From Uniform Girls 19
Frantically rooting through her underwear drawer, Anne pulled out the crisp brown paper bag containing the new cotton briefs, sliding the daringly skimpy fabric up her still-naked body in the knowledge that if she didn’t hurry, she wouldn’t make the tram. Missing the tram would mean being late for the caterer’s transport, and that would mean…
Her lateness gave new urgency to the process of dressing. A clean white brassiere, unfussy, cotton, the radiogram in the sitting room downstairs blaring out the news as her granny sat nodding gently in the mid-morning glare of the sun.
It was a miracle she made it to the pick-up point at all, as the caterer’s little coach was about to pull away just as she arrived, breathless, panicked, and banged on the side door.
‘Christ, I didn’t think I was going to make it!’ she gasped to the driver, who grimaced and shoved the vehicle into gear. It didn’t matter to him whether she made it or not. The younger staff always arrived at the last possible minute.
The marquee was vast, and the waitressing team quickly realised they would have their work cut out to serve a five-course meal to the three hundred guests who would be arriving in four hours’ time.
The reception was to be a spectacular one, with a live dance band, a fireworks display planned for the evening, and a late buffet for those staying on for the night-time festivities.
‘This must be costing a fortune,’ observed Anne.
‘Which is why you should be working, not standing about chatting like a bunch of schoolgirls: what’s your name?’ came the snapped interruption from the manager in charge of this mammoth operation.
‘Err, sorry… it’s Anne Preston.’
He looked at the other girl.
‘Alice Jenkins, sir.’
‘Uh-huh. Well, I’m Mr Tompkins, and you should be reporting to Mrs Oxborrow over there,’ he pointed. ‘So get going, if you please.’
‘In trouble, already, Anne, thanks to you!’ complained Alice.
‘Oh, what’s he going to do: tan your arse?’ she laughed.
‘Very funny, Anne, but we might not be on the list for another do like this, and I need the money.’
‘Don’t we all, Alice… sorry. We’d better get going.’
Thirty waitresses in all, fighting for the right-size uniform. They were all carefully labelled with names, each member of the team being allocated a complete kit, including pinafore and hat. Fate seemed to be against poor Anne, as hers was snug verging on constricting, the bulge of bosom and buttock clearly defined. The battle with the zipper was a sight any full-blooded male would have enjoyed.
In fact, the sight of those thirty women — some mature, some mere youngsters — struggling into their uniforms would have been a voyeur’s paradise. Something the gardener was quick to appreciate as he passed an open window and caught a fleeting glimpse of slip, then of partially covered buttock, stocking tops, and the tantalising, tempting aura of all that womanhood in one place. He managed to find a number of very valid reasons for making frequent journeys past that open window, and Lady Hollinson could not understand the sudden willing attitude of her normally recalcitrant gardener.
The meal was a nightmare: tears, accusations and counter-accusations from waitresses to chefs, to manager and manageress. Anne’s team of four drew the worst tables, at the far and of the marquee from the kitchen and preparation area, and her legs ached painfully after the two-and-a-half hour marathon. Backwards and forward, backwards and forwards, the constant smiling: ‘Yes, sir, no madam: will there be anything else, miss?’
The inclined finger of Mr Tompkins seemed to be indicating Anne, but she wasn’t sure. But the next time she passed there could be no doubt.
‘Why are you not wearing regulation stockings?’ he asked bluntly.
‘You know the rule about stockings, don’t you? And your hair is a disgrace. You’d better go and sort it out.’
‘Yes, Mr Tompkins,’ she murmured, scampering off in the direction of the changing room in the main house.
Lord Hollinson had spotted Anne’s non-regulation choice of hosiery when she had had to kneel down to retrieve some cutlery from the matting on the floor. The glimpse of her suspenders attached to the pale grey stockings was all he needed to summon Tompkins over for a quiet word.
‘That girl…’ he began.
‘Which girl, my lord?’
‘That girl,’ he pointed to Anne’s disappearing rear view, the padded rotundities bouncing nicely under the dark cotton of her uniform.
‘I had observed, my lord.’
‘…fishnet stockings, Tompkins.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘I shall speak with her directly.’
They had been conversing by a serving trolley, out of earshot of the guests, but Lord Hollinson lowered his voice nevertheless as he observed: ‘Attractive lass. Lacks discipline, though. Must have discipline. This catering company won’t survive if we let standards slide, staff wearing what they like and so on.’
‘Keep an eye on her, Tompkins.’
Mr Tompkins nodded as Lord Hollinson moved off, nodding benignly at various guests.
Anne had managed to ‘fix’ her hair in the approved manner, worn either pinned up or scraped back and gathered in a bun or — as she had chosen — in a ponytail. About the stockings she could do nothing, as all six spare pairs supplied by the company had already been issued to girls who had laddered them on the sharp projections which were a hazard of service in a marquee.
Ruminating on what Mr Tompkins might have to say about her sloppiness later, Anne almost crashed directly into Lord Hollinson as he exited from a door in the main house. He looked at her strangely as she apologised, and then moved on.
His first evaluation was correct. She was a very appealing lass. Not classically pretty, but damned attractive nevertheless, with a trim little figure and a pert little bum if he wasn’t mistaken. And the undoubted bonus of a disciplinary infringement into the bargain. Turning, he saw her bounce into the kitchens built onto the back of the marquee, and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
She hadn’t been paying attention, the worry of her earlier misdemeanours taking up too much of her mind and breaking concentration. The guest who stood up hadn’t been paying attention, either. But the cause was of no importance compared to the result, which tipped double cream down the back of Greta Samovar’s hugely expensive little designer number.
She screamed. There was no other word to describe the noise coming from her mouth. It was a scream. Anne staggered back in astonishment and promptly deposited the rest of the cream on another guest’s repellent little four-legged darling.
Mr Tompkins was on the scene in seconds with the assistant manageress, and in due course Lord and Lady Hollinson. Anne’s explanations and tears did nothing to her position, and it was a matter of minutes before she found herself in Mr Tompkins makeshift office in the main house.
The conversation was not encouraging. Disciplinary action was one of the phrases Mr Tompkins kept repeating. Had Anne known about the few words he had just had with Lord Hollinson, she would have been doubly nervous about the implications of that phrase.
She had been standing for nearly half an hour by now, and the dampness of fear and anxiety was evident even through the dark cloth of her uniform.
‘And that kit is too short, Preston. Far too short. Non-regulation stockings, your whole appearance is sloppy in the extreme. You know that Mrs Samovar had demanded that you be dismissed forthwith? And, frankly, I don’t see how we can keep you on under the circumstances.’
‘No, Mr Tompkins.’
Anne looked up expectantly, a glimmer of light showing suddenly. He went on: ‘Lord Hollinson has decided that, because of your tender years, you would benefit more from a sound thrashing than you would benefit from being dismissed.’
‘Oh,’ was all Anne could manage.
‘Furthermore, Lord Hollinson has indicated that he would be prepared to deal with you himself rather than compromise a member of his management.’
Tompkins almost betrayed a tinge of disappointment as he made this statement, the concept of applying a firm hand — or any other implement — to this young lady’s backside being an appealing one.
I think you would be well advised to accept the alternative that is being offered to you.’
‘Yes, sir.’ No more, no flicker of emotion other than a lowering of the eyes. Anne knew full well the terror of the cane from the convent school she had attended. The vicious, lashing, burning scythe of retribution, slicing into her most tender regions.
‘Right. Off you go, and I’ll call for you later.’
Alice thought it was hysterical: ‘He’s going to whack you himself, the dirty little duke! What’s it going to be: a nice swishy cane?’
‘It’s not bloody funny, Alice,’ complained her friend.
‘Touch your toes, my girl, this is going to hurt me more than it’s going to hurt you…’ she broke off into peals of laughter.
‘It’ll hurt, you miserable swine, Alice… and it’s not funny.’
‘Oh come off it, Anne, you know you deserve it.’
‘Don’t think so. Not fair.’
The arguing and teasing went on all afternoon until, at around seven while the remainder of the staff were setting up the evening buffet, Anne was summoned once again to Mr Tompkins’s office.
‘Come with me,’ and he led the way down the drive to one of the estate cottages, used by guests when the manor house was fully occupied. Furnished, in contrast to the big house, in contemporary fifties style, it was a relaxing and pleasant departure from the formality of the hall.
‘Wait in here,’ gestured Mr Tompkins.
Anne’s eye was caught by the two, silently gleaming lengths of malacca cane, their curved handles formed into wicked, leering question marks, hanging behind the door. One was around six inches longer than the other, and marginally more slender. A whippy little implement, without a doubt, expressly designed to wrap itself willingly round youthful backsides.
The house was silent. It seemed old Tompkins had departed. Anne fidgeted with her uniform, tugging at the pinafore, before feeling underneath her dress and adjusting her stockings. Her eyes were drawn again to the canes. Hesitating a moment, she crossed to the door and lifted the longer of the two from the hook, swishing it slowly, experimentally, through the air.
Increasing the speed, the low whhooop changed to a higher, whirring, phheeewww, and Anne flinched in anticipation of its slender length causing untold damage to her nether regions.
The slam of the front door made her drop the cane, and she was about to hang it back on the hook when Lord Hollinson pushed open the door to the room. Anne stood there feeling rather foolish, grasping the cane, and found herself offering it to him handle first.
‘Keen to get it over with, my girl?’ he smiled.
‘Been beaten before?’
‘Yes, sir, at school.’
‘You’ll be getting considerably more than that today, my dear, make no mistake. We have to nip this sort of thing in the bud, you know.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Anne pondered on what ‘considerably more’ might mean. Eight strokes… ten? A dozen? She was not at all sure she could take a proper beating. The caning at Sister Agnetha’s hands had been a fairly mild affair considering, the marks fading after a couple of days. Lord Hollinson was obviously intent on doing a more thorough job as he sliced the cane through the silence.
The sun had shifted across the room in the time that she had been waiting, and the coolness of early evening made her tremble. ‘Face the other way, remove your blouse and bra, and lift your uniform out of the way.’
Lord Hollinson appreciated the swell of her half-moons under the thin cotton, the suspenders framing the youthful buttocks with the two straps passing under the panties down the outside of each thigh, the stockings descending in a gentle curve between her legs to where — at the front — they would be gripped by the other clips.
The thighs themselves were firm, the pale flesh above the stockings evidence of the satisfactory texture of higher hillocks. Again, he swished the punishing length through the silence, and noticed Anne’s bottom flinch involuntarily.
‘What was your arithmetic like at school, Preston?’
‘Not bad, sir.’
‘What are three sixes, Preston?’
‘Quite right. Pull your pants down.’
The two soft globes hove into view as the fabric coyly exposed the full expanse of both cheeks — rounded, contoured silky paleness divided by the dark line of the deep crease between.
‘How old are you, Preston?’
‘One more for luck, then. Bend down and hold onto your ankles.’
‘Keep quiet and bend over, or you’ll be getting more.’
Anne sighed as she lowered herself from the waist, shuffling feet a few inches apart to brace herself for the first burning cut. She heard the door open, and two, perhaps three men entered. Peering round her legs, she could see they were all dressed in tails — guests from the reception.
Swallowing her humiliation, Anne could feel the tears welling up: her throat was dry as she waited for the thrashing to begin. Bared in front of all these men, who would witness her unwilling submission.
‘How many are you going to give her, David?’ asked a voice.
‘Lovely arse on her, I must say. Do with a good flogging,’ said another. As if she were not a real person, not a teenager threatened with losing her job at a time when work was scarce, particularly for unskilled young people. Just an object to be beaten.
‘She’s getting nineteen…’ confirmed Lord Hollinson.
‘Nineteen?’ gasped another. ‘That’s a hell of a tanning.’
‘Damn lucky it’s not the birch,’ announced some wise soul.
‘Can I begin, gentlemen?’ asked Lord Hollinson with a smile.
‘By all means, David… don’t mind us.’
There was the creaking of chairs, and Anne concentrated on the carpet in an effort to expunge the anticipated pain before it even arrived.
No amount of mind over matter could have prepared her for that first scorching, searing blow across the full width of both bared buttocks, stretched as they were in her bent position.
‘That was a good one.’
‘Juicy shot, David, dead on target. Give her a slice a little lower: she’ll really feel that.’
Lord Hollinson tapped the cane against the lower, fleshier fullness presented to him before slicing the implement down in a swooshing arc of pain, the unmarked flesh quivering on impact and forcing Anne to leave her position to rub at her wounded rump.
‘Extra strokes for that, isn’t it David?’
‘Bend over immediately, Preston,’ came the order.
She forced her hands down to grip her ankles once more, but the next stroke had her almost standing as the slice came at the crease between buttocks and thighs, just below the previous blow.
‘Christ!’ she shouted.
‘Blasphemy, David. Can’t have that!’
The marks were angry livid weals, evidence of the punishing power of the thin wood. Lord Hollinson walked to the table, and tapped it with the tip of the cane: ‘Bend over this,’ he advised the still-hopping girl.
Lying on the table, her buttocks presented a fuller target than when she had been properly bent, and the guests grunted their approval of this new position.
‘Terrific little arse,’ came the dubious compliment once again. Anne had never thought of her backside as ‘terrific’, but the consensus of opinion from the far side of the room was that she possessed a fine specimen of that most appealing part of the female anatomy.
Her rumination was cut short by the next arrival of the blistering malacca, unwrapping itself with all the spring it could mentor and burying itself deep in her naked softness.
The mumble of commentary continued as the strokes rained down, with snorts of approval for what were considered particularly ‘good shots’ and guffaws of derision when a stroke failed to evoke a yelped response from the victim.
Anne’s buttocks were by now criss-crossed with the angry evidence of the cane’s repeated journeys up and down, and she heard with a sense of relief anticipated Lord Hollinson murmur ‘Seventeen!’
Eighteen and nineteen followed in swift succession, the crescendo of the beating accelerating as it proceeded to its conclusion.
‘Well done, David,’ came the congratulation as he finally tossed the cane aside, leaving Anne watching the pool of her tears on the polished wood grow in size as she remained bending over, slumped now across the table top.
She could not bear to rise and face the utter humiliation of showing her face to her audience, but the order came as she knew it would.
‘Get up, Preston.’ She stood, sniffing gently, hands reaching behind to touch gingerly at the corrugated surface of her once fine posterior.
‘Say thank you, girl,’ came the suggestion.
‘Thank you, sir,’ Anne heard herself say.
‘Well done, my lass,’ confirmed another, ‘Took it well.’
Anne looked to see who had given her this unsolicited testimonial. To her horror, she realised it was the Dean: a frequent visitor to the convent, and an ardent proponent of corporal punishment. He recognised her as she recognised him.
‘Well, well… young Anne Preston, I’ll be bound. Seen you beaten before, young lady.’
Anne’s face betrayed her amazement.
‘Oh yes, I used to witness most of the senior girls’ punishments, you know. Four wasn’t it?’
‘But not on the bare, if I remember.’
‘Pity: your friend Alice did of course, six of the best. Screamed the place down.’ The laughs were worse than the pain.