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.
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.