From New Blushes 2.03
‘Hello, Miss Haddon. Well, you look like promising material.’ Julie felt herself flushing as he went on to introduce himself, though she already knew who he was. Mr Winscott. Her boss’s boss, the head of the department. Not all that old, in his forties, with keen eyes now seeming to bore into her as she sat at her desk. Julie heard herself stuttering ‘Yes sir.’ She was also getting to her feet. But of course you didn’t call people sir, not here, it wasn’t school. She wasn’t sure whether she should have stood up either. And also what did ‘promising material’ mean? Could it have some sexual connotation? Her friend Maggie had said…
Whether it was proper form or not Julie was now standing and Mr Winscott could get a good look at her. He was taking a good look; at the shapely form, slim-waisted but otherwise nicely fleshed out, in white blouse and dark skirt. Conscious of this studied examination Julie felt herself blushing some more. Being blonde and with her fair complexion she flushed easily and it was always hateful.
‘Yes very promising indeed, young lady.’
Julie didn’t know where to look, but she couldn’t meet that forceful gaze. Her eyes went down to her desk. It couldn’t be true what Maggie said: that if a new junior girl wanted to get anywhere she had to be nice to senior men. She had to go to bed with them if that was what they wanted. Maggie had just been joking surely. But Julie never really knew when people were joking or not. It was only inexperience, she told herself. Eighteen wasn’t very old and when you have only left school two months you were bound to be unsure and inexperienced.
‘Netball, Miss Haddon. Play netball at school, did you?’
Netball? Focussing her thoughts Julie shook her head. ‘Not really… ah…’ She just managed to stop the ‘sir’ this time. Was he really talking about netball?
Yes. There was a department netball team, Mr Winscott said. And he, Mr Winscott, ran it. In his spare time of course, he added. ‘You’re exactly what I need Miss Haddon. Julie is it? A nice athletic shape and I expect very fit.’
Julie protested apologetically that she hadn’t played netball and also wasn’t very fit. But you couldn’t actually say no, she knew that much, that would certainly blot your copybook. And at least it wasn’t what Maggie had said. Nothing of that sort. That at least was a great relief. Maggie obviously had been joking and Julie had been stupid to pay it any attention.
Mr Winscott stepped closer, and his arm came out. Masculine fingers squeezed Julie’s upper arm. ‘Oh yes, Miss Haddon. You’re exactly what we need.’
There was nothing much to say. Julie produced an embarrassed smile, and tried to stop herself shivering at the grip of Mr Winscott’s fingers on her arm.
That was all; Mr Winscott went off, leaving Julie to ponder this new and unexpected development. She had been in the job two days, a very junior clerical assistant, but with the way jobs were you were grateful for anything. What was this netball team? There weren’t any other young girls in her office, just the two older women. Julie mentioned the netball team to one of them, Shirley. She only shook her head and laughed. What did that mean?
Julie was still wondering about it at 5 o’clock when it was time to leave. Mr Winscott hadn’t said any details or anything. But presumably that was because here he was now, in the corridor. Smiling at her. Could he give her a lift home? Then they could have a further chat about the netball. This was certainly another shock. Julie had got a little flat, half an hour away on the bus. She wasn’t sure she wanted Mr Winscott to take her home. She might have to invite him in and it probably wasn’t very tidy for one thing. But her excuses were being brushed aside by Mr Winscott’s smiling but authoritarian manner. Well, it was good of him to give her a lift, Julie told herself.
Mr Winscott didn’t take as long as the bus, nothing like. And he also was able to chat away as he drove expertly through the busy streets. ‘Nice athletic legs, eh?’ Mr Winscott said. Julie didn’t say anything, didn’t know what to say.
When they arrived… well it wasn’t a question of whether she should ask him in. Mr Winscott said, ‘I think I’ll come in if I may. Then we can have our chat.’
So that was it. He came in, following Julie up the stairs. Mr Winscott was carrying something — a plastic bag — but at that moment Julie’s thoughts were mostly on what sort of state her place might be in. She had gone out in a rush as usual. So that bag and its possible contents didn’t register. Not until they were inside. The flat was all right, or more or less, nothing embarrassing. So Julie could now notice that bag. And Mr Winscott was taking something out. Two things.
Julie’s eyes widened. A white top… and a pair of sort-of-schoolgirl navy knickers. Mr Winscott was grinning. Like a conjuror who has pulled a rabbit from a hat.
‘Your netball kit, Julie. Should fit. Anyway let’s have a look. Get these things on.’
What? Yes. Put those things on. So that Mr Winscott could see; the fit etc. Julie shook her head. He didn’t really mean it? Not right now? Yes, he did. Smiling still but his voice had that authoritarian edge. A voice used to being listened to. Obeyed. At once.
Well, when you were just 18 and straight out of school there was not much you could do. Julie took the things from Mr Winscott, aware that her face was bright red again. She turned to go into the bedroom. Behind her Mr Winscott asked, ‘Why not change here? No need to be shy. I’ve seen girls before.’
Julie didn’t answer, but kept walking. Mr Winscott wasn’t finished. ‘Nothing under those knickers mind. Nothing at all.’
‘Nice,’ he said when a bit later Julie emerged hesitantly from the bedroom. ‘Very nice. Don’t you think?’
Once more she didn’t answer. But it wasn’t nice, it was awful — or the knickers were. Somehow she felt naked in them. They weren’t skimpy but they were tight-fitting, clinging to the rounded cheeks of her bottom, and also to that swelling bulge at the front, where her thighs started. Julie had her hands coyly over that.
Mr Winscott, now sitting on one of the chairs, said, ‘Come here. And take your hands away from that.’
Stumbling over to stand in front of him. This was really awful. And somehow she knew it was going to get worse. Mr Winscott smiled up at her.
‘Why do you want to put your hands in front there, Julie? You’re not shy, are you?’
She shook her head, though of course she was. Beads of perspiration were prickling her skin. It was difficult to believe this was happening. Mr Winscott…
She heard his voice say. ‘Good. I’m glad of that. So you won’t mind what I’m going to do now. There’s nothing personal about it of course. It’s just that I have to check… muscle tone etc. So I’m going to slip down the knickers. All right?’
No. He couldn’t have said that. Unless of course this was some sort of nightmare. A hand went up to push back a strand of hair. Her forehead was wet. That couldn’t happen in a dream, could it? Mr Winscott’s hands were reaching out. To her waist. ‘No!’ again, but it was a more despairing one. Mr Winscott was going to do it. Whether she liked it or not. She stood shivering as the fingers slipped inside the top of the knickers. And then Mr Winscott’s hands, one on each hip, peeled the pants down. They finished up inside-out half way down her thighs.
Julie’s hands had come automatically across to cover herself again. That light brown nest of hair that was now of course exposed. But Mr Winscott was pushing the hands away, back to her sides. ‘Don’t be silly, Julie. Girls on the netball team mustn’t be shy about showing me that. Mmm…?’
Julie licked dry lips. This was so impossibly awful: standing in front of Mr Winscott with her knickers down.
‘If you are a bit shy, Julie, we can do some special anti-shyness exercises. They are good for fitness and also help a girl to overcome shyness problems. Lying on your back and cycling your legs. With your knickers off of course. That is always a very good one.’
But Julie didn’t have time to ponder the horror of what he was saying. Mr Winscott suddenly grabbed her, and pulled her down, across his lap. She gave a squawk of alarm but it had happened almost before she knew it. Julie’s head was down near the carpet. Her bottom was raised over Mr Winscott’s lap. She gasped, and struggled, but he had a firm grip of her.
‘Now then, Julie…’ Mr Winscott’s voice a bit breathy, from excitement or the sudden exertion. ‘What we also must have is discipline.’ His hand was fondling her bare bottom. ‘Discipline in the form of corporal chastisement. So that a girl is always on her toes and giving of her very best. Eh Julie?’
There was a little pause. No sound except the desperate little gasping sounds coming from Julie. And then another sound. The sharp crack of Mr Winscott’s hand splatting hard down on the ripe, upturned cheeks. Interspersed with squawky yelps from the unwilling recipient.
Mr Winscott kept on for quite some time. When you have got to such a crucial point it is essential to make a thorough job of it. The coach or manager of any sports team needs to establish his authority in an unequivocal manner, so that team members will produce their very best. This is especially true when one is dealing with females, who can otherwise be somewhat wayward. So suffice it to say that the cheeks of Julie’s bottom and the backs of her thighs, were a uniform bright pink hue by the time he had finished. And Julie herself was in a somewhat distressed state.
Oh yes, this new team member was coming along nicely. Those racking sobs were a normal part of the process of submission to the coach’s authority. And now something else, to further the girl’s submissiveness. Mr Winscott’s hand, the stern chastiser, now took up a different role. As it slid in between those prettily blushing thighs.
Mr Winscott took Julie home the next day after work as well. This time he had his tracksuit on. This time he also had a cane with him. Training needs to be pushed rapidly forward at the early stages. So there is no time for the trainee to stop and think and somehow manage a firm and definite NO to all of this. Basically of course she doesn’t really want to say no, she merely thinks she does. It is the job of the trainer, or coach, to take her through these uncertainties. The cane. Always an excellent idea. In the little kitchen. Julie bent over one of the kitchen chairs. Those navy knickers down of course, the cane has to be on the bare to achieve its full effects.
And after that… Well there are of course further stages. Stages of intimacy so essential for the desired close relationship between trainer and trainee, coach and player. Bent over the arm of her armchair now, in the sitting room. The navy knickers are completely off. they would otherwise only be an encumbrance. Mr Winscott…
Mr Winscott, keen coach and trainer. has come into intimate, the most intimate, contact, connection in fact, from the rear. Julie cannot really believe this is happening. This is, though, what her friend Maggie had said what Julie had decided must be a joke. There was also Shirley in the office this afternoon. Looking at Julie in what seemed like a knowing way. Giving a little laugh. And then saying:‘How’s that netball training going, Julie?’