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Tuesday, 23 October 2018

At Number Twenty-Nine

From Blushes 68
Number twenty-nine: It is a trim, well-kept suburban detached, 1930’s Tudor, in a trim, prim, suburban street of similar properties. Not cheap. But then it wouldn’t be, it is the sort of thing you expect to find, once you’ve been out once or twice. The clients are necessarily not without a bob or two — otherwise they wouldn’t be able to afford the fees. She looks quickly round and then opens the gate. The street is deserted on this September Monday afternoon. Not that there’s any problem really; she could be the lady from Avon or something or other, or of course a family friend. But if there are people you can sometimes get that funny feeling, your skin prickling, as if they’re watching, as if they know. Probably when you’ve been doing it a bit longer you lose that. Get more blasé.
She has walked from the bus stop, a pretty girl of perhaps 20, with a shock of shortish ash-blonde hair and probably a nice figure under the belted lightweight grey coat. White high-heels, matching her handbag. White high-heels that clip-clop up the concrete path. Hidden from the streets now so no need to worry about that. Only… what’s coming. Mr Silmour. Not that it’s anything to worry about. Not really. Close our mind off, Mrs Fetling said. If it’s something you don’t like. But there’s nothing to really worry about, is there? Mrs Fetling giving that charming smile. But of course Mrs Fetling didn’t have to go out, she just stayed in the office, made appointments. So naturally there was nothing for her to worry about.
Go on then, press the bell. She moistens her pink-lipsticked lips; tightens the belt of her coat. That little feeling of panic somewhere inside, below the buckle of her belt. Telling her she can’t. Not again. Not this afternoon. Turn round, go quickly back down the path before he knows she’s here. The Avon lady retreating. And phone Mrs Fetling — that she’s feeling sick, of the buses aren’t running. Anything Instead go down to the Job Centre, they’ll have something. OK, it won’t pay like this but… She shifts her weight from one shiny white shoe to the other. The heft of her haunches surging under the belted coat: she clearly does have a good figure if you like a full bottom. She swallows. Adjusts the belt of her coat again. And then her hand comes up to the bell.
No time to retreat now, it opens almost immediately. Mr Silmour. Presumably. Not tall, bald, glasses. Fiftyish? Could be a schoolmaster, or civil servant… or anything middle-class. His face breaking into a, possibly nervous, smile. ‘Hello Susan.’
She produces her own nervous smile, says yes, though of course it’s not her real name, something Mrs Fetling has thought up, as he ushers her in.
He has closed the door and turned. ‘My, you’re a pretty girl. Aren’t you! Let me take that coat. Let’s have a look.’
Her hands are at the belt buckle. Nervous hands. She has put her bag down on a hall chair. Don’t be nervous; it’s nothing. Nothing awful’s going to happen. The trouble is she’s not cut out for this sort of thing. What’s a nice girl like you… But she can’t be nice, not if she does this. What would her mother say? or Roger? Don’t think thoughts like that if you don’t want to make yourself feel sick. Slipping the coat off her shoulders. In the process thrusting into prominence her blouse-front. She is a well-built girl. Quite clearly because there is nothing under the thin flowery blouse. Which is what Mr Silmour has requested.
‘Oy yes! Lovely! Aren’t you? Really lovely.’
Holding the coat in her hand and making herself stand still. Her heart now racing. No she isn’t cut out for this kind of thing. Mr Silmour is feeling the merchandise. Her tits. Full, firm, vibrant under the single thin layer of blouse. Squeezing her tits… and making appreciative noises. Just keep still. It’s nothing. He’s entitled to handle the merchandise. He’s paid for it… and it’s not cheap. No… stand still.
‘Fantastic, Susan. Aren’t they? Do you have a boyfriend, dear?’
‘Y-Yes.’
‘Lovely. I bet he loves these. Eh? I bet he just loves to play with them. Lucky young chap. Like to suck them, does he?’
Oh Christ. He’s not going to want to say creepy things, is he? Sicky things. He looks creepy… and he’s got creepy hands. She tries to laugh: a brittle little laugh. Not answering. Mr Silmour asks it again. She shakes her head, red-faced now.
He smiles. Makes a sucking sound. Both hands have another squeeze. His face comes closer. He is not taller than she is, but she is quite tall. ‘Really, Susan? You lovely girl. He doesn’t?’ Mr Silmour’s voice is soft, caressing the words. ‘But what about the other? Eh, you lovely girl? I expect he wants plenty of that. You know what I mean. Fucking. Plenty of fucking.’ He turns her. One hand and then two grab the cheeks of her bottom. ‘Well you can’t blame him, with such a lovely girl.’
He lets go, then leads the way. Along the hall. She is sweating now. Little pinpricks tingling her skin. She hates that kind of creepy talk. Worse than having to do things. Well most things. Following him along the hall, her feet, the white high-heels, feeling clumsy, as if she doesn’t have proper control over them. Into a room. Like a library, or study. Books on shelves up to the ceiling. And a stone fireplace, with a fire brightly burning.
‘Cosy, eh?’ Mr Silmour says. Groping at her bottom. ‘We want you to be warm, don’t we? We don’t want lovely Susan shivering.’ He is sitting down. In an armchair. ‘Now stand here, my dear. Quite close. That’s it. Now let’s check first, shall we? Lift the skirt. Right up at the front. We want to see that Susan’s wearing what she’s supposed to wear, don’t we?’
She lifts the skirt. Right up, as instructed. You have to do exactly what the client wants. There is no slip underneath. Plain white knickers, tight and brief. A slim white suspender belt to tautly fasten her nylons. She has nothing else on apart from the blouse and skirt, and the white heels. As asked for.
‘Very lovely, Susan. And exactly right. Exactly… what I wanted.’ The eyes behind the horn-rimmed glasses are focused below her waist. On the tightly-stretched white knickers like a second skin over her rounded belly. And the mound lower down, the thin white material tight enough to show where the hair is: her bush.
‘Yes… Exactly right. So now… we’ll have them off. The skirt and then the blouse. Can you take the skirt off up over your head, Susan?’
Unfastening her skirt and sliding it up. Her arms stretching up as she lifts it over her head, the stretched posture tautening the skinny knickers even more over the bulge of her mound. And trying to keep calm as she does so… because now she has seen it. Leaning against the corner of the bookshelves. A cane.
If there is a cane he is going to want to use a cane. Otherwise it might have been over his lap. Spanking. That can be creepy, and also painful. But nothing like a cane. If he’s vicious, if he wants it to hurt. And Mr Silmour could easily be like that. Soft-voiced, saying creepy things… and really belting that cane in. She hears herself giving an involuntary whimper.
The skirt is off. ‘And now the pretty blouse, Susan. Let’s see those pretty things underneath.’
Her tits. Revealed, high and firmly jutting, as the blouse in turn is slid up. Over her blonde head and off. Stand still. Think about something else. Something other than the fact that she is standing here in this cosy room with Mr Silmour in now just her knickers and stockings. And in the corner of the room… a cane waiting for her.
‘Oh they are nice. Oh yes. Quite lovely ones, Susan. Normally?’
She nods. Yes. Because for one thing she doesn’t want everyone in the street leering at them. No bra is only for clients who have requested it. Men who have paid for the privilege. Men like Mr Silmour.
‘Really? Really you shouldn’t, Susan. You’re depriving all my fellow males of such a treat. Just look at the way they stick out. And the nipples… Mmmm I suppose… if I play with them a bit, Susan, they’d stick out even more. Like fat pink soldiers on parade. Eh? Or if I… sucked them…’
She shivers. If he does that… she’ll be sick. Really. Her knees are trembling.
‘Mmmm. Anyway let’s have the knickers off now, Susan. Slip them down.’
Her heart is pounding again. She should have run away, back down the path, out into the street. But she didn’t, she is here. Mr Silmour’s submissive and obedient plaything. Because there is no choice but to be submissive and obedient. Her fingers at her hips slipping into the top of her knickers. To slide them down. Right down; the rounded thighs, the silky stockings. Off. Almost falling over as she slips them over one high-heeled shoe. Because her legs are all wobbly, as if they don’t belong to her. Now stand up straight.
‘Come a bit closer, Susan. My oh my. Aren’t you lovely… Come on. Closer still. So that I can…’
So that he can touch. Her body involuntarily jerking at his touch. His fingers on her bare flank. Keep still. Calm. Although it is not possible to be calm. She knows where his hand is going to go. And though she is screaming inside NO DON’T YOU TOUCH ME THERE… no words come out. Because he can if he wants to. It is what he has paid for; it is what she has come here for: to take off her clothes and let him…
Mr Silmour is doing it. His fingers lightly toying with the dark-blonde curls of her bush. ‘What a pretty one, Susan. Mmm… What a pretty one.’ The fingers gently tugging the curling hair… and then pushing in. Underneath. In between the silky-smooth inner thighs at their very tops. His knuckles grazing her moistness. ‘Oh yes, Susan… A really pretty one…’
The first finger sliding against the warm moistness. She catches her breath. A little sobbing sound. ‘Eh Susan?’ His voice silky soft. ‘This is what that boyfriend likes eh? What’s his name? Your boyfriend.’
She is suddenly in such a state, with what he is doing, his fingers in between the wet lips, that she blurts it out. ‘Roger,’ before she thinks to make up another name. ‘Roger,’ Mr Silmour repeats and she feels sick to have him saying it. ‘Roger eh? Well I hope Roger’s not too greedy for this. Though who could blame him?’
At last Mr Silmour seems to tire of this game: tormenting her with his fingers and his teasing words. The hand comes away — having got her really wet. ‘OK. Let’s have the rest off then. All the rest. We want some action, don’t we? Pretty girls need a bit of action. Get it all off and then kneel by the fire. Nice and warm there.’
Mr Silmour is getting up and going over to the corner. Where the cane is. Making little whimpering sounds she is doing what she has to. Unfastening the stockings; unfastening the suspender belt. Taking it all off. So that she is quite nude. She thinks briefly of Roger. He’ll be in his office. As he thinks she is in her office. Shorthand-typing. But you don’t make a lot with shorthand-typing even in London. Not enough if you like nice clothes and little luxuries. And so… Mr Silmour… and the other clients. At the moment it is only Mr Silmour to worry about. He’s got that cane.
‘Come on then, Susan. Are we dreaming? Kneel down. We know what we do with dreamy girls, don’t we? Especially ones with lovely bottoms like this…’ His hand round behind gropes the nude cheeks. She stumbles forward. To kneel down by the fireplace. On the thick pile rug. Trembling. The cane. He’s going to cane her. The very thought of it can make her want to throw up.
A touch on her bottom. Not the cane, his hand. Squeezing the soft, pliant flesh. The heat of the fire on her now. ‘Stick it out, Susan. Up and out. when you’ve got such a lovely one we want it… nicely presented, don’t we?’
She gasps… as the hand slides in between her legs. ‘Do you think your Roger would like to see you like this? Get him all hot and horny, would it? You don’t do it for him by any chance, Susan? Get in a nice pose like this?’
The hand is working at her. At her pussy. She gasps something out. Has to repeat it. ‘No… No…ooo…’
The hand leaves go. She is trembling like a leaf now, her body feeling as if it is made of rubber. The awful creepy hand which has been working at her pussy is gone away. And now…
‘Keep still, Miss. Push your bottom out a bit more…’
Yes. Now. Closing her eyes. Gritting her teeth.
THWAPPP…!
Her whole body jerking forward with the shock impact. The cane has sliced in, transversely across the quivering, thrust-out cheeks. A gasping yelp. The red-hot sting welling out…
‘Keep it still Miss. Keep in position. I don’t want you rolling about like a drunken sailor. You’ve had the cane before. I know…’
 THWACKK…!
A second one just like the first. Impacting almost on the same line, which is now marked by an angry red stipe. She jerks forward again but not quite as wildly. With the pain from the first still pulsating in her bottom she is on the right wavelength at least. To a certain extent ready for it. Though the stinging pain is really… impossible.
Mr Silmour grunts. ‘Let’s have you with your head right down now. On the rug. And your bottom right up. That’s a good girl…’
Moaning, she does it. Her face down in the soft pile of the rug. The closeness of the fire hot, burning. As her bottom is burning.
THWATTT…!
----//----
Exiting from the neat, white-painted door. With Mr Silmour’s hand behind her enjoying a final feel of her still glowing bottom. His voice in her ear: ‘I really liked you, Susan. I shall certainly ask for you again.’
The white high heels, uncertain on the concrete path like a young girl who has never worn high heels before. She feels like simply collapsing, but she can’t do that. Get a grip on yourself. Down the path to the little white gate. Get a grip, there could be people in the street. Try and look normal, walk normal. It is over for the afternoon. For today. She’ll go back to the flat. Have a nice cup of tea. Lie down. She’s seeing Roger at six. If she can face that.

3 comments:

  1. Many thanks for these classic photo stories from the Blushes series of magazines.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Yes thanks so much for the Blushes girls. This one not a favourite.

    ReplyDelete