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Thursday, 14 March 2019

Join the Dots… The Athlete

From Uniform Girls 30
She knew there would be trouble. She had glanced towards him, just after the first round of compulsory exercises. He had given her plenty of warnings. Now, the expression on his face said it all. Until now, she had succeeded in escaping his rather unique methods of training. So long as she kept up to standard, practiced well, and maintained that inner discipline. The discipline that controlled her thinking, gave her the power to be strict with herself. There were many temptations in life. A young girl like Julia could become distracted so easily. Eating the wrong sort of food or seeing the wrong sort of boy. Even going to the wrong sort of place. An up and coming athlete needed to accept that her life was no longer her own affair. She now belonged to her trainer. If she obeyed his instructions, success would follow. If she decided to disobey, or simply to let her standards slip…
Julia kept on remembering his face. As she went through her routine she felt an ominous shiver ripple through her young body. Because after meeting her eyes with his, the man’s gaze had been re-directed. Quite clearly. Quite obviously. He had turned his attention to her bottom, tightly encased in white running shorts, her very feminine contours tightly outlined as she bent forward and back, stretched and strained.
Julia was a little embarrassed about her ‘attributes’, as he quite frequently described them. Wearing just a thin loose-fitting shirt and tight running shorts, her girlish attributes were all too obvious. He knew the shape of her breasts. Their buoyancy. The slight up-tilt of her dark nipples. He had watched on, so many occasions, the gentle curves of her body. The soft arc of her spine and the rounded swell of her buttocks. And the long slim line of her powerful limbs.
She knew she had performed badly. Too many late nights in close contact with members of the opposite sex. Too much rich and fattening food. Too little concentration. Too little commitment. His expression had said it all. It came as no surprise at all to receive his summons. Tomorrow morning. Early. Not in the gym, but in that quiet, strange, lonely room. Along the corridor, in the far wing of the building.
She awoke shortly after seven. He had told her to report to him at eight.
The morning sun threw angular shafts of light across the empty room. Julia had chosen to wear a tracksuit. She stood in front of him, head bowed, hands clasped anxiously behind her back.
‘Have you any excuse, this time?’ His words fell upon her young ears, heavy with sarcasm.
She looked up at him, trying to excuse herself. ‘I’ll try better. Honestly I will. Just let me off, this time. Please.’
He was shaking his head, and flexing his hands behind his back, promising himself that his hard dry palm would soon be touching that delightfully rounded bottom. Intimate contact. His bare hand against her bare bottom. His hand, hardened and weathered. Her bottom, soft and smooth, and very rarely exposed to male eyes.
He put her through her basic exercises, and she failed, miserably. ‘You were warned,’ he reminded her. ‘I know the perfect training for such slovenly slothful behaviour.’
Her anxious eyes saw his fingers flexing, and followed the line of his gaze. Her bottom felt so terribly vulnerable.
‘Get that tracksuit off.’ It was a quiet and moderated command. Julia knew that to disobey was unthinkable. He was her trainer. At all times, he knew best. She shivered, her limbs feeling cold and prickled with goose-pimples. her face burning brightly with embarrassment. Beneath her strong physical athletic image she was a girl. Soft and vulnerable, gently curved.
God. It was awful, taking down those tracksuit bottoms. Peeling off her stretchy top, up over her head. Standing in front of him in just her high-cut white pants. Julia’s face was flushed as she held out her redundant clothes to him.
‘You will do as I say.’ it was one of his familiar phrases. ‘I am your career.’ She knew it was the truth. Should he discard her, she knew she would be finished. Just another failed athlete with no hope and no reputation. She remembered the first words he had ever said to her, when she had stood before him at that tender teenage time. ‘Your commitment is total. I will tell you when to breathe, when to eat, when to blink. You disobey and you’re out. Finished.’ She had smiled at him then, and nodded pleasantly. demonstrating her enthusiasm. Only later has she realised the implication. He intended to do exactly what he felt was right for her.
‘Are you a virgin?’ The question had been so forthright. She had garbled her reply, wondering whether he believed her.
‘How often?’ The blush across her face had burned crimson. She had shaken her head. ‘No. You mustn’t think that I…’
Now, standing there in the archway between the corridor and the empty room, she felt so shivery and vulnerable. And her breasts were causing a problem.
Her boyfriend had held her very close, his lips gently pressing against her cheek, ‘You’re beautiful,’ he had whispered. ‘You’re very beautiful.’ His hands had slipped beneath her tee-shirt, to hold her warm lithe body. His eager young eyes had already observed that she had discarded her bra. The soft but firm roundness of her breasts pressed outwards against the thin cotton. Her firm-pointed nipples were quite clearly defined. She relaxed against him, soft and responsive, as he eased her tee-shirt over her head. revealing that strong lithe figure. Cupping those warm gently-proportioned breasts in his hands, squeezing them, manipulating the dark pink tips until they stood proud and firm. And then his lips against them, softly provoking them…
Another shiver coursed through her body. His eyes, staring at her. Her breasts, becoming a real embarrassment now. Female athletes often experienced the problem as they reached that point of maximum exertion. As the blood pumped through their veins, their muscles pushed to the ultimate degree of performance. A girl’s breasts would flush, round and firm, nipples standing erect. Sensitive to the touch. Responsive to any caress. Even the coarse texture of her tracksuit top had been enough to trigger the response. No matter what she did, or where she cast her eyes, those breasts of hers would stand proud. Almost inviting him.
Worst of all, she knew all about his experience. He knew all about young girls. He could read their breasts.
There is a cane in his hand. It is thin and long and yellow. It seems almost to have a life of its own as it quivers, vibrant in his fingers. ‘Legs apart. Hands above your head. Stretch, young lady. Stretch!’
His experienced eyes appraise her youthful figure. Her skin is smooth, shining a little with the perspiration of fear. Almost perfect. But that lithe slim form could so easily run out of control. Julia needed his firm hand. He told her to turn round and face into the room.
‘Pull your pants up, you stupid girl. Right up.’ She turned to look at him, innocently quizzical. Pull her pants up? They were so small and skimpy. How could she pull them up any further? Eager hands came to her assistance with the answer, pulling the narrow band of light fabric right into her dark cleft, his strength almost lifting her off the ground.
There was something so very pert and foolish about Julia’s bottom. He stood back, almost a smile curling his thin lips. Yes. There was something vaguely amusing about a healthy suntanned girl with just one tell-tale triangle of pale flesh.
‘Get your pants off, you stupid girl.’ A few seconds later. his suspicion was confirmed. The most minute and tantalising triangle of pale peach flesh, where very small bikini pants had protected her modesty from the sun. His large hand cupped the region and she squealed in surprise. It was obvious she didn’t mind baring her breasts. They were smoothly suntanned. Just her bottom, and then, only the most intimate curves. Silently he promised himself that the pale bottom-cheeks would be well-tanned before the day was out.
No. Now was not the time for exercise. Now was the time for thought and consideration. Julia stood in silence, waiting for his next direction, her bottom bared before his eyes for the very first time. Of course, he had smacked her before, but never without the protection of her knickers or running shorts. He had really tanned her once, with the sole of his large leather sandal, kept in the top drawer of his desk for just such an occasion. Across thin shorts, the hard leather had really stung. She had jumped. lithely at every stroke. ‘You jump when I tell you to,’ he had told her. And just to prove his own fitness, he had chased her around the empty race track, slipper in hand, her limbs pumping hard, muscles rippling, bottom wobbling, cheek against cheek, beneath very thin shorts, the sandal hovering very close. Whack after whack had improved her performance. There were tears in her eyes. long before she reached the finishing pose.
He tapped the thin yellow stick against his leg. ‘I am going to cane you. After we have considered your performance to date…’ He prodded the pale area of one bottom-cheek with the tip of the cane. It wouldn’t be so pale after he had finished with her.
His favoured punishment for minor slackness was a really sound smacking across the thinnest knickers she could find. A dozen sound smacks, with Julia stretched across his lap. Then pants pulled down to assess the damage. Feeling the radiant heat from the crimson bottom-cheeks. Pants pulled up again, right up, tightly into the cleft, so her upper thighs were bare, and the greater area of her buttocks. Another dozen smacks. alternating one side and then the other, Knickers down again for another inspection. All the time. Julia would be squealing her protest. Promising to do better. Then pleading with him to stop, trim white running shoes drumming against the floor. After one particularly sound spanking Julia had ‘lost’ all her thin knickers. He had found it difficult to suppress a smile as she told him. ‘Oh dear,’ he said, mockingly. ‘Never mind.’ She had a second smacking within the space of twenty-four hours, across a pair of knickers he provided for the occasion.
He turned her to face the doorpost, the thin bamboo pressing against her bottom. Your performance will improve, Julia. Or you will be in serious trouble. He raised his left hand and pressed it against the lowest softest part of her tummy, his fingers trespassing downwards, pushing her outwards and away from the wall. ‘Bottom out, young lady. Right out.’
The same creeping fingers made her part her legs. ‘Wider,’ he murmured, as she shuffled her feet. ‘Six days before the championship.’
He tapped her bottom slowly, six times, watching the cheeks wobble. She flinched, wondering if the next tap of the cane would be a real stroke.
‘Now you don’t want me to cane you every day for six days, do you?’ She shook her head fervently. He promised her a personal coaching session. A session she had never experienced before. The entire resources of the gym to herself. Just the gym, her trainer and his cane. He listed each aspect of the planned training schedule. And how he would apply his cane if her performance fell short of the required standard. Against the wall-bars, arms clutching the highest bar and legs wide apart. Face down, body tightly curved over the vaulting horse. Or touching her toes over a conveniently-sited hurdle. A long hard session of exercise and concentration. And with Julia totally undressed, bottom bared, ready for the cane’s application.
‘Come with me.’ He pointed with the cane across the room to the window. She followed, with a frightened curious expression on her face. ‘Look.’ He used the thin bamboo again to direct her attention, out of the window and across the gardens to the neighbouring establishment. ‘Mrs Cooke shares my approach to physical training.’
In the adjacent tennis court, overlooked only by the first floor windows at this one end of the building two girls were receiving instruction. It was easy to see the cane marks traced across the nearer girl’s bottom, because neither girl was wearing a single stitch of clothing. Both those girls were caned last evening.’ he told Julia. ‘And after their practice is over, they will be caned again.’
Julia leaned forward, her own nakedness almost forgotten, as she stared at the two bare figures. The one who was now serving had a figure not dissimilar to her own though her breasts were bigger, and were bouncing around as she jumped. The other girl was slim and petite, with a perfectly curved, softly shaped bottom, bearing the tracery of a caning. ‘Poor girl.’ she whispered to herself.
He heard her words. ‘Explain yourself.’ She stuttered ‘Well… she’s such a… a little girl… it must have hurt terribly…’
He led her back into the centre area of the room. ‘Nonsense, girl. Physically, she is stronger and fitter than you. If you worked as hard as she does, your bottom might adopt slightly less weightier contours.’ Julia blushed, his eyes again surveying her bareness. ‘In any case. each trainee here, and at Mrs Cooke’s establishment is treated as an individual.’
She nodded. Individual training. Individual tuition. Individual punishments ‘I never cane two girls in the same way.’ he told her. ‘And when I cane you, it will be after due consideration to your slackness, poor performance. reluctance to knuckle down to real concentrated effort… and the shape and size of your bottom…’
No room is silent. Julia stood waiting. Arms stretched high above her. The floorboards creaked as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. A cricket or perhaps a moth struck the window. The shafts of sunlight caused the door timbers to groan as they expanded in the heat. Outside, just beyond the extent of her vision, the two tennis girls had been called in. She had heard a whistle. She wondered where they would be. In an adjacent room perhaps? On the other side of the wall? Naked, like herself. Waiting to be punished. Bending down, hands touching toes? Or standing still, legs apart, bottom pushed out, their thighs aching. How many strokes would they get, she wondered. Perhaps the bigger girl would be given more because she had more flesh to absorb the strokes? She shivered, her own bottom feeling much bigger than it should. Perhaps the cane hurts more when applied to a bigger bottom. More surface area for the cane. A longer length of cold thin bamboo in painful contact with girlish bottom-flesh. Yes. Perhaps the big girls got the worst of it.
She heard his footsteps in the distance. Seemingly a long way away. Precise measured paces approaching. Occasionally, swing doors opening and shutting. The tap-tap-tap of the cane upon the tiled corridor floors. She froze. He had left her to think about her future. Now he was returning to await her decision.
There was no sound from next door. Perhaps the tennis girls had been given a second chance. She shook her head and chided herself. No. How stupid of her. No girl was ever given a second chance like that. Punishment first. Then a second chance. She supposed they must have been caned somewhere on the far side of their building. She knew there was a good chance someone would hear her own caning.
He was opening the windows now. Telling her that the room needed fresh air. Julia found herself taking deep breaths, limbering up, preparing for a race, or for something equally strenuous. He flexed the cane in his hands. Yes. This would be quite strenuous. There would be a lot of deep breathing. Plenty of taut muscles taking the strain. Julia was going to be caned. After smackings and slipperings had apparently prompted no improvement, a caning was called for. He raised the stick, positioning himself carefully, checking his aim across the fullness of her bottom-cheeks.
It was hard being a champion. Being the very best. Staying the very best. ‘One day you will thank me for this,’ he told her, as the first stroke whistled down.

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