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Wednesday, 31 October 2018

Dance School I

Continuing the theme of videos featuring exotic dancers, this week we pay our first visit to the Cheek-to-Cheek Dance School in the company of the beautiful Nicky van Kiel, Amanda Patterson and Joanna Walker, for the first in a trilogy of films. We will return…
Part 1:
Part 2:
Part 3:

Tuesday, 30 October 2018

Fancying Fiona

From Blushes 57
Fiona Gilbert was quite delicious. Fiona Milway as she had been until only a few weeks ago. Stanley Gilbert’s gorgeous new young wife. A real dazzler. Aged 20 but really scarcely looking that: she could easily be a mouth-watering schoolgirl of 17 or 18. A lovely face: big doe-like azure eyes, and ripely soft so-innocent mouth. Framed in a cascade of shoulder-length ripe-corn hair. And her figure too of course, it was equally stunning. Breasts like twin melons thrusting out the front of her blouse; and below the slim waist the lovely swell of curving hips and from the rear as she walked the sublime twin cheeks of her bottom doing mind-boggling things under her skirt.
Yes, all quite mouth-watering. Stanley Gilbert’s new wife. Stanley who was 42.
And that was the next thing that sprang to everyone’s mind. After seeing how dazzling she was. The fact that Stanley was 42. How could a man like Stanley, a good old sort no doubt and certainly worth a bob or two but also, most certainly, staid and not a ball of fire. How was Stanley really going to cope with this? Had he really considered the situation soberly? And you had only to ask yourself this question to come up with the answer that he could not have. Stanley Gilbert could only have been in some sort of dream world, to imagine he could cope with this dazzler.
In particular in that no one seemed to know much about her background. Anything reliable that is. One rumour said she came from a west country rectory — but then we all know what these vicarage girls can be like. Butter seemingly won’t melt in their sweet mouths but at the same time they’re fucking away like rabbits. Was Stanley’s new young lady going to be engaging in non-stop sexual intercourse of a promiscuous nature? Quite a few leering-faced persons were extremely keen to find out. Hoping to be able to satisfy young Mrs Gilbert’s keen appetite in that direction. But the rectory rumour was only one of many, with others ascribing much less romantic backgrounds.
What was pretty well established was that Stanley had got her through some sort of matrimonial agency. High class of course, as one would expect with Stanley Gilbert’s money, but nonetheless one of those places. And why would a sublime looking girl like this Fiona give her name to such an establishment if she was not at the very least a gold-digger. And when a gold-digger had dug gold and was no doubt bored — well, the chances were that one who looked like that and was 20 as opposed to Stanley’s 42 would, like the rectory girl that she might be anyway, be fucking like a female rabbit. All and sundry. Or at least whoever took her fancy.
A lot of people thought that. Indeed just about everyone. Some of them mentioned it to Stanley. Obliquely. Their fear for his future happiness. Their fear of what this undoubtedly lovely young thing could do. One who mentioned it somewhat less obliquely than most was Monica Smithford. Monica who was the wife of Harold Smithford and was not at all bad-looking herself. Aged 30, though Monica claimed 28. Not in the same class of looks as this dazzling Fiona of course. Handsome but less soft and sensuous looking.
What Stanley didn’t know was that Monica was to a certain extent partial to members of her own sex. In spite of being Harold Smithford’s wife and therefore for all to see officially heterosexual. But… that doesn’t necessarily mean exclusively so, does it: Monica could fancy a very special girl. A very special feminine girl. Soft and sensuous. A blonde to contrast with her own brunetteness. Yes, she could really fancy this lovely Fiona.
Stanley was not to know this. No one had told him about Monica and he was not himself very perceptive about such matters. No one had told Stanley because for one thing not very many people knew. Harold Smithford knew but he was certainly not going to tell. It rather amused him. It was rather amusing to see if Monica could really…
Monica told Stanley he would have to be very careful. With an exquisite young girl like Fiona and all the men about. Rodney Filford. George Hanway. James Artright. And all the others. The only thing they thought about from morning till night (and from night til morning) was, well, she didn’t wish to be crude but Stanley knew what she meant. Everyone knew what they were like. And Stanley’s Fiona so young and innocent. And if by chance she wasn’t so innocent (well, it was possible these days), well, you also knew what young girls were like. Nowadays. Easily persuaded. Unless…
Unless they had some training. Preferably from another woman. A slightly older, more mature one. You couldn’t trust a man of course. But a woman to advise her as to the pitfalls of social intercourse. And to teach a little self-discipline.
Stanley listened to all this. It seemed to him that Monica was talking a lot of sense. He was inexperienced with women, which was why he had finally decided to go to the agency for a partner. And what an unbelievable creature they had found him! Stanley had not believed the human female could be so exquisite. But by the same token she was clearly going to be as attractive to other males. Rodney Filford and James Artright. George Hanway. Experienced men of the world. Who could easily toy with Fiona’s affections, just for fun. Or even worse, more sickening, toy with her exquisite body. So yes, he was listening to Monica.
----//----
Monica’s large and pleasant house was out in the country and some five miles from the Gilberts’ own country property. Monica’s and Harold’s house of course but Harold is not here, he had some business that has taken him off for a week. Which is very convenient. For Monica.
Monica has Fiona here for the week, with Stanley’s blessing. Fiona has just been delivered on this March morning, by Stanley in his large Mercedes. The Mercedes and Stanley have departed. Monica and Fiona are in the sitting room, alone, looking out of the French windows on a dull, grey-skied March scene.
Monica slips her arm lightly round Fiona’s slim waist. ‘It’s so lovely to have you here, Fiona dear. All to myself. I know we’re going to have a lovely time.’
Fiona shivers slightly. It is not a very nice day. She is not sure what they are going to do here all week. But Stanley was very keen for her to come. To get to know Monica better. Monica seems quite nice, although Fiona has seen very little of her as yet. Very… self-confident.
Fiona starts. The hand has slid down onto her bottom.
‘You know why you’re here, Fiona dear? Mmm…’
Fiona squirms away, embarrassed. Monica’s hand had slid intimately down onto the undercurve of her bottom. An intimate feel through her light tweed skirt.
‘No… Not… ah…’
Monica comes in close again. A little laugh, but her voice comes harder. Firmer.
‘You’re very fidgety, dear. We mustn’t be like that.’ Her arm sliding round Fiona’s waist again. ‘You’re here for a little training. It was remiss of Stanley if he didn’t explain that. He wants you trained a little. Otherwise… he’s not sure if you can look after yourself. Don’t fidget, Fiona.’
The hand is down there again. The underswell of Fiona’s surging rear. Fiona can’t help… trying to get her bottom away.
‘Keep still. I’m just… investigating. What do you do… if a man does this? If a man gives you a feel. At a dance or a party. Not Stanley of course, another man. They do it all the time of course. And with a gorgeous thing like you, Fiona… well they are bound to.’
‘Please…’ Fiona has slid away from the window but only into the corner of the room and the pressing Monica has pursued her. Her hand is still at Fiona’s sweet-cheeked rear.
‘So what do you do, dear? When they give you a sneaky little feel. Or something not so sneaky. Mmm…?’ With now a frontal attack Monica’s two hands reach for Fiona’s full globes, her ripe breasts under the thin pale blue silk blouse. Fiona squeals.
‘It’s what poor Stanley is concerned about, Fiona. Those awful predatory men. With their grubby hands. And not only that. Their whispers in your pretty ear. Hot whispers, Fiona. That they’re desperate to fuck you.’
The obscene word, enunciated with seeming relish by Monica, is as shocking as Monica’s pressing hands. Fiona feels almost as if she is going to cry. Monica is very forceful. Both her hands and her questions. She won’t let her go. Fiona babbles something while ineffectually pushing at the hands. Well of course men do want things. They want to touch a girl, and they do want to make suggestions… of other things. Although Fiona is certainly not interested. She doesn’t want to be fondled up by other men, or anything else from them. She has had a cloistered rectory upbringing, but at the same time she is not one of those vicarage girls who want to fuck and fuck. She is a sweet, shy girl. Although she looks such a dazzler. And now she is Stanley’s wife all she wants… is what Stanley wants. To be his sweet young wife.
‘Stanley is concerned,’ Monica repeats. ‘He feels so vulnerable, poor dear. That is why he wanted me to… ah… check you out, Fiona. So I hope you will be cooperative. For Stanley’s sake.’
What can poor Fiona say to this except: Yes. Of course. The words gasping almost hysterically out. But of course. Naturally Fiona will cooperate. In what exactly, though…?
Monica has let go now. For the moment. Her hands have stopped grabbing. Groping. Monica is quite pink in the face. From the excitement of all this. The excitement of having got her hands on luscious Fiona.
‘That’s sensible. Have you ever been caned, Fiona? Whipped?’
What a question! Can Fiona have heard correctly? Weakly shaking her blonde head. Girls who are brought up with loving care in rectories generally are not whipped or caned.
Monica can scarcely contain her excitement. The cane is what she really wants. Or her horse crop. Slicing it into Fiona’s mouth-watering rear. Nude of course. The thought is almost too much for Monica. That and then a session in bed with the lovely innocent young thing. But the cane first. Or her riding crop.
‘Well we shall have to do that, Fiona. It’s a very basic test. To see how you take it. My riding crop I think. And… I shall want you with all your things off. Nude. Except perhaps your shoes, they can stay on. All right?’
All right? Fiona cannot believe this. Cannot believe her ears — or if she can, Monica must be joking. But Monica does not look or sound as if she is joking. Her voice is hard. Sharp. Her brilliant dark eyes are shining. As she repeats the unbelievable words. Her riding crop. Fiona to take off all her clothes. Except perhaps her white patent leather courts.
‘Come on, Fiona dear. We’ll go out into my scullery.’
Fiona can’t believe this but very shortly they are out in a stark and very basic looking scullery and Monica now has in her hand a vicious looking riding crop. She says in passing that the scullery is due to be modernised, which is easy to believe, but Fiona is not thinking about the somewhat primitive state of the room but of something else. The thing which is going to happen here. Because Monica means it. She means to hit Fiona with that sickening thing.
Another desperate attempt at protesting. It is like some awful nightmare. Monica’s hard voice cuts her short.
‘Don’t be silly, Fiona. I am going to do it right away. I’ve explained that it is a test I have to do. You’re just a soft and silly girl and would be such an easy prey to those men. Unless we toughen you up. Now get those things off!
Monica accompanied her words with a firm and wristy slice of the switch in across the tight seat of Fiona’s tweed skirt. Fiona lets out a shrill yell at the sharp, stinging pain. It has really hurt and that was through her skirt and knickers.
‘Get your things off at once,’ Monica hisses. ‘Or I shall take them off for you — and thrash your bare bottom until it’s raw.’
This threat is enough. With little whimpering sounds Fiona fumbles at her clothes. Her skirt. Her blouse. Everything Monica said. Fiona is half crying. How could Stanley have agreed to this?
Monica watches with rising excitement as Fiona’s lovely flesh is disclosed. There are delicious pale-blue silk bra and knickers under the skirt and blouse. ‘Everything, Fiona dear. Everything off.’
Fiona does it. Face red, whimpering. Slipping off these two remaining delightful garments. Oh look! Monica’s eyes are like laser beams. ‘Stand straight!’ she barks. ‘Get your arms away.’
Because Fiona has her hands coyly covering herself. The hands come unhappily away. To now reveal fully the ripe melons with their pink puppy-dog noses, and the delightful swatch of medium-blonde curls at the top of Fiona’s silky thighs.
It is almost too much. Monica can scarcely resist the urge to get her hands, her mouth, on this exquisite flesh. But of course there is the other heady pleasure. Of whipping her. Pretty young girls of 20 or so did need a good whipping. And when one is as delicious as this Fiona… she needs whipping until she doesn’t know which end is up.
‘Over here,’ Monica says thickly.. At the other end of the room a rope is dangling from a hook in the ceiling.
‘Take hold of that. Grip it high up, as far as you can reach. With both hands.’
Please… No…’ Fiona yelps, but obeying. The feeling of being naked is dreadful. She has only her white high heels on. And stretching up holding the rope… she is nuder than ever. Her lovely ripe breasts lifted high and thrusting in this stretched-up posture. And her bottom, the twin globes quivering as she sways slightly on the rope… Fiona’s defenceless bum is of course the target.
No…ooo… you can’t…
THWACKK…!
Aaaiiieeeeeeeee…!
The riding crop has come wristily in. Squarely across the fullest meat of Fiona’s quivering bum. A mind-numbing pain is welling out from the stricken nates.
‘Hang on. Don’t you dare let go. And get your legs up. Off the floor.’
THWACKK…!
Aaaiiiyyaaaaaaaa…!
‘I said get your legs up. Lift…
THWACKKKK…!
Aaaayyyeeehhh…! NO… NO… NO more…!
Fiona has her legs up now. Her feet off the floor. Swinging from her arms on the rope. There are splendid red stripes across the meat of her bottom. One across the rear tops of her thighs. The pain… Fiona thinks perhaps she might faint.
Monica looks hot. Her face red. Her dark eyes intense. Perhaps Monica feels a little faint too. With the intense excitement. She puts the switch down on the table.
‘Just a moment. Fiona dear.’ Monica’s hands going to her own blouse. Pulling it roughly open and then off. Underneath is a lacy black bra. ‘Just a moment.’ Her hands now at her skirt. A nervous, excited laugh. Sliding down her skirt. Underneath are matching brief black knickers and a slim-strapped suspender belt for her dark nylons. Plus of course Monica’s slim and shapely body. She flings the skirt aside.
‘That’s better.’ Stepping in to the whimpering Fiona who is still hanging onto the rope though not now at full stretch.
‘That’s better. It’s a little hot in here. Fiona darling.’ Monica’s arms going round Fiona. Round her sweet and now hot flesh. ‘That was just a start. How does it feel. Mmm…?’
Monica is caressing the marvellous body. Those surging breasts and also the surging buttocks which have been viciously whipped. Fiona cries out. Monica turns her. Her mouth seeking Fiona’s ripe and trembling mouth. Closing on it. Thrusting her tongue in. And thrusting her hot and eager pussy against Fiona’s silky thigh. Monica is almost coming.
She backs off, with difficulty controlling herself. Not yet. Fiona has got to have more of the riding crop. Quite a bit more of it. She has not been hurt yet. Not really hurt. Fiona may think she is hurt but that is just because she is so soft and unused to pain. She has got to learn what real pain is like. And then…
----/----
In bed. Fiona in bed in this attractive room Monica had prepared for her visit. It is still daytime of course. Late morning. Still that grey March day outside but Fiona has no thought for what is outside. That mind-stopping whipping is not long finished, some 15 minutes ago. Right afterwards Monica advised Fiona to go to bed. To rest. A girl needs to rest after a whipping like that, especially if it is her first.
Fiona was not about to argue. She was not going to argue with anything Monica said and certainly not the thought of going to bed. Not in the state she was in, the state Fiona’s bottom was in.
Monica came up with Fiona. Her arm solicitously round the sobbing and still nude girl. Fiona with her red-striped, red-hot bottom. The red stripes also descending down the backs of her thighs. Sobbing. Unable to stop. Monica was solicitous. Solicitously helping Fiona into bed. Her hands solicitously at Fiona’s hot bottom. Monica has now gone to get some drinks.
Fiona has more or less stopped sobbing now. Her bottom feels slightly better. But otherwise she is still quite devastated. That diabolical riding crop. Looking up at the ceiling. She has been here at Monica’s for only a couple of hours. And is to stay all week. Fiona bites her lip to stop the tears that are threatening to return.
The door opens. Monica of course. No one else is here. Monica with a dressing gown on now and carrying a tray with glasses, bottles. Smiling. Closing the door.
‘How are you, darling?’
Fiona doesn’t answer. Monica puts the drinks on a little table, then sits on the side of the bed. Smiling again at Fiona. ‘Feeling a bit better, you poor dear?’
Monica’s white dressing gown is belted at the waist and somehow the belt has become loosened. The gown is sliding open. As Monica leans over Fiona. Leaning right down to kiss Fiona’s mouth, Monica’s tongue pushing aggressively in. Then she is standing.
‘I expect you’re still feeling sore, Fiona dear. But I’m, going to make it better.’
Monica is sliding the loose dressing gown off. She is nude underneath. Just as Fiona is nude in the bed. Monica’s body is harder, firmer perhaps. But still very attractive. Fiona looks with bewildered eyes, still feeling Monica’s sexy kiss on and in her mouth. Fiona is still dazed, shell-shocked, from the whipping. Looking at Monica’s nude body, her nipples stiff and erect. Monica is pulling back the bed cover. Sliding in with her.
Later today, at tea time, Monica has a surprise visitor for Fiona. Rodney Filford. Rodney who is so keen to get at Fiona, to have a taste of her. Well Rodney is going to be given that opportunity. Probably in this very bed where now Monica is embarrassing Fiona. It will be so amusing for Monica, and so exciting, to let Rodney have Fiona. And of course it will be so good for her. A young girl can be too innocent. Especially a young married girl. A young married girl needs a little experience. Fiona will get that valuable experience. Later today. Rodney Filford will eagerly provide it.
And later in the week there will also be George Hanway and James Artright. Separately of course. A young and innocent girl such as Fiona is perhaps not ready for both together. But separately the two of them will add considerably to Fiona’s experience. Yes it is going to be such an interesting and valuable week for Fiona.
Monica thinks that perhaps she might also let the men watch when she whips Fiona. That could also be intensely amusing.
Yes.
But for the moment it is just Monica experiencing the heady pleasure of being at close quarters with Fiona. With shaken and quivering Fiona. Quite delicious Fiona. Marvellously and sensuously nude Fiona who hardly knows what is happening. At least can’t believe it is happening. Monica greedily between Fiona’s sweet thighs. Monica’s hot mouth greedily devouring her.

Monday, 29 October 2018

The Film Test

From Whispers 4
She was tall and blonde and shapely, and pretty as well, and with all this she probably had thought about films but not seriously, only in the sort of day-dreamy way that girls do. Six months before her mother had suggested she enter a beauty contest but Janice hadn’t been sure if she was serious and in any event she didn’t, too scared. Because apart from anything else what if you came last? Then out of the blue this man in the pub.
She was with Brian, her boyfriend, but he had just gone out to the gents. Then this man who maybe had been sort of eyeing her came quickly across and asked had she ever thought about films. Janice wasn’t sure what she said, probably something stupid she was so shocked and, well, tongue-tied. But anyway he put a card in her hand and said ‘Give me a ring’ and then went out.
She sat there staring at the card like an idiot. Then seeing Brian coming back she slipped it quickly into her purse. Her mind was in a spin but Janice knew she didn’t want to tell Brian about it. He sat down and began talking about something, football probably, but Janice wasn’t listening. She could still see that face, that neatly trimmed beard. And the card that was safely in her purse. Justin James Ltd: Film and Theatre Agents.
She called the number the next day, first thing, 9.30, from the office. Picking up the phone she felt a renewed flush of the excitement that had kept her awake half the night. To be in films! This office where she worked as a miserably paid typist would be just a bad dream. And Mr Atkins, who liked to manoeuver you into a corner and then slip his hand behind you and pinch your bum, he would be just a bad dream as well. She felt quite faint when she heard the voice, that same softly-speaking voice she had heard in the pub. ‘Justin James.’
‘I… It’s the girl in the pub,’ she said breathlessly, keeping her voice low so that no one else would hear. ‘Janice Hodgkins, in the Rose and Crown.’
‘Ah yes, the stunning blonde,’ he said. Janice blushed.
‘Yes I was really struck,’ he went on. ‘Quite extraordinary looks. Have you had a film test before?’
Janice said a breathless No.
‘Oh my; that is surprising. I would have thought someone would have noticed you. So it’s lucky me, eh?’
Janice didn’t know what to say, but she did say Yes when he said he’d like to take some shots of her. Yes, she said, tomorrow afternoon would be, fine, although she knew she would have to get permission to get off. An address in West London. She wrote it down with a trembling hand.
She would of course have to ask Mr Atkins for permission. That was not at all a nice thought, Mr Atkins would want his pound of flesh — or a few sharp pinches of it at least — before he would say yes. But for a film test… Janice could put up with a lot worse than that.
Mr Atkins was on form all right. Positively gloating once he realised she had come to ask a favour. ‘An afternoon off, Miss Hodgkins? Mmmm… well, well, well, I don’t know about that. We’ll have to discuss it, won’t we?’
He beckoned her over, near the window, in his office. Shuddering, Janice crossed the room — and let his arm draw her close. ‘Now then.’ She gritted her teeth. Right away the hand was at her bottom, groping through her thin skirt. ‘Mmmm… I really don’t know…’ Jiggle, jiggle at her left buttock… and then the right. ‘Mmmm… It’s for a worthwhile reason I hope, Janice?’
Finally he did say Yes — as he always would if you were prepared to stand there and meekly take it. Still feeling his creepy hand Janice walked out and over to her desk. Shortly afterwards Mr Atkins came out as well and crossed the general office in the direction of the men’s toilet, an abstracted look on his face. Dirty old bugger, thought Janice imagining what Mr Atkins was going to do. But she did have something to take her mind off Mr Atkins and his dirty ways. She could hardly wait: the rest of that day, the next morning… Of course she said nothing to Brian or her mother or anyone.
She found it without any trouble with her A-Z, a tube ride, and then a short walk. It was an ordinary-looking house in a suburban street, not an office, and for a moment Janice thought she had made a mistake, but then there he was, the man in the pub, Mr James presumably, appearing from round the side of the house.
He smiled. ‘You found it then?’ Janice said Yes and Mr James explained that it was a private house of a friend, not his office, because he wanted to get some location shots. Janice felt a flush of excitement.
She hadn’t known what to wear because he hadn’t specified anything, so she had just worn a pretty summer dress under a light coat. Under the dress Janice had on her best, rather sexy, underwear: brief black panties and bra and also a matching suspender belt fastening sheer dark seamed nylons. Also high-heeled courts. She didn’t know what sort of shots Mr James wanted to take. He might want some glamour… a bit of leg…
Mr James led her inside where there was another man, Mr Milton, who was a photographer. Mr James took Janice’s coat and said she looked really super. He made a cup of tea and then in the lounge said that first of all Mr Milton would like to take some general shots. First as she was, in her pretty dress, and then with the dress off. His associates would want to see her figure, that was normal procedure of course. As he spoke Mr Milton, an older man, was setting up lights.
Janice had more or less expected this of course but that didn’t make it any easier to do. It wasn’t as if she was exactly in the habit of taking her clothes off in front of two strange men and there was also the thought of her sexy underwear. It was no doubt a good choice but at the same time highly embarrassing to think of parading in just those scanty, sexy things. But — well, did she want to be in films or not? You had to expect to be asked to take your clothes off.
Mr Milton took some shots of her sitting on the settee and then standing. And then Janice’s dress had to come off, and her black slip as well. Mr James said she had a really super figure — while Mr Milton was snapping away. Then Mr James moved in close behind her and before Janice knew what was happening had unhitched her bra strap. He pulled the bra down, exposing her full firm tits. Janice gave a yelp.
‘Don’t be silly, take your hands away.’ As Mr James spoke, Mr Milton, face intent behind his camera, was going: Click, Click.
Janice had no sooner got over that shock and forced herself to take her hands away from her boobs than Mr James, behind her again, had his hands at the slinky knickers. ‘Keep still,’ he told her, and slid them down, to the tops of her thighs. Mr James’s hand briefly at the bare, ripe flesh of Janice’s bottom while in front her blonde pussy was on show for Mr Milton.
‘Don’t be shy… Stand up straight. Now put your hands on your head…’
It was really awful, standing there with her tits out, her pussy and bottom bare, in the full glare of the hot lights, while Mr Milton moved briskly around, clicking his camera from every possible angle.
‘Good,’ said Mr James. ‘Very good indeed. I think we’ve got some first-rate shots there.’
The dazzling lights had finally been shut off. Janice, feeling little prickles of perspiration all over her, was allowed to pull her panties back up and refasten her bra. Mr Milton was reloading his camera — so presumably there was more to come.
Yes. Mr James explained that they would need some action shots to complete the set of photos. A super face and figure went a long way of course but to land a part it was necessary to show some evidence of dramatic ability.
‘Don’t worry,’ he smiled, seeing Janice’s doubtful look. ‘You’ll handle it splendidly, I’m sure.’ What he had in mind was a scene from a film they were thinking of making, and if Janice did well she could even get the part. It was a thriller, a bank robbery. The part in question was the young wife of a bank assistant. The gang wanted the combination of the bank safe and thought her husband had it and she knew what it was or at least where he kept a note of it.
They had come round to her house to make her reveal it. In fact she didn’t know the combination and so she couldn’t tell them but they refused to believe this. They got a bit rough. That was the scene Mr James wanted to do.
‘Don’t put your dress on,’ he told Janice ‘I want you just as you are, in your undies. These villains rip your dress off, you see.’
He led her out the back door where there was a brick passageway. What they were supposed to do was tie Janice up, tie her hands to a rope suspended from the ceiling. She was made to put her hands together and raise them, as if she was tied. And then he was fumbling at her bra strap again. Mr Milton was busy clicking the shutter.
The bra came right off this time and then Mr James was at Janice’s knickers again, sliding them down. ‘Keep that pose. Remember you’re tied up.’
Janice hung on, her arms raised as high as she could and with everything now — tits, bum, pussy — all bare. Mr James disappeared but only for a moment and then was back. He had a long, thin cane in his hand now.
He was going to pretend to threaten her with it presumably, Janice told herself, looking up at the ceiling. Her arms were aching and she certainly didn’t like standing like this with virtually nothing on. She turned… Mr Milton was still busy with the camera… Then she gave an abrupt, frenzied howl.
The cane in Mr James’s hand had sliced viciously in across the full swell of Janice’s bare bottom. She automatically yelled again. The pain was horrendous. He wasn’t supposed to actually…
‘Keep the arms up,’ Mr James barked. ‘She gets a good caning, this young wife…’
No!’ Janice yelped. But the cane whipped in a second time, almost killing her. ‘No!’ she screamed again. ‘No — you can’t…’
‘Keep still,’ he rasped. ‘I want you to do the scene properly. You want to be in films, don’t you? Keep the arms up.’ The cane cracked in one more, raising a third humming red weal across Janice’s tender buttocks.
Through the horrendous pain she heard Mr James’s voice. ‘Keep in position. Keep the arms up. We want the nice real cane marks.’
He gave her six. Six bright red weals across Janice’s poor bottom. Then at last he stopped, and Mr Milton stopped clicking his camera. Janice was in tears, real hot salty tears, she couldn’t help it, the pain was so dreadful. Mr James said the crying was all right, it added a good touch of reality because the young wife would have been crying.
He had abandoned the cane and his hand was stroking Janice’s red-hot rear. ‘That was excellent. You did really well, my dear.’ Janice didn’t answer, she couldn’t. She could hardly think. That vicious assault on her body, it was almost like being suddenly grabbed and raped.
Somehow she got her clothes back on and cleaned up her tear-stained face. That was it, the test was over. She walked back out along the street, her bottom still stinging with every step she took. Afterwards Janice didn’t say anything to anyone. Naturally; what could she say? But she had done all right, Mr James had said that. Excellent, he had said. And she would be hearing from them.
She got a phone call a week later. It wasn’t Mr James, someone else. He asked her to come and see him and she arranged to go right after work. An office in North London. Sleazy-looking. And a man also rather sleazy-looking and fat, but still, you couldn’t go by appearances. He said, ‘Ah Miss Hodgkins, our beautiful blonde,’ then went to close the door behind her.
He took a large envelope from his desk, and opened it. Pictures of Janice in the passageway. Being caned. ‘Very nice,’ he wheezed. ‘I’d like a go at that.’
She felt a surge of panic. ‘Look…’ she whispered.
‘No, you look, girlie,’ he grinned. ‘Don’t want your mum to see these, do you?’
Our thanks to R.B. of Birmingham, whose photos prompted the story ‘Film Test’, but you’re supposed to let other people ‘Join the Dots,’ not actually hang the girl from the rafters; it spoils their fun and we have to crop the photos anyway. Perhaps you would bear this in mind for next time.

Sunday, 28 October 2018

Hot Amanda

From Blushes 43. Although uncredited (as usual for Blushes) this certainly has all the hallmarks of an R.T. Mason story.
The train rolled through a warm and sunny afternoon with to either side green fields, a patch of woodland here and there, or a few deserted looking farm buildings. A tranquil English summer, 1995. The girl alone in the carriage looks out: a pretty girl in a short summer jacket and plaid skirt. She is 18, on a journey to…? How much further? she wonders, and glances at her wrist watch. It is almost three, three quarters of an hour to go. And what is he going to be like? Mr Baxter. She opens her bag to take out the letter — though she has read it enough times to know it by heart and in any case it is not exactly informative.
Dear Miss Greenford, I am so pleased to hear that arrangements have now been completed and that you are coming on Tuesday the 14th. I shall be at the station for the London train which arrives at Fintonby at 3.43 p.m. I am sure you are going to meet my requirements exactly and I am greatly looking forward to meeting you. I shall of course recognise you from the photograph which the Agency sent.
Once again looking forward to Tuesday, I remain, your truly, Henry Baxter.
No it was not at all informative. It sounded friendly but could you really tell? And that bit about his ‘requirements’. I am sure you are going to meet my requirements exactly… That could mean anything — including various unpleasant anythings. She glanced again out of the window. A bright blue sky with just a few fluffy little white clouds. Was it going to be like this with Mr Baxter? Bright and sunny, blue skies? Because of course he could do what he wanted with her, there would be no point complaining and no one to complain to. She shivered, in spite of the humid warmth of the carriage.
Just then the carriage door opened. A middle-aged man in a tweed jacket. He sat down opposite. ‘A warm day, young lady.’
She gave him a quick half-smile, said Yes, and looked down again at her book. She had no wish to enter into conversation with a strange man; but she was conscious that he was looking at her. No doubt eyeing her knees which showed beneath the hem of her skirt. She felt the urge to pull it down — but that would only draw attention to her knees. He was going to say something; she could feel it…
‘Let me guess: a young lady, 18 or 19 I should say, travelling by herself with a suitcase. Could she perhaps be going on a domestic service appointment I wonder?’
She felt herself blushing. He had guessed correctly — but then it wasn’t that difficult, not with most girls in the 18 to 20 age group now having to do National Domestic Service. Arrangements were made through the National Agency as Mr Baxter had made arrangements. And then… off she went.
‘Yes Miss?’
She glanced up and then down again, her ‘Yes’ scarcely audible.
The man grinned. ‘Correct first time, eh? Well he’s a lucky fellow whoever’s getting you, a pretty girl like you. And a nice shape too I should think. What’s your name, young lady?’
There was no real choice but to answer. ‘Amanda Greenford,’ came out in another scarcely audible whisper. He was going to be unpleasant, she could sense it, and there was nothing she could do…
‘Speak up a bit, Amanda. We mustn’t whisper. Is it your first assignment?’
She said yes. ‘Thought so. You look new, not trained yet. I expect your gentlemen will want to start training you as soon as he gets you. Mmmm? Taking your knickers down and spanking your bottom I expect. Don’t you think?’
Yes, as she had feared. An unpleasant man delighting in saying unpleasant things. He was going to torment her. She shouldn’t have told him — except that he probably would have guessed anyway and then he could have got her into serious trouble if she had told a lie. Frantically she wondered what time it was. Could Fintonby come in a few minutes?
‘Actually I could start you off now, Amanda. Couldn’t I? Take your knickers down right here and give you a quick spanking. That would be a good start for you, for your gentleman. A spanking for not speaking up, for whispering when a gentleman talks to you, that could be the reason, couldn’t it?’
Amanda shook her head, scarlet-faced. It was possibly a joke, but equally possibly not. A glance out of the window. Could they please arrive in a few minutes time? Because if they didn’t… she didn’t really think he was joking. ‘Please…’ she pleaded, in a not very loud voice.
‘You’re whispering again. Where is it you’re going?’
She told him, forcing her voice to be louder. Please God let them be almost there. She was too scared to look at her watch.
‘Fintonby? That’s not for 20 minutes or so. Plenty of time. Plenty of time for a nice little spanking. So come on, Amanda. Stand up… and take your knickers down.’
She shook her head. Twenty minutes! He couldn’t do this… but Amanda knew he could.
‘Do you want me to put in a report on you, young lady? Being impertinent? I know a National Domestic Inspector as it happens. Would you like me to get in touch with him?’
No she wouldn’t. He might be making it up that he knew an inspector but she couldn’t risk it. And in any case he could send in a report about her, make up a story. Amanda felt a bit like weeping.
‘Come on then.’ A note of impatience now. ‘Get your knickers down.’
Amanda got unhappily to her feet. She had on the short jacket and her knee-length plaid skirt, a white blouse underneath. Bare legs and sensible low-heeled shoes. Under the plaid skirt there were of course knickers… which this stranger was insisting she take down. You heard of this sort of thing, men doing this kind of thing. They weren’t allowed to but in a situation like this, with no one else around, there was nothing you could do. A complaint wouldn’t get you anywhere: the authorities would take the view that a girl of that age was in need of discipline anyway — that after all was why there was the National Domestic Service nowadays for all girls except a fortunate few. An extra impromptu spanking — in the eyes of the authorities it was nothing serious. So if someone caught you like this and wanted to do it… you had no real choice but to submit.
Amanda’s hands slid up under the skirt… and fumbled with her knickers. ‘Right down. Round your knees.’ His face was redder now, greedy looking. ‘Then lift your skirt up. Round your waist.’
Don’t think about it, Amanda tried to tell herself. As she made herself do it. The train rolled on through the sunny green fields with their content-looking cows — while in the hot little carriage the pretty girl stands with the white knickers round her knees and her skirt held high. The red-faced man gives a short laugh. ‘Pretty pussy, eh Amanda? You’ve got a very pretty pussy, haven’t you?’
His hand comes out and cups the brown bush. The pretty girl is standing still, not jerking away. Trembling all over but not jerking away, not pushing away the hand. The hand fondles.
‘Like this, do you, my dear?’
And then she is over his lap. Face down across the trousered thighs. The alien male hand is on the hot bare flesh of her bottom. Fondling… and then cracking stingingly down.
----//----
She can still feel that hand when a quarter of an hour later on the platform at the quiet little town of Fintonby a man steps forward and greets her. It is Mr Baxter but Amanda still can’t think straight. She can still feel that hand splatting hard down on her unprotected bottom and in her head everything is still rolling about as if she is in some sort of dream. Amanda manages a greeting. Yes it is Mr Baxter and she must try to show herself at her best, first impressions are of great importance, but she can’t, she is still in that carriage with that other man. Over his lap with her knickers down. The dreadful spanking going on and on. Spanking and fondling. The hand on her bare bottom… and between her legs…
‘How was your trip, my dear?’
Amanda is afraid she won’t be able to answer but words falteringly come out. She must forget the man on the train. It is Mr Baxter who matters now. Mr Baxter of course can spank her bottom all afternoon and evening if he wants to. Then start again first thing in the morning. And not just spanking, he can use a cane. Perhaps he has a cane waiting for her at his house…
Mr Baxter takes her case and they walk out to his car. The sun is still burning high in a blue sky — as it was throughout that awful business on the train. The car is in the shade, but it is still hot and stuffy inside. In the car Mr Baxter smiles. ‘Well let’s have a proper look at you then.’ He has grey hair but is not too old looking. He doesn’t look too awful, too frightening. The man on the train looked unpleasant from the start… but she mustn’t think about him. It is only Mr Baxter who counts… for the long weeks ahead. He is still smiling… and unbuttoning her jacket.
‘Yes, let’s have a look at pretty Amanda.’ Pulling her coat open to expose the demure white blouse. Amanda’s nice-sized boobs are swelling out the front: twin rounded bulges, not overly big but a good size nonetheless. ‘Nice,’ Mr Baxter pronounces. And rubs his hand over them. ‘Very nice.’
The hand feels for a nipple and pinches it. Then the other one. ‘Very nice,’ he says again. His left hand takes hold of the hem of her skirt and lifts it up. Amanda’s bare thighs are exposed, with the white knickers up above, which on the train the stranger has so shockingly made her take down. Mr Baxter’s right hand is now stroking the silky-smooth thighs.
‘Yes, my dear, I can see you’re going to suit me admirably.’ Letting go of her skirt and thighs Mr Baxter leans across. ‘Give me a kiss, dear.’ Amanda gasps as Mr Baxter kisses her. A sexy kiss with his tongue thrusting deep into her mouth.
At last he is ready to drive off. The sexy kiss and Mr Baxter’s hands roaming over her have sent Amanda’s head in a whirl again, sent her pulse pounding. What are those ‘requirements’ that were mentioned in his letter? Tentatively she straightens her skirt, and her jacket. There are other things Mr Baxter can want. Things other than spanking and caning. Things Amanda would rather not think about.
He does want to spank Amanda though. Almost as soon as they are in the house. It is a pleasant but ordinary looking semi in an unremarkable street: you don’t have to be grand or wealthy to have a girl on the National Domestic Service, any law-abiding householder can apply for one. There is also a government grant which is paid, for her keep and to cover the (minimal) wages she will be paid. because after all taking a girl and training her is a service to the state, to the community.
In Mr Baxter’s sitting room: that is where this first spanking takes place. Right away, virtually as soon as they are inside the house, with Amanda having been briefly shown her room and the bathroom etc. Mr Baxter has taken Amanda’s coat and now he tells her to take off her skirt and blouse. He is going to spank her, he says. ‘A girl needs a spanking right away. So she knows what’s what. Have you been spanked before, Amanda?’
Amanda has of course and not much more than half an hour ago. Red-faced she shakes her head. She certainly doesn’t want to mention what happened on the train. For one thing Mr Baxter could possibly blame her for letting it happen. She had no choice of course but that might not stop him blaming her. She is doing what she has been told to do. Her blouse and the skirt. Mr Baxter is sitting in his armchair, his eyes appraisingly on her. She doesn’t want to look at him, to meet his eyes, but the eyes aren’t greedy looking like the man on the train. If she had to choose between the two… well she certainly wouldn’t choose that other dreadful man. Although she would rather not…
Not that she has any choice. In just her bra and knickers Mr Baxter takes Amanda’s arm and pulls her down. Across his lap. Amanda’s ripe bottom has knickers on but almost immediately Mr Baxter is tugging them down. Amanda feels a surge of extra panic… at the thought that Mr Baxter will perhaps be able to see that she has just been spanked, her bottom must still be red and glowing. She awaits with bated breath for some comment… but there is none. Only Mr Baxter saying. ‘What a lovely bottom, Amanda.’ As his hand caresses the flesh that certainly still feels red hot.
Caressing… and then spanking. It is just like on the train. The hand splatting down. Amanda gasps out… but perhaps it is not quite so hard as the other awful man…
By the time she has had half a dozen, though, that thought seems premature. Mr Baxter’s hand is coming hard down, forcing grunting gasps from Amanda’s lips, causing her rear to roll and jerk in desperation. Yes, it is quite as bad. And it is going on and on…
----//----
It is still light, still a blue sky although getting towards dusk now. Inside the neat little semi Amanda and Mr Baxter are in his sitting room again. They have had tea and Amanda has also had a bath. Her blouse has been changed for a white knitted top that Mr Baxter, when he watched her take her things out of her case, said he liked the look of. With this top Amanda still has her plaid skirt but it looks different. It is shorter, the hem now some six inches above her knees. She has shortened it herself, on Mr Baxter’s instructions.
Amanda and Mr Baxter have been playing a card game on the floor. Amanda is not sure she understands the game because she keeps losing. Perhaps it is partly because she can’t really concentrate, not with so much happening — and also no doubt still to happen. The man on the train and now Mr Baxter. What has happened — and what possibly is to happen. What has happened is of course being spanked, and also something else: in the bathroom when she had her bath. Mr Baxter told Amanda to take a bath, no doubt she would be hot and sticky from the train journey. He said when she was finished to call him; he would bring a towel to dry her off. Mr Baxter did: a big fluffy towel that he rubbed her dry with.
But he didn’t only do that. While he was rubbing Amanda dry he was doing something else. Something else that he continued doing after she was clearly dry, and in any case Mr Baxter now not making any pretence, letting the towel fall to the floor. Mr Baxter’s hand where the other man’s hand had been on the train. But even more insistent, more unequivocal. Amanda, standing up against the bathroom wall with Mr Baxter’s hand between her legs, couldn’t finally help herself. Couldn’t finally help herself coming.
So there is the hot memory of that to go with everything else that is going round and round in her head. Perhaps it is no wonder she can’t concentrate on Mr Baxter’s game and keeps losing. He has already, a couple of times since they began, taken Amanda over his lap and pulled her knickers down and spanked her bottom. This is the penalty for losing, he says. Good-naturedly but the spankings hurt just the same. These spankings have added their little bit to everything else in Amanda’s head but there is still room there to think of something else.
Something else that she thinks, fears, is going to happen. Shortly now. When it is bedtime, she thinks. It is such a big thing, this possibility, that she can’t bear to think about it… but in fact she is thinking about it more or less all the time.
They play another round of the game and Amanda loses once more. Mr Baxter shakes his head.
‘You’re not improving, Amanda. Are you?’ He smiles. ‘OK, we’ll call it a day. You can go up now. Get into bed.’
Get into bed. In the nude of course. Because Mr Baxter has taken away Amanda’s pyjamas, saying he doesn’t want her wearing anything in bed. So she must get into bed in the nude. And then…
Amanda looks tremulously at the door. Mr Baxter is going to come in. She knows he is. And it won’t just be a spanking. There may well be a spanking of course but that won’t be all. Mr Baxter is going to want to do something else.
Her thoughts going back to that awful business in the bathroom. Mr Baxter doing that to her. And she couldn’t help responding. ‘You liked that, didn’t you?’ he said afterwards. Amanda hadn’t liked it. It was awful. But she couldn’t help herself. Shaking her head, her face scarlet. ‘Yes you did,’ Mr Baxter said. ‘I can see I’ve got a really hot Amanda. Haven’t I?’
Now she was nude in this little bed. Mr Baxter was going to come in. To spank her first maybe. But then… She knew what it would be then.