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Sunday, 10 March 2019

Plumbing the Depths

From Blushes Uniform Girls 43
It all began with the leaky tap in the kitchen. Simon said he could probably fix it but didn’t have time. So Angela called a plumber. The plumber when he came tried to grope her. Well, he did grope her, getting his hand on Angela’s quite big boobs and also a grope at her bottom. Angela had strongly objected to this behaviour. As it turned out, though, she would have done a lot better to smilingly (or even unsmilingly) allow his gropes. Because as a bona fide member of the working class he was one of the new elite.
Yes Angela should have remembered that the country had a new Socialist Government, which was making sweeping changes. Some of the things you could read about in the papers or see on TV seemed scarcely credible. Members of the middle class were getting very nasty shocks. Men in middle-class jobs, and also middle-class housewives who didn’t have jobs. It was almost like a revolution.
Mr Frange the plumber, when Angela had struggled away from his groping hands and said heatedly that she would report him, had merely given a harsh laugh. And then said something that seemed quite ridiculous: ‘Do you know I could have you as my assistant Mrs Marley? How would you like that? I could do it under this new regulation dealing with middle-class housewives like yourself. La-di-dah ladies who have nothing to do all day except drink coffee and sherry and maybe with their husbands off to work, a bit of screwing their boyfriends on the side. Parasites on society in other words.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Angela spat angrily. Will you get that tap done and then please leave.’
‘You should read the papers then. There’s this new law which says such people can be required to do stints of proper work, Adult Work Experience it’s called. And like I say I can put in a request for you to work as my assistant for two weeks.’
Mr Frange, fiftyish with grizzled grey hair, eyed Angela lecherously. ‘Now what do you say? Let’s be friendly. I only wanted a little feel of those big boobs you’ve got there. Why not show them to me, let me have a proper look. Just undo that pretty blouse and take them out.’
Angela was at a loss for words, but found frantic ones when dreadful Mr Frange closed in on her again. She struggled but he managed to get his hands on her tits again, and this time also a brief feel at her pussy.
‘I really am… going… to report you…’ Angela gasped when she had finally struggled free.
‘And I really am going to put in that request,’ Mr Frange, also breathing rather heavily, replied. ‘And when I get you I shall teach you a few lessons my girl. And not just about plumbing. A little bit about unfriendly behaviour — with a nice piece of leather across that lovely arse!’
Angela told Simon that night about her encounter with the beastly plumber. In bed and with Simon right away as usual getting horny for her. Angela and Simon who were 22 and 23 had been married less than a year and Simon was very much still at the stage of wanting to be up his gorgeous young wife all the time. He was only half listening to her account of the plumber episode.
‘Darling, you’re not hearing me, are you.’ Angela stroked his stiff prick. She hadn’t tried to recount all the details of her unsavoury struggle with Mr Frange. But those things he had said.
Simon still wasn’t really listening, his thoughts concentrated on getting his ardent cock up Angela. Something about the plumber being rude to her… and a new law.
‘Look, please Angie. I really don’t know.’
But after he had had his first fuck Simon did pay attention. No, he definitely had not heard about such a law. It didn’t seem very likely, did it? Although there were some unpleasant new laws coming in. And you did now need to be careful in dealings with working-class people, with this new government. So maybe it wasn’t worth going through with her threat of making a complaint about the plumber. But as for what that individual had threatened… no, surely not?
That was half reassuring to Angela — until a week later when the official letter arrived. It said she had to report to the local Adult Work Awareness Centre. There had been a complaint made about her. If she didn’t have a satisfactory explanation Angela would be required to do a period of Work Awareness.
Angela looked at the letter unbelievingly. And then, having to believe it, burst into tears. The complaint had been made by Mr A Frange of the Plumbers Federation.
The local Centre was in a modern office block near the town square. Angela was directed to a third-floor office which had R. J. SPINKS: PLUMBING TRADES on its door. Inside sitting behind a desk was a rat-faced man with thinning hair in a cheap sports jacket.
He had been looking at some papers. Now as Angela entered he got to his feet. ‘Ah, Mrs Marley. And right on time, eh?’
He spoke the same sort of local working-class accent as had Mr Frange. He was probably some minor union official who with the change of government had managed to get this job. An essentially meaningless job, a made-up union job. That was what Angela thought — but Simon had told her to keep calm and be cooperative. Not say inflammatory things. It might be all a mistake, or she might be able to get out of it by being nice and charming. So although thinking you horrible little man, Angela managed a friendly smile.
Mr Spinks was eyeing her body — in the same way that Mr Frange had before moving in and making his grabs. Angela was wearing a smart town dress with nothing over it as it was warm. The dress was tight over her big boobs — and maybe she should have worn something less showy. Less… smart and middle-class.
Leering at her boobs Mr Spinks said, ‘We have had a complaint from one of our members about an unsocial attitude Mrs Marley. Not showing due courtesy and consideration to a member of the trade who has come to offer a service. That sort of attitude cannot be countenanced now we have a proper representative government. It is a serious matter which calls for re-organisation. Re-education.’
Mr Spinks had come round his desk to her. He put a hand on Angela’s arm. ‘Now what was your problem with Brother Frange, who I am sure was most professional and provided a first-class service.’
Angela wanted to shake his hand off but controlled the impulse. With her face reddening she kept her voice calm. ‘He wasn’t professional. He… wanted to grope me. And when I tried to stop him… he just went ahead and did it anyway.’
Mr Spinks gave a mocking laugh. ‘Oh yes. And I suppose you’ll say I tried to grope you too. If I just wanted to be friendly and put my hand on those lovely big tits. My guess is that you are typical of your class, Mrs Marley. A middle-class woman who likes to flaunt herself but does no useful work for society. A parasite who likes to stick her big tits out at working men. What we call a cock-tease. Who likes to wiggle her bottom in a provocative manner, to give herself a cheap thrill I daresay. And then wants to make a complaint.’
Mr Spinks’s hand slid round behind Angela and fondled her bottom. She jerked away.
‘You see? I suppose you’ll want to make a complaint about me. Well it won’t do you any good Mrs Marley. Because I shall put on my form that I confirm Brother Frange’s report and you’re in urgent need of re-orientation. You could be sent to a Re-orientation Centre. We’ve got them now and you wouldn’t like it at all! They know how to deal with your type there. They use the cane, and a nice heavy leather strap. On that soft and wiggly bare arse. Do you fancy that Mrs Marley?’
What this awful man was saying was even worse than Mr Frange’s threats. There was also that grope at her bottom. ‘D…Don’t be stupid!’ Angela blurted, perhaps unwisely. ‘And…And keep your hands off me.’
‘Stupid eh? A typical reaction of the parasite class. Oh yes they’ll love you at the Re-orientation Centre. Really enjoy working on that lovely soft middle-class arse.’
He went back to sit behind the desk. ‘So Mrs Marley, I shall put you down for two weeks’ training with Brother Frange — and then a recommendation that you do — what shall we say, one month? at the Centre.’
He looked up owlishly. ‘Of course I could change the recommendation. Say you in fact appeared to be a sensible and modern-thinking young woman after all. All it would need would be for you to come with me for the rest of the afternoon, to my modest little flat. Where I would need to give you some rehabilitation treatment of my own.’
Mr Spinks’s rat-like eyes fixed greedily on Angela. ‘I have a nice whipping cane Mrs Marley. I would want to test your ingrained prejudices with it — on your bare bottom. Also I think I would like to have a closer look at those nice big tits. Well what do you say?’
Hot-faced Angela opened her mouth but could not find words. She shook her head.
‘No? The Re-orientation Centre will be a very chastening experience. And Brother Frange – he can be a most demanding man too. I would advise you to consider carefully. I am not really a hard man myself and it would only take a couple of hours.’
Angela felt herself trembling. Two weeks with that Mr Frange would no doubt be a nightmare — but going with this awful Mr Spinks she could guess would be nightmarish too. And it was much more immediate, it was right now. And this threat of the Re-orientation Centre might be just that, a threat. To scare her into going with Mr Spinks. Because did they really have such places?
Angela shook her head again. She was feeling really awful, a bit sick. But she wasn’t going to go with this horrible man to his flat and let him abuse her. Cane her! And that meant… Mr Spinks was saying that the equally awful Frange man would be coming round for her on Monday morning. To start her two week training.
Showing her out Mr Spinks groped Angela again. A proper grope this time and she was in too much of a state, her head spinning, to do much to stop him. He got his hands properly on her tits and, with her skirt dragged halfway up to her waist, at her bottom and pussy. As he worked on her Spinks breathlessly inquired if Angela was sure she didn’t want to change her mind?
Mr Frange came round at 9 o’clock sharp on Monday morning.
Simon had gone off to work as usual. Angela had told him everything, more or less, and Simon had made inquiries. It seemed there was nothing she could do. There were these new laws and regulations. Discourtesy to members of the working population was now an offence. Also there were now places called Re-orientation Centres although no one seemed to know much about them as they were very new. Simon’s advice had been for Angela to cooperate with Mr Frange. Say she was sorry but hadn’t meant to be discourteous, and accept this funny business about the Work Awareness. And then hopefully she wouldn’t get sent to the Re-orientation Centre.
‘Say I’m sorry!’ Angela had gasped. ‘But don’t you understand, he was really groping me. He would probably have had all my clothes off if I hadn’t struggled. And that other one, Spinks, was the same.’ But Simon had just bit his lip and repeated his advice — because Angela didn’t want to be sent to one of these centres, did she? Angela had burst into tears — not for the first time since all this had started.
So she was alone when Mr Frange arrived. Alone and extremely apprehensive. Was she really going to have to go out with him on his jobs? Wearing what? Angela had put on a blouse and skirt. She had felt like wearing some kind of boiler suit to protect herself from dreadful Mr Frange but obviously that wouldn’t be any good, he would just make her take it off.
‘Well here we are.’ Mr Frange sounded cheerful in his gruff manner as he made his entrance. As well he might presumably. ‘Just like I said. And you thought I was joking, eh Mrs Marley? Now I’ve got you for two weeks! To knock some proper behaviour into you. So how are we this morning? Nice and welcoming?’
‘Please!’ Angela gasped. As Mr Frange moved in close and grabbed her. His hands grabbing her tits. But she was going to have to take it. For two whole weeks! His hands were squeezing her tits hard. Hurting her.
‘I’ll want you dressed a bit nice for a start young lady. Something a bit more sexy than this outfit. Something sexy when you’re on the job, eh? If I can put it that way. Maybe nothing at all? Shall we have you nude? With just the hard hat?’
Mr Frange had brought a yellow construction hat in with him, together with his bag of tools. Angela shook her head. ‘No please…!’ Maybe he was joking. His hands were reaching for other parts now. She tried to keep them off her pussy. He couldn’t really be thinking of making her strip nude, with just that hat on her head.
Still enthusiastically grabbing, Mr Frange said she could maybe wear something. A little pair of shorts perhaps. A brief top. Did she have something like that? Or maybe just a pair of brief see-through knickers?
Angela gasped that she did have some shorts. Mr Frange said they had better be really short ones. Or it would be just a pair of sexy knickers, and he was sure she had plenty of those.
‘No…! I have… got a pair of… really short ones.’ Angela did have a pair of white shorts that were really a lot too short and tight. A pair that had shrunk in the wash. They would suit Mr Frange’s requirements and although she didn’t like the thought of wearing them… it would be better than just a pair of skimpy knickers and nothing else.
Mr Frange let Angela go into the bedroom to change. The shorts and a sleeveless white blouse, he said. Nothing else. That meant no bra and no knickers of course. Tennis shoes and ankle socks? Yes that might do although he might decide later he wanted nothing at all. And she might prefer it as well, once he got her working and she got all hot and sweaty.
‘A girl can get very hot and sweaty on the job!’ Mr Frange quipped grimly. Angela shuddered.
Yes, he approved of her outfit when she reappeared. Because the shorts were really short. And tight. She hadn’t worn them for some time and they felt as if the main seam might split at any moment to reveal the bare cleft of her bottom. She had also found a sleeveless white blouse with lace down the front. Mr Frange approved of this because the lacy inserts revealed the big pink nipples of Angela’s boobs. He pinched them. ‘Yes very nice.’
Mr Frange went to get the yellow hat and crammed it down on Angela’s blonde head. Then he was going to his plumber’s bag. Taking out a pair of work gloves and… a broad leather strap. Angela looked at the strap. Wondering. And then she thought… The strap was split halfway along its length into two pieces. It wasn’t… a strap for beating? He wasn’t really going to… do any of that… Not … beating her?
Mr Frange briskly whipped the strap down across the arm of the settee. ‘We’ll go into the bathroom. Have a look at the plumbing arrangements there Mrs Marley. Let you see what’s what. But first of all I want to show you what’s what with my little bum-tickler here. It tickles young ladies’ bums most effectively. And other parts too of course. Hold out your hand and I’ll give you a demonstration.
No!’ Angela yelped. ‘No! Please…
For an answer Mr Frange cracked it stingingly across her thigh. ‘Hold your hand out, I said!
This time she did. Palm upwards and open to receive something similar to what had just cracked agonisingly in on her thigh. The strap whistled down to splat sickeningly across Angela’s open hand. She doubled up with the fierce pain. It was a whole lot worse! She shuddered in agony.
‘And now the other one. Same for both, eh?’
Somehow Angela made herself hold out the other hand. To receive the same reward. Her breath gasped out. Both hands now. And her thigh. She struggled for breath.
‘And now a quick one across your bum. Before we start. Take the shorts down and bend over the sofa. I want to give your bum one. Or maybe two. So that you know what’s what Mrs Marley. So you’re in no doubt that Arthur Frange is in charge here.’
In the bathroom now. Angela with her shorts up — but they had just been down, out there in the sitting room. She had had the shorty-shorts down round her knees as she bent over the arm of the settee. To receive Mr Frange’s heavy leather strap slicing in across her ripe nude flanks. Four heart-stopping cuts sizzling the ripe meat of Angela’s shapely bottom. She had hardly been able to comply when, after the last one, Mr Frange had told her to stand up. But somehow Angela had and she had also struggled the skin-tight shorts up over her burning flesh. And now…
Mr Frange whipped the strap across the back of Angela’s thigh again. Not really hard but sufficient to make her gasp. He wanted her down, on hands and knees, on the floor. Where he had removed the front panel from the bath. He put the strap down and then with his bare hand urged Angela’s thighs apart. Sharp little smacks and pinches.
‘Right young woman. Now what goes where.’ Mr Frange indicated hot and cold pipe runs — as his hand now slid in between Angela’s parted thighs. The hand cupping the tight crotch of her shorts. Her tightly encased pussy.
‘Listen carefully to what I tell you. I shall test you on all this afterwards. And if you haven’t remembered it all. I shall be using the strap again. Only this time in earnest. A proper belting. Not little taps like you got before.’
Angela gave a despairing moan. Her whole body was in a frazzle from what she’d had already — plus there were Mr Frange’s insistent fingers continuing to work at her cunt. With all of this her mind was virtually incapable of taking anything in, or if she did of retaining it. But now he was saying if she didn’t… she would get this horrendous belting. Much worse than before.
‘OK? Are you listening? Mind not wandering? I wonder, Mrs Marley, if your mind might not be more alert… if we had the shorts off? An aid to concentration do you think? With your lovely arse then ready and bare for the strap. Wouldn’t that concentrate the mind?’
No…! I… no, please…’ Angela gasped. Thinking of her bottom bare for the strap… and bare for those dreadful groping fingers. But if Mr Frange wanted her like that then that was how she was going to be. Yes. Struggling to her feet, to drag the shorts down. Right off. And kneel down again. Hands and knees. ‘There, isn’t that better?’
His hand gave Angela’s now bare bum a slap, and then it was back where it had been before. Between her thighs. Mr Frange’s voice began droning on about some plumbing detail… while his fingers recommenced his intimate groping. Angela’s now bare pussy. There was no way she could take in what he was saying while he did that. No way.
‘Have you got that? Eh?’ The fingers still busily at her. ‘Tell me…’
Her voice babbling something but nothing that made a lot of sense. No acceptable answer to the question. She was feeling a bit hysterical. Light-headed. But her head was clear enough to recognise that she was going to get that strap again. Yes. Mr Frange was telling her to get up… and bend herself over the edge of the bath.
‘Was it OK?’ Simon asked when he got home. ‘Well I know it wasn’t OK, but… not too bad. Not too dreadful?’
‘Yes. It was,’ Angela said. ‘It was too dreadful for words if you must know. He… had me with nothing on for most of the time. Just one of those hard hats. And… he had this dreadful strap. To strap my bottom with whenever I didn’t know something. Which was just about all the time. So… just about all the time… I was getting my bottom hit with that… that awful stra…strap…’
Angela had tried her best not to cry but now she was. Big tears rolling down her cheeks. Because for one thing it was only her first day, and there were two weeks of it to be endured altogether. And even that wasn’t all, because after that there was the Re-orientation Centre. Which by all accounts was even worse. A whole lot worse in fact.
So if Mr Frange was so bad and Re-orientation was a lot worse… well, she wasn’t going to be able to take it. And she did perhaps have a little bit of choice. She could go back to Mr Spinks at the Work Centre. He had told her that. If she went with him for an afternoon he could reverse his recommendation about Re-orientation. Well, she was going to have to do that. After today she knew she was going to have to do it.
Angela didn’t tell Simon this. He didn’t need to know. He also didn’t need to know the offer Mr Frange had made. If she was nice and ‘cooperative’ there didn’t have to be so much of that strap. There could be something else instead of the strap in other words. Some other pleasure for Mr Frange. He had indicated what this could be. Screwing for one thing. Plus other little pleasantries.
Well they might be distasteful but they were going to be preferable to that strap. They had to be.
In bed Simon wanted to screw her as usual. He had been very sympathetic about what she’d had to go through — and also what she was having to suffer tomorrow as well. But… he still wanted to screw her. Angela said she didn’t feel like it, she was feeling too awful and she had a headache for one thing. That didn’t make any real impression on Simon. He made some more sympathetic noises… but he still wanted it. Angela thought angrily: that’s all he’s really concerned about. Pleasuring his cock. Well tomorrow it would probably be the unspeakable Mr Frange pleasuring his. What would Simon think about that! She should tell him.
And Angela did. After Simon had had his fuck, more or less insisting on it, she had told him how it was. What Mr Frange had indicated, had more or less come right out and said. There would be a lot less of that strap if Angela agreed to the other.
That certainly made Simon stop and think. It seemed that Angela being belted with that strap was one thing but being screwed by Mr Frange was something else altogether. Simon was squirming now. And it served him right.
‘Well I’ll have to let him,’ Angela said. ‘If that’s the choice. Wouldn’t you want me to darling, rather than taking more of that strap?’ And for good measure she added what else she thought the plumber wanted. He would like her to suck him.


  1. excellent story, and such a pretty girl

  2. This is an unusual twist on the near future spanking dystopia/utopia theme. Usually it's envisaged as more of a right wing thing. But socialism? Somehow I don't think the left wing feminazi types so prevalent on the left nowadays will approve! More likely to be we males who are getting our arses whacked! Only they probably wouldn't want that either in case some of us might enjoy it.

  3. Wasn't this model also a Page 3 stunna? My utopia, whatever the political colouring of its economic model, would need to include a revival of Page 3. and a ready availability of girls to tawse. Feminazis, or at least the pretty ones, would need to be re-educated in Disciplinary Correction Centres, and Traditional Values instilled at home and in scbools, particularly for pretty girls.

    1. Amen, brother. Pretty girls offer the greatest threat and temptation upon men's morals and that is why they are in need of the largest amount of their disciplinary attentions.