fact, eh? and from the Foreign Office.’
‘Yes. Yes Col. Bolling. Except…’ She haltingly begins to explain that it is her husband who is actually with the Foreign Office, though of course Col. Bolling knows that, it is all in his file.
He is getting to his feet. Col. Bolling is a big man, tall and heavy in his khaki shirt and tie, with the fleshy face and thinning hair, fiftyish Fiona would guess. He is coming round the solid wooden desk to where she is standing.
‘Alright. Fiona Maplin whose husband is in the Foreign Office. Anyway how does it feel to be in the Army? A member, temporarily at least, of the Women’s Royal Army Corps.’ The Colonel has come very close, at Fiona’s left side. ‘Or as some of our soldiers like to refer to it: the Cunts Corps.’
Fiona can feel herself reddening. The word is almost like a blow, a smack in the face. Col. Bolling takes hold of her arm, through this awful uniform jacket.
‘That word is not unfamiliar to you, I assume, Fiona? It is part of our rich English language and is presumably known in the rarefied reaches of the Foreign Office? It refers to part of a woman’s anatomy of course. Yes?’
‘Yes. Yessir,’ she manages. This is awful. This dreadful colonel is trying to get at her of course. With this awful talk. But there is nothing Fiona can do; she is at his mercy.
‘Yes Private Maplin. And while we’re on the subject of that female part I must tell you something. You will find our soldiers here are likely to take a rather basic view of a new and very attractive woman recruit. Their interest will very much centre on that part of you, Private Maplin. Your cunt, for want of a better word, young lady. Do you understand me?’
‘Yessir.’ Fiona’s response more gasped now. Her face is several shades redder. Col. Bolling can’t talk to her like this. And it is not only what he is saying. There is his hand. It has left her arm. It is now behind Fiona. Lower down. In other words it is at her bottom. She can feel herself shaking.
‘Plus of course the other feminine parts of you. This splendid bottom. And those big boobs. But essentially, young lady, it is going to be your cunt that will interest them. All the non-commissioned men in this outfit are going to be after it. And no doubt most officers too. Desperately keen to get into it. Are you with me, Mrs Maplin? Private Maplin. You will know what I am talking about. I mean as a married lady you have it in regular use. Normally. Before you started on this course. Eh? Regular use with Mr Maplin. Correct? Isn’t that right?’
‘Ahaa… Please…’ The hand is groping Fiona’s ripe bottom. ‘Please don’t…’ Through this awful olive green uniform skirt that she’s got to wear. With underneath just a brief and skimpy pair of knickers and a suspender belt for her nylons. The hand intimately and unashamedly groping. The hand at the moment is even worse than the dreadful things Col. Bolling is saying.
‘Stand still, Private Maplin. You are at attention remember. Discipline. That is clearly what you have to learn here. It is actually what I am checking, young lady. Your sense of self-control.’
‘Ahaaah…’ The colonel has delivered a sharp pinch to the left fleshy undercheek of Fiona’s splendid rear.
‘And answer my question. Regarding what as I say every man jack on this cam is going to be after. It’s normal usage. Every night? Twice a night perhaps? Your civvy-street hubby. That Foreign Office young laddie. Going at it like a jack-rabbit, is he? Or rather we should say was, eh?’
It is impossible. This simply impossible questioning. About Fiona’s private-most life. And also of course the hand. Which is in no way letting up. Col. Bolling simply can’t do these things. But he can. Or at least he is. Fiona is trying to stutter out some words of reply. She has no real idea what. And now it is Col. Bolling again. He is saying… What is he saying?
What Col. Bolling is saying is that Fiona is to take off her uniform jacket and skirt. And then stand to attention in just her blouse. And underthings. And her black high-heel pumps.
‘Tha…that Col. Bo…Bolling…’ Fiona stutters.
‘I know. He’s a real bastard. But don’t worry, dear. I mean most men are, aren’t they? Bastards.’
The speaker is Bonnie Bingham, a good-looking blonde of perhaps 30 wearing the uniform and insignia of a WRAC sergeant. She and Fiona are in the WRAC quarters, in a starkly-furnished little room (single bed, wash-basin, upright wooden chair) which has been assigned to the new recruit. Fiona is just back from her interview with Col. Bolling. She still can’t believe it. Fiona hasn’t been able to get any details out, she has difficulty in forming intelligible words. But Bonnie Bingham can guess. More or less.
She puts a sympathetic but one would have to say unsergeantly arm round Fiona who is standing shakily by the bed. This seems to be too much. The last straw for Fiona’s emotions which are twanging like over-stretched piano wire. She bursts into hysterical sobs. Sergeant Bonnie Bingham pulls her close. Two arms round the sobbing girl.
‘H…he…he m…made me take m…my skirt and ja…jacket off. And p…p…put his hands everywhere.’ A further burst of sobs. ‘A…and s…said the m…most awf…ful things. He kept on about my c…c…cu…’
‘Your pussy, Fiona dear. I’m afraid that doesn’t surprise me one bit. Col. Bolling is a dreadful man.’
‘And he sa…sa…said everyone… all the men would fu…fu…fuck…’
‘Fuck you, dear. Yes. Well no doubt quite a few of them will try. But we’ll see they don’t, eh? Look, why don’t you…’
Bonnie has slid down to sit on the bed, pulling Fiona down with her. And she is now pushing the unhappy new recruit back, making her lie down. What Fiona needs is a rest, after that ordeal with Col. Bolling. She is slipping off Fiona’s skirt.
‘Let’s slip your knickers off, Fiona dear. To get you more comfortable…’
‘No…’ Fiona breathes. Trying to get up. But Bonnie holds her down.
‘Yes dear. You need a little rest. Look, you’ve got to go and see Sergeant Arklett in half an hour. Physical Training. He… well, he’ll be worse than Col. Bolling, I’m afraid. Sidney Arklett is a real bastard. Where women are concerned. Really dreadful. So… a little rest first… is what we want…’
Worse than Col. Bolling! This Sergeant Arklett! Can such a thing be possible? With this stunning information in her head Fiona is scarcely aware that her knickers are being slid down. Slid right off over her stockinged feet. Not really aware until… ‘Ahhhahhh…’
Sergeant Bingham’s hand is at Fiona’s pussy.
Sergeant Arklett. Who according to Bonnie Bingham is worse than Col. Bolling. Fiona is standing shakily before the door of Sergeant Arklett’s office. Is it possible to be worse than Col. Bolling? Oh God! Her head is in a turmoil. There is Sergeant Bonnie Bingham for one thing. Sergeant Bingham who has just brought Fiona off on that horrid little bed. Her fingers expertly in Fiona’s pussy. Or cunt as Col. Bolling is keen to call it. Christ! The shock of it has Fiona still light-headed. She doesn’t do it with other women. No, she is a happily married girl. Happy to be screwed by her husband. Her dear Robert. Not at all wanting to do it with other men and certainly not women. But… Fiona has just come at the hands of that Bonnie Bingham. A big orgasm. Writhing and rolling on that bed.
Oh Christ! Robert. He doesn’t know about this awful place. Because it is all hush-hush. Confidential. That is what Mr Sebastian told Fiona. Mr Sebastian who is very senior in the FO. Mr Sebastian whom Fiona has met on just a couple of occasions and vaguely got the idea he might fancy her. But he has had her sent to this place. A little basic training in connection with Robert’s Bonn appointment. But it’s confidential. Robert thinks Fiona’s off on a course brushing up her German. Not here wearing this awful uniform. A WRAC private. And about to be put through her paces by this dreadful Sergeant Arklett. Physical Training Instructor.
Oh God. Fiona wants to turn and run. Not that her legs could run anywhere. They feel as if they can scarcely keep her standing. No she can’t run away. She’s got to go in. Knock and go in.
He looks awful. Hard eyes in a hard narrow face. A thick dark moustache above his tight mouth. He is sitting behind his desk with those eyes glaring at her. For some reason Sergeant Arklett is in civilian shirt and tie. Perhaps it’s supposed to be his day off but he’s got to deal with this new recruit. So he’ll be angry. Worse than usual. Fiona’s legs are going to collapse.
‘So. Private Maplin, eh? Private Fiona Maplin. A squashy-bummed female. On temporary secondment to the Cunts Corp. Right Private?’
‘Y…Yes Sergeant.’ Oh God! There is no doubt he is a dreadful person. Bonnie Bingham was right.
‘And a married lady. A married cunt. Hubby in the Foreign Office. So lah-di-dah, eh Fiona? And I hear that some of those lah-di-dah ladies are keen to have it up ‘em. Right? Keen for hot dick. Am I right, Private Lah-di-dah Maplin?’
‘No! No Sergeant. And… pl…please.’
‘Pl…Pl…Please… don’t… talk like that. Please.’ It comes out as a frightened little whisper.
‘Oh. Really. I thought for a moment you were saying please could you have my dick. A quick one over the desk. Well as it happens, Private Maplin, I shall speak to you just how I like. But also…’ He is getting to his feet.
‘I might just give you a taste of my dick. To get us acquainted, eh?’
‘No!’ Oh God! This dreadful man is going to rape her. Right here in his office!
‘Get your skirt off, Private Maplin. And that jacket…’
No! He is… going to rape her…
‘I am going to cane you, Private Maplin. For starters.’ And unbelievable though it may seem Sergeant Arklett does now have a cane in his hand. A long, thin, whippy-looking cane.
‘I shall want your skirt off, and then your knickers down. If you’re wearing any of course. I understand some of you lah-di-dah ladies don’t always bother to wear them. Anyway I shall want that big fat bottom bare. For a good caning. Your first lesson in discipline.’
This is unbelievable. Worse than being raped perhaps? Certainly just as bad. He can’t mean it. But Sergeant Arklett apparently does. As he whips that dreadful cane viciously in across Fiona’s still skirted flanks.
‘Get those things off, I said!’
Well there is no choice. He is evidently a madman. No there is no choice… Fiona begins desperately disrobing. Her skirt. And jacket. Oh Jesus! That cane… Fiona in her blouse and brief white knickers now. With her white suspender belt tautly fastening the sheer beige stockings. As she was earlier before Col. Bolling. But Col. Bolling did not have a wicked cane in his hand. Nor was he… harshly instructing Fiona to take her knickers down. Oh Jesus! Her knickers! Baring her poor bottom.
‘And get over the desk. Bend right over it. Get that fat bum stuck nicely out…’
He can’t. He can’t hit her with that thing. No… But then it happens. The cane exploding into Fiona’s nicely stuck-out bare bottom. She lets out a banshee-like shriek. It is like she has been cut in half. Her poor bottom cut in two. She automatically straightens up but Sergeant Arklett’s muscular arm is there to thrust her back down again. And slice that impossible cane in once more.
The pain is killing her. You can’t take pain like this. But Sergeant Arklett is holding Fiona down… and zipping the cane in. She doesn’t know how many, her mind can’t count, it is unable to comprehend anything. All it knows is that her bottom is an inferno. White hot.
At last he is letting her get up… stand upright. Except that Fiona can’t. Not without hanging onto the desk for support. Sergeant Arklett’s hand is at Fiona’s bottom now. At the red/white-hot flesh.
‘How was that, Fiona dear? Warm you up a bit?’
It is over at least. He has half-killed her but it is over. That awful hand is still groping at the raw bare flesh of Fiona’s stricken rear. But the unspeakable caning is over…
‘That was just a warming up of course. Now stage two. Up on the desk, Fiona darling. On your back. With your legs up in the air. You’ll like that, eh?’
Fiona cannot believe it. Her mind in this awful shock she is still in must be playing tricks with her. Sergeant Arklett can’t be saying… what she thinks he is saying.
But he is. Sergeant Arklett has said he wants Fiona up on the desk on her back. With her legs raised up above her head. For some more of that diabolical cane.
What is worse? The sickening position with everything fully on view? Fiona is up on the desk and the thought of it, of what he can see… Or more of that cane? Is that worse? Once the cane zips in again to Fiona’s now upraised bottom there can be no question. Nothing can be as bad as this cane. No, not even Fiona’s sickening, humiliatingly exposed upside-down position on the desk top.
She can’t tell Robert. Even though the things Fiona suffered in her three-day stay at the camp were impossible and those dreadful men who so abused her — that Col. Bolling and Sergeant Arklett, not to mention one or two others — should clearly be up on criminal charges for gross abuse of their positions. But Fiona can’t tell anyone. Because it is strictly confidential and if she were to breathe anything then even though it’s so dreadful Robert’s career would be finished.
But at least she will tell Mr Sebastian. Mr Sebastian who sent her on the course and who now wants to see Fiona. A phone call to their flat the day after she got back. Yes she will certainly tell Mr Sebastian. He can’t have any idea what that place is really like. And maybe he can do something.
But Mr Sebastian… When Fiona leaves Mr Sebastian’s beautiful flat she is in the picture. It is an unbelievable picture, but then this whole thing is unbelievable. Her stay at that camp as a WRAC private, at the mercy of those vicious men… and now this. Mr Sebastian.
Mr Sebastian must have known all along what it was like. What they would do to her. Maybe he arranged it specially. Especially for Fiona? Well nothing seems impossible now. Because it is clear Mr Sebastian sent her there for his own purpose. Yes he did fancy her, as Fiona vaguely guessed, and now he has said she should really be going back for a second session. With Col. Bolling and Sergeant Arklett. And the others. Unless…
Unless Fiona pleads with him. And agree to submit to what he wants. All strictly confidential of course. And what does Mr Sebastian want? Well to fuck her. To put it in basic terms. In words of one syllable. Although that is not all. Oh no…
Because Mr Sebastian is a man of sophisticated tastes. Well that is one word for it. Submission, that is the keynote. And if the alternative is to go back to that camp… a girl is going to submit. Not just submit to being fucked, submit to all the rest. Submit her bare bottom to being caned for one thing. Caning a young woman’s bare bottom is a sophisticated taste, isn’t it? A sophisticated pleasure. Although as we have seen it is an activity also indulged in by Army Physical Training Instructors. So perhaps there is not a lot to choose. Perhaps. But in Fiona’s mind anything is better than that camp. That WRAC uniform. That Sergeant Arklett.
Mr Sebastian will have her dressed up though. Special outfits. Uniforms. For his caning episodes. Episodes which arouse his sophisticated sensitivities sufficiently that he is ready to fuck her. And also… Mr Sebastian has sophisticated friends. One or two close ones. Whom of course he wants Fiona to meet. So that they can practice their own sophisticated enjoyments with her.
Maybe at this stage it may seem that it is not the better choice. Maybe Fiona should have gone back for another session as Private Maplin. With Col. Bolling. And Sergeant Arklett. Yes and Sergeant Bonnie Bingham.