From Uniform Girls 17
‘Discipline, Miss Keating. That is the keynote to life as I’m sure you’ll agree. It is a principle that we do stress here. Our clients demand it. They are all hand-picked families of course. And hand-picked gentleman.’
Mr Naylor of Naylor Au Pair Agency. Jane, 18, a pretty, neat-looking blonde sitting in his office in her best navy-blue suit had nodded in co-operative agreement. The Naylor Agency paid very good rates, the best you could get, and Jane was very keen to get taken on.
Mr Naylor, a distinguished looking gentleman with greying temples, had produced a charming smile. ‘I shall have to put you through your paces, Miss Keating. That is my routine procedure. I feel I owe it to my clients. We must be sure a girl can accept discipline. But if you can… well, you are certainly a very attractive young lady.’
Jane had blushed and said that yes, she could accept discipline although at the same time wondering what might be meant by putting her through her paces. Mr Naylor had then told her where to go and what to wear. Tomorrow. Tomorrow as today.
Standing none too sure of herself now in this kitchen. Quite a small kitchen of this flat. Mr Naylor said it belonged to a friend of his and it was a convenient place to run through a few tests. What tests? Jane had taken off the coat she had worn to come here and was in just blouse and skirt and the white ankle socks and black heels that Mr Naylor had told her to wear. A plaid skirt. Plus now a little white apron that Mr Naylor had tied on her. They had been here a quarter of an hour. He had made some coffee and engaged her in general conversation. To put her at her ease no doubt. Now they were in this little kitchen. What now? Was she going to have to do some chores — cleaning or something — as a demonstration?
‘Ever had the cane, my dear?’
The words coming out in Mr Naylor’s urbane, cultured voice so that it took a few instants for their meaning… Jane’s soft pink mouth opening and closing. The big blue eyes widening. Oh. Oh. Shaking her head.
‘Never, Miss Keating? No, it is not so common nowadays I know. It used to be much more of a regular thing. Fathers caning their daughters; getting it at school; etc. etc. Very common. And some people nowadays rather regret its passing. What do you think, my dear?’
What did she think? Suddenly flush-faced, Jane mumbled that she didn’t know. The cane! Was he going to… do that?
‘What I want to do, Miss Keating, is give you a little touching up with the cane. It is a test that I always use with new girls. Is that all right?’
The cane! Jane produced a sickly grin. Was it a joke? Her mouth was all at once full of saliva that needed swallowing.
‘I always do it,’ Mr Naylor repeated. He was evidently assuming she was agreeable to the idea. ‘Stand here and lift your arms. Hold the clothes drier.’
Somehow Jane’s arms lifted up and did it. Without her really telling them to. Took hold of the wooden rails of the clothes drier that was tied up close to the ceiling. Holding it was part of the caning routine, she could sense that. This couldn’t really be happening, he couldn’t really cane her. But at the same time Jane knew it was happening. Mr Naylor had some clothes pegs. He was lifting the plaid skirt. Pegging the hem, front and back, high up on her blouse. Raising the skirt completely above her waist. Displaying the full length of her bare thighs, and her brief stripey knickers. She gave a whimpering sound.
Mr Naylor’s face was close. His voice gentle, soothing: It’s nothing to worry about, my dear. But we have to do it, my clients need to know it’s been done.’
Her hand gripping at the wooden rungs which, stretching her arms, Jane could just reach. The soft voice again: ‘And I shall have to slip your knickers down now. But don’t be alarmed.’
He was doing just that. She stood still, though trembling. It was happening, as in a dream. Mr Naylor sliding the skimpy knickers down. A little part of her mind panicking, desperate to grab them, but she didn’t. The knickers came down, off of her bottom. And of course the front too. And now… and now…
Mr Naylor had the cane. In this sort of dream Mr Naylor had the cane. His other arm round her waist and he was bending down, face close to her bottom. The cane snapping against the soft underside of the bare cheeks. Not really hard because Mr Naylor was so close. But enough to give a real feel to it. So that she knew it wasn’t really a dream. It was real.
Jane hung onto the firm reality of the wooden rungs. Mr Naylor was standing up. Making ‘Hmmm’ sounds. Standing back. She caught her breath. It was to give himself room, she realised…
‘Aaaaiieeekkk!’ Oh Jesus Christ! A real hard one. Scorching in across the ripeness of her bare bottom. No dream feeling now. ‘No…’ she yelped. ‘No, you can’t…’
It had simply come in the same as before. Stinging her like a swarm of bees. Jane’s hands abruptly let go of the rungs and slid down to grasp the shocked hemispheres. Making little mewling sounds. Mr Naylor came close, his hands taking her shoulders.
‘Sting, does it, my dear?’ An unintelligible sound in reply, but no doubt one of desperate agreement. One of Mr Naylor’s hands came down to where Jane’s hands were, rubbing at her stinging rear. ‘It’s meant to, of course. But it doesn’t last long, the sting.’ His hand endeavouring to assist in what she was doing: to get a section of bare bottom and no doubt rub away that sharp pain. A squeal from Jane… as the hand in fact slid in underneath those hot cheeks.
That persuasive voice, the owner of the (was it accidental?) shocking hand: ‘Hands up again then, Miss. We must have a few more. Come on. You’re not doing badly so far.’
Six. Six of them altogether. Those stinging cuts across Jane’s ripe rump. She thought she wouldn’t be able to sit down afterwards. But she was sitting down, out in the lounge again. More coffee. Sipping it, her heart still thudding like a train. Her bottom… in the plaid skirt. The pegs were gone now and the skirt was down, and also Mr Naylor had taken the apron. And that wasn’t all. Her knickers: he had tugged them on down and off after that last stinger. While Jane, in the pain, was barely aware it was happening.
She knew now though. Even though her bottom still hurt there was that special feeling of having no knickers on. That special feeling when you are alone with a man at least. Mr Naylor. Charming Mr Naylor who had used his cane on her and whose hand had already gone… in there…
‘All right, my dear? You can take that, can you?’
What did that mean? Could you… get the cane from the agency clients? Flushing, she said, ‘I don’t… I mean I won’t… have to…?’
Mr Naylor smiled that urbane smile. ‘The clients? Well of course, some of them… Yes some of them will expect to… some gentlemen especially. Nothing outrageous of course. Nothing a girl can’t take. Oh no, I wouldn’t allow that. But she has to be prepared… It is very much part of the traditional flavour that my agency has. We are noted for it. In a very discreet way, naturally. So there is no need to bother on that score. Oh yes, extremely discreet.’
He smiled again. ‘You did take it very well, young lady. Very well indeed for a first go at it. Yes.’
‘I can’t.’ The words popping sharply out from the soft pink mouth. Although shocked at what he had said Jane felt a bit surprised that she had said it, that she had been bold enough. Because Mr Naylor in spite of that seductively soft voice had a powerful aura of authority about him. Which was why she had stood there and let him take her knickers down. And then cane her.
‘I can’t,’ she breathed again, shaking her head this time for emphasis. ‘No. Not that cane…’
Mr Naylor came across, to sit at her side. ‘You’re being silly, my dear. Of course you can. It’s nothing, not really. You’ve just had it and it wasn’t a problem, was it? It is simply something that some gentlemen like to do. And I am very keen to have you with us. You’re a very pretty, charming, well brought up young lady. Yes.’
As he said those words Mr Naylor’s hand was feeling Jane’s tits. Squeezing and mounding them through the thin blouse. It sort of took her breath away and there was that same panicky urge, as there had been when he slid her knickers down. The urge to push that hand away. But she didn’t. Somehow couldn’t. Hot-faced, Jane bit her lip.
‘I know what you need,’ Mr Naylor said. ‘Something to settle you. Come on.’ He was standing, and pulling her to her feet.
He led her through into another room. It was a bedroom, with a double bed. Mr Naylor held her close. His mouth against her ear said softly, ‘A little lie down, my dear. Mmmm?’ His hands went down to the waistband of the plaid skirt. Unfastening. Jane with that dream-like feeling again. As the skirt slid down. Sitting on the side of the bed where Mr Naylor had pulled the covers back. He was bending to slip off her shoes.
Lying in the bed. Skirt and knickers and shoes off. It had to be some sort of dream. Her heart pounding as she watched Mr Naylor undoing his own shoes. Then standing. His hands at his belt. All of this had to be a dream — but she had never dreamt anything like it before.
Mr Naylor on top of her.
It had to be a dream because she didn’t do this sort of thing. The same as that caning couldn’t really happen to a girl. Could it?
Mr Naylor’s urbane voice as soft as ever: ‘My clients… my dear… they will think… you’re quite… first class…’