From Uniform Girls 30
The room is quite large, high-ceilinged, airy. One section of the wide bay window is open allowing a pleasant little breeze from the garden to enter, welcome on this warm summer afternoon. It is a sitting room of sorts, with a deep-red brocaded easy chair the focal point. To one side of the chair is a large built-in cupboard with a mirror door, this slightly ajar. Opposite, against the wall, is a small rosewood table with drawers. Mr Simford places his hat on the table as they enter, and briefly strokes a finger across his forehead. It is a warm afternoon. Between the table and the red chair a largish travelling trunk has been deposited on the floor, on the polished bare boards beyond the carpet.
‘Mr Granmore is back tomorrow,’ Mr Simford says. ‘So we’ll certainly have to get things ship-shape by then. But I think first of all I’ll get those measurements. Then Mrs Mingley can make any little alterations necessary to your uniform. Mr Granmore is very particular about a girl’s uniform fitting snugly. The master is a very particular gentleman altogether of course.’
Mr Simford, fiftyish, is formally dressed in a morning suit, appropriate for a butler but no doubt warm on a hot day. His companion, called Laura, is a blonde of 19, a very pretty girl with a soft, sensitive-looking mouth and masses of thick, wavy corn-coloured hair. She is wearing a blouse and skirt with low-heeled shoes.
‘Yes, Mr Simford,’ she says in a docile, uncertain sort of voice. Uncertain because she is new. New to the employ of Mr Granmore who in fact she has not yet met, having been hired through an agency. Mr Simford has met her at the station and driven her through narrow roads and then leafy lanes to finally this house, the Hall. In through open iron gates and then a glimpse of grounds perhaps somewhat overgrown with the fertility of summer. The house itself seems to be empty, the corridors echoing. The staff perhaps are away until Mr Granmore’s return. Somewhere, though, there must at least be Mrs Mingley: she is the housekeeper who is going to alter Laura’s uniform, if that is necessary. Mr Granmore likes to see a maid with a nice snug fit to her uniform, Mr Simford has said. Mr Simford from the brief acquaintance thus far seems to be a pleasant enough gentleman. Not really a gentleman of course but to Laura’s eye undoubtedly a very important person because he will naturally be in charge of her, in charge of all staff.
‘Will you take your things off then, Laura. Just one moment.’
Mr Simford goes abruptly out, leaving the pretty blonde girl looking uncertainly after him. Did he say take her clothes off? She bites her lip. Mr Simford seems pleasant enough but it is all new and strange and somewhat confusing. The train journey from her home and now this place deep in the country, silent and empty on this summer afternoon. Is she supposed to take her clothes off? She steps uncertainly over to the window. This room is on the first floor so there is a good view and it does have an overgrown look of rampant greenery. There are roses out there and flowers in a border — lupins — but it is certainly overgrown as if the place has been deserted for weeks. It is a bit eerie… and now…
Laura turns at the sound of steps. Mr Simford again, now carrying something. ‘Not started, Laura? I hope we’re not going to be a dreamy sort of girl who doesn’t do what we’re told. Mmmm? Here, this is the dress but I don’t want you to put it on yet. We need to take measurements first. But you can put the other things on. The knickers, and the stockings and suspender belt. Now look sharp this time. When I come back in five minutes I want you like that, is that clear?’
Laura says an apologetic and slightly pink-faced, ‘Yes Mr Simford.’ She should have done what she was told and certainly she doesn’t want to give a bad impression right at the beginning, that she is dreamy or lazy or anything else. It was just that… it is all new and confusing. Her head at times has a rolling-around feeling, as if she is in a dream. She shakes her head and steps towards what Mr Simford has placed on the red chair. She had better look sharp and not be in a dream. Picking up the dress. It is a little black silk dress, clearly very short, edged with white lace. There are white, lacy knickers. French knickers. Rather sexy knickers in fact. Sheer black seamed stockings. And a black satin suspender belt. Her face flushes slightly… and then more deeply as she recalls what Mr Simford said. How he wants her. In five minutes time. The soft mouth opens and closes. And then her hands go to the little buttons of her blouse…
When Mr Simford returns, in the five minutes he has promised, Laura has done it. It has been a supreme effort to make herself undress and put on those things but on the other hand she knows she must obey Mr Simford. So she has done as instructed. Laura’s slim arms are crossed in front of her — in front of her nude breasts — because the outfit as supplied by Mr Simford does not include a bra. Laura’s slim but at the same time ripely-rounded form is in the sheer black stockings and the sexy suspender belt, plus the equally sexy white French knickers. She is standing with her arms crossed in front of her, pink-faced and looking a little desperate.
Mr Simford comes close. He has in one hand a tape measure and in the other something else. White. ‘That’s better, Laura. Must learn to respond to instructions, mustn’t we? Good. Put your arms down then. At your sides. Let me have a look at you.’
In this room in the silent house Laura does what she is told. She and the equally pink-faced girl in the full-length cupboard mirror put their hands at their sides — to reveal the firm, full breasts, rosy-nippled. With that mass of corn-coloured hair and clad as she is in the sexy French knickers and stockings and suspender belt Laura is indeed a ravishing sight. She has seen how she looks in the mirror of course — seen that other girl with her innocent eyes, her soft ripe mouth, who is nonetheless dressed, or undressed, like this. Showing off her nude tits. And now here is Mr Simford to gaze on them. As he undoubtedly is gazing on them. In this room with the soft air from the open window now upon them, and all eyes upon them as well; Laura’s rosy nipples are stiffening. She can’t bear to look — she doesn’t know where to look anyway — but she can feel without a shadow of doubt that they have stiffened up. Sticking out at Mr Simford in a blatant manner and making Laura’s semi-nudity that much worse. As if we have here a common, tarty girl who enjoys showing off her nude tits to a virtual stranger. Whose tits have stiffened up in anticipation of a bit of fun, who would relish the possibility of these sexy knickers being taken down and a rough male hand between her hot thighs. To boldly handle her hot cunt. But of course Laura is not at all that hot, tarty girl. If she is hot it is with embarrassment. Her nipples may have come up but she is feeling sick at having to stand here like this in front of Mr Simford. It is all a bit like a bad dream. Here in this empty house with its overgrown garden, its full-blooming roses. In here in this room with the open window and the mirror…
‘Lovely,’ Mr Simford says. ‘A very lovely girl, Laura. Mr Granmore is going to be very pleased. Now put this on, would you. I should have left it with the rest.’
It is what he has been holding in his hand. A little white apron with a lacy edging. It is obviously to be worn over that black silk dress that may have to be altered but now Mr Simford is telling Laura to put it on with just the knickers. ‘And then stand on the trunk, my dear. Then we can take your measurements.’
It is not Laura’s trunk standing there on the floor. She had only a smallish suitcase with her on the train. It is presumably Mr Granmore’s, sent on from where he has been on holiday: Venice, Mr Simford said in the car. Had Laura been to Venice? She had shaken her blonde head: Laura in fact had never been anywhere more exotic than Blackpool. Mr Simford in the car patted her knee. ‘Maybe Mr Simford will take you. If he likes you. Laura, and I’m sure he will if you’re a good and obedient girl. Mr Granmore is rather fond of Venice.’
Laura now with the little apron tied over the French knickers (though for what purpose she can’t imagine) steps up onto this trunk that has possibly just come from Venice, a dream-like city built on water from what Laura has been told. But possibly no more dream-like than this empty old house at the end of the leafy lane, empty and untended through the early summer until now there are Mr Simford and the pretty, soft-faced girl with the corn-coloured hair and the vibrant nude tits, stiff-nippled and nodding temptingly as she steps up…
Mr Simford’s finger again presses lightly across his brow to deal with any pin-pricks of perspiration. It is a hot afternoon and there is too this semi-nude and ravishing girl to raise a man’s temperature. Raise the temperature and quite possibly cause an uncomfortable tightness at the front of those splendidly creased trousers. With now Laura’s ravishing tits at eye level. Yes, those rosy nipples may not be all that has stiffened up in this room with the mirror. No doubt, though, Mr Simford is doing his best to concentrate on what has to be done: the essential task of getting this delightful girl’s uniform fitting in the skin-tight, glove-like manner that his master demands.
‘Hold that there, please.’ The end of the tape is placed on Laura’s bare front squarely between these stiff-nippled cones. ‘And open your legs slightly. So that I can… get the tape… in here…’
In between Laura’s thighs. She lets out a shocked gasp as Mr Simford’s hand, with the tape, goes in there. To the crotch of the French knickers. Inevitably also to Laura’s pussy underneath. ‘Just hold still…’ Laura is not still, she is shaking like a leaf, the ravishing tits are trembling, as Mr Simford’s hand is right there. In between her legs. Seemingly fondling her pussy. Mr Simford can’t be doing that, he couldn’t… but that nonetheless is what Mr Simford seems to be doing. Without a doubt.
His other hand is at Laura’s bottom now. Fingers fumbling the ripe cheeks, and in between at the cleft. Going further down… and under. ‘Oooohhh… !’ Two hands. He is passing the tape through her legs. That seems to be the supposed object of this. But not in any hurry; more interested in simply fumbling ravishing Laura between her thighs. Fumbling in other words at this lovely girl’s cunt. She stands holding the end of the tape in something of a state of shock, unable to believe this is happening. It has to be some awful kind of dream… a bad, bad dream in this dreamy place.
At last the tape is transferred — from one fumbling hand to the other. And at last the hands do come away. The tape is drawn up tight between Laura’s shaking thighs. From front to back between the legs: it is not a measurement that is normally taken, nor is it easy to see exactly how it will aid in the fitting of the maid’s uniform. But with a thoughtful ‘Hmmmm…’ Mr Simford notes a figure. Then slides the tape out from between Laura’s legs. ‘Good,’ he says. Are there now more of those pin-pricks of perspiration on his forehead? And the front of those trousers: do we have a state of extra congestion, of indeed extreme turgidity?
Whatever, Laura, flush-faced and still in that shocked state, is now subjected to a more conventional and acceptable measurement: i.e. that slim waist. She is told to unfasten the apron. The tape is slipped round her… and the apron can be tied again. All very quick and efficient in marked contrast to what has just gone before. But of course a girl’s waist does not offer the same scope as a tape between her legs. The waist is followed by… the bust. Those sticking-out tits in other words. Ah… tits no doubt do offer scope. Tits such as these, with their still unfortunately erect nipples, present no doubt something of a temptation… as a preliminary to putting his tape into action again Mr Simford takes hold of them. Simply cupping one in each hand. ‘Mmmm…’ he murmurs. ‘Mmmm… Yes, Mr Granmore will appreciate these. Lovely ones. Aren’t they, Laura?’
What can a soft-eyed and ripe-mouthed girl far from home in this empty, echoing house answer to that? With shockingly these hands holding her soft but firm tits. Her stiffened, sensitive nipples hot in these male hands. ‘No… Please… don’t…’ comes weakly from the ripe mouth.
‘Oh yes. He’ll like these. He’ll adore them, my dear. Mr Granmore is a great appreciator of feminine beauty. And after Venice and those bold, dark girls, bold and tarty so I’m told, he’ll be ready for these. Ready for a lovely English rose, eh Laura?’
The hands came away. Can all this be happening? What Mr Simford is saying — and even more what he is doing. His hands. It is like a dream, one of those awful dreams that a girl may sometimes get on a hot and sultry night. An awful dream that can come to even a sweet and innocent girl. A dream to wake her in a sweat — to find that somehow the sheets are all adrift and she has her hand between her thighs. Her hand at her pussy, wet and hot with perspiration — and her juices. She grabs her hand away, imagining the awful possibility of her mother coming in to see this: the bedsheet all awry and her hand there… doing what she has been doing.
But although it seems dream-like, a bad dream, she doesn’t really think it is a dream. She did go to the agency for an interview. She did come on the train. And then… Mr Simford on the platform. The car purring through the leafy summer lanes. And now…
Mr Simford has measured her tits. The tape drawn tight over those rosy peaks, then jiggled up and down, from side to side. Not nice but not as bad certainly as Mr Simford holding them; gently squeezing them. He takes the tape away. Laura still up on the trunk on her shaky legs can feel herself perspiring. At least it must be over now; the worst of it anyway. Mr Simford has at least done the awful part. Anything else… can’t be…
‘Slip the knickers down now, would you, Laura? Slide them down. I need to check that first measurement. And if we have them down… we’ll get a better…’
‘No!’ she squeals. ‘No… please…’ The bad dream is not over. No, the bad dream wants to get worse. ‘Not…’
‘Slip them down, Laura.’ The firm, butler’s voice used to directing young staff. Young tweeny maids especially no doubt. ‘I need an accurate measurement. Mr Granmore will not be at all pleased if the dress does not fit perfectly. And we must learn to obey at once. Not question instructions.’
Alone in this old house, save for the possible presence of Mrs Mingley — but can Mrs Mingley really be here in this empty, echoing place? — alone with Mr Simford. Laura clearly has no choice but to comply exactly with his instructions. As he says a new girl will not impress by querying orders. She must meekly obey. Mr Simford is her boss, more important in a way than Mr Granmore for she will have to deal directly with Mr Simford all the time. ‘I… I’m sorry, Mr Simford,’ Laura stutters contritely. As her hands go to her knickers.
‘That’s better. That’s a good girl. Right down. Take them right down.’
The sexy French knickers do come down. Laura’s unwilling hands push them down off of her hips, her bottom… and Mr Simford helps them on down until they lie crumpled round her ankles. Laura’s hands go back to her sides. She must stand still and straight and allow whatever Mr Simford needs to do. ‘Open your legs again a little,’ he said softly. Then, ‘More than that… that’s better.’ Oh…!
‘Not a shy girl, are we, Laura?’ Mr Simford’s hand is cupping the downy-haired bulge. The fingers are curling underneath. There are no knickers between herself and Mr Simford’s hand now. They were insubstantial but they were something, preventing the final heart-stopping contact. Mr Simford’s fingers are there, on the bare, fuzz-covered lips of this ripe-mouthed girl’s slot. Her legs, her trembly thighs, are apart. As instructed. So that Mr Simford can put his hand…
‘Nnnnghhh…’ comes out from the ripe mouth in answer to the question. She is wet. Laura can feel she is wet: this hot and humid afternoon, in spite of that slight air from the garden, but even more what has been happening. Even a demure and innocent girl will get wet there with a man’s hand squeezing her bare boobs, then fumbling in the crotch of her knickers for ages and ages. One finger, with the slippery wetness… slips in. Her knees are going to buckle.
‘Do you have a boyfriend, Laura?’
Does she have a boyfriend? Laura is in such a state, with Mr Simford’s finger slipped up inside the lips of her cunt, that at this moment she has no idea. She would be hard pressed to state her name, where she comes from, anything. The only reality now is this unreal place. This house becalmed under the hot afternoon sun, its garden running riot for want of attention, its master off in exotic places, in Venice with its dark-eyed girls, its staff who knows where. In this dream-like place Mr Simford has a finger in Laura’s cunt as she stands shaking on the trunk. That finger in her wet cunt, causing it to quiver, pulsate, is the only reality and Laura’s head cannot readily grasp any other. A boyfriend…
‘A boyfriend, Laura.’ The finger is doing things. Probing Laura’s throbbing clitoris to be precise. ‘Do you have one?’
Laura’s mind strains. With an effort it reaches back to reality before this place: before this earth-shaking finger Oh yes. she can vaguely recall. Roger. ‘Y… Yes…’ She does of course have a boyfriend. She has promised to write to him tonight. Her first night here. Promised at that emotional parting on the station platform. To tell him what this new job is like. Her first away from home. What this new place is like. Well, she won’t be able to tell this: Mr Simford. His hand. His finger…
‘Does he do this, Laura?’ Mr Simford’s soft and silky voice. As his digit continues its busy actions. ‘Do you let him do this. Mmmm?’
She can only produce a moaning sound. Laura’s knees are going to collapse ‘I’ll wager you do. Mmmm? You let him do it. You let him bring you off. Yes? You naughty girl!’
Hot-faced Laura is shaking her head. Hot-faced Laura standing here on this trunk and nude except for these black stockings and the black suspender belt, her knickers down round her ankles. Mr Simford’s words are as dreadful as his hand between her thighs. Mr Simford is doing this and Laura is trembling like a leaf, about to collapse at any moment… but at the same time it is getting her excited, aroused. Hot. Hotter than ever. As Mr Simford says…
‘No!’ she gasps. Wildly shaking the thick blonde tresses.
‘Yes you do. You let him do it. That’s very naughty. Laura. And what do we do with naughty girls? We spank their bottoms.’
The sun is still high in the cloudless sky and the air is as heavy, as sultry, as in that room with the red chair, the mirror, that heavy trunk on the floor. That trunk on which she had to stand. That chair in which Mr Simford sat — for Laura to place herself over his lap. ‘I think we’ll have them right off now.’ The sexy white French knickers. Mr Simford pulling them off over Laura’s stockinged feet. Before turning his attention to her taut-cheeked rear. Crisply stinging spanks to those nude nates. Gasping yelps. Producing also a bright-red flush to the sharply-belaboured flesh.
The flush is still there, though now faded from its initial bright redness. Now only pink: the colour of her ripe mouth, the colour also of the nipples of the pertly vibrant tits. ‘You can go out in the garden now.’ Mr Simford said when finally he’d finished. When finally he’d had his fill of her writhing rump. Spanking-wise that is. ‘I’ll call you when you’re needed, my dear.’
Laura is still without the finally removed knickers. Her stockinged feet are now in a pair of three-inch-heeled pumps, but nothing else had been added to her outfit. So it is just the stockings and suspender belt with those spiky-heeled shoes. Out here in the garden.
Can she really be here in this garden? With the heady scent of the ripe-red roses. The scent also of something like a meadow for that is what the lawn resembles. The grass grown rampant, with flower heads, seeds. Daisies too and other weed flowers flowering. Out here with no sound in the heavy air save the droning bees. Is she dreaming?
Laura doesn’t think she is There is a feeling of panicky anxiety that seems urgently real, not like dreaming. Out here in the open like this, nude virtually. The house with its windows gazing blandly at her. The house is empty but all the windows seem to be gazing on her bare boobs, her equally bare bottom and pussy. And in the other direction where there are shrubs, the trees at the end of the lawn: who might be lurking there, eager-eyed? Laura does not want to be in the house, with Mr Simford and his awful hands, but in a way it is even more scary to be out here like this. With the sun hot on her nude form and quite possibly eyes, hidden eyes, hot on it too. She is standing by the roses, breathing in their sweet scent, one arm across trying to cover her trembling tits, the other in front of that downy blonde triangle. Is her dress being altered? Will she actually be allowed to put the dress on? And even if she is will Mr Simford nonetheless be doing those things again? Spanking her bare bottom… and that other heart-stopping thing. Mr Granmore…
Mr Granmore is due tomorrow. What will Mr Granmore be like? Will he know that Mr Simford had been doing these things? Will he perhaps be going to do them himself? Mr Simford said…
It is as hot as yesterday, the air as heavy, but there is at least another sound now besides the quiet bumbling of bees. A lawn-mower. Mr Marten who is the gardener is now here and is busy attacking the rampant greenery. Grass seed-heads and daisies are falling to the spinning blades. Yes Mr Marten is at work and Mr Granmore is here sitting with a book in a deckchair on the terrace. Laura comes out carrying her tray with Mr Granmore’s cool drink. Things are perhaps a little more normal now. In addition to the widening area of mown lawn Laura herself is dressed in what might be called a decent manner. She has her little black dress on, that is. It fits very snugly, like a glove. from neck to waist. So tight that there is no room for a bra underneath, nothing in fact. Mrs Mingley has done a good job. The dress has also a very short skirt so that when Laura bends slightly with her tray at Mr Granmore’s table the skirt rides up at the back sufficiently to reveal another pair of those white French knickers. Mr Granmore smiles at her. He is younger than Mr Simford. a pleasant-looking gentleman, dressed this morning in casual slacks and open-neck shirt.
‘Settling in all right, my dear?’
She could say something of her experiences yesterday of course. This would perhaps be a golden opportunity. But clearly it would not be a good idea. Mr Granmore is not going to want to listen to the complaints of a new young maid, not about the senior member of his staff, an old and trusted retainer. Laura nods her blonde hair. A deferential ‘Yes sir.’
‘Good,’ Mr Granmore smiles. ‘I’m so glad to hear that. I was sorry not to be here when you arrived. Especially now I can see what a pretty girl you are. With all that marvellous hair. Yes.’ He takes hold of one nyloned knee, pulling Laura a step closer. When she is close the hand slides up, near to her stocking top.
‘Yes, we’ll have to get acquainted. And right away I think. Has Mr Simford given you any particular thing to do at this moment?’ Laura shakes her head. In that case… why don’t you go up to your room. I’ll come up… in a few moments. We’ll have a chat. How will that be?’
Laura can only answer. ‘Yes sir,’ of course. And go up to her room. It is on the second floor, above that room with the red chair where yesterday Mr Simford did those things. A small room. a maid’s room, with a narrow bed and a dressing table and a cupboard for her clothes. Out of the window, as from the red-chair room, you can see the garden and now Mr Marten still at work on the lawn. If she cranes her head Laura can see Mr Granmore —still sitting there sipping his drink. But now… he is standing up. He will be coming up. Here. She experiences a little shiver. Mr Granmore seems nice — but then so did Mr Simford when she met him yesterday. In fact he has continued to be pleasant in other ways. It is just that he did those things. And now there is Mr Granmore, who arrived this morning. Perhaps Mr Granmore… the door opens.
There is no lock on the door. A girl would not want to lock her door against Mr Granmore or Mr Simford. Well, she might want to. It is of course Mr Granmore who has entered. Laura produces a nervous smile. She has that dream-like feeling again. She has had it to a certain extent ever since she arrived here yesterday afternoon. She had it last night lying in this little bed and wondering if the door was going to open and Mr Simford come in. To do things. But he didn’t. The feeling is back again more strongly now though, in this little room at the top of the house. With Mr Granmore. Who is sitting now on her narrow bed. And in a friendly voice tells her to take her knickers off. She is doing it. Of course. As with Mr Simford. Even more than with Mr Simford a girl must obey the master of the house.‘Have you been to Venice?’ he asks in that pleasant voice. Mr Granmore’s hand under the short skirt where now there are no knickers, is on the soft blonde bush. Laura shakes her head. She is trembling of course. As with Mr Simford. Her soft thighs with the taut black suspender straps are trembling —as Mr Granmore tells her to part them a little. So that he can reach his hand further in… where Laura is already wet. The room in her dream seems to be swaying slightly now. This room above the green garden where Mr Marten is at work, you can hear the distant sound of the mower. Mr Granmore takes his hand away. And Laura looks mesmerised at what the hand is doing now. It is at the front of Mr Granmore’s trousers. ‘I shall have to take you to Venice, Laura,’ he says. As he unzips his trousers. ‘You’ll love Venice.’ Her eyelids fluttering like butterflies. She wants to look away, she doesn’t want to look. This has to be a dream. One of those awful sweat-making dreams. As Mr Granmore pulls her gently forward… and tells her what she has to do.