From Blushes 54
Outside it was raining, soft but steady rain falling on Mr Finleigh’s green lawn that led up to the french windows of the drawing room. Yesterday Charlotte had sunbathed in the warm afternoon sun. Or rather not actually sunbathed because Mr Finleigh said he didn’t wish to darken Charlotte’s peaches-and-cream skin tones. So she had had to stay under the big yellow sunshade but you could call it sunbathing because she had no clothes on. Nothing at all. Except for her white high-heeled sandals.
Charlotte’s pretty mouth made a grimace, imagining for the moment herself out there now with no clothes on. In that steadily persistent rain that was making little rivulets meander down the outside of the glass of the french windows and inside was producing a light, clammy condensation. Charlotte’s hand came up, her finger lightly touching the cold glass. You couldn’t call it sunbathing today. But Mr Finleigh surely hadn’t meant it, it had been a joke, saying he was going to send her out again with no clothes on. In this rain.
Charlotte shifted her weight from one long leg to the other. She had clothes on at the moment of course, her tallish and exceedingly shapely body was properly clothed. A pink fitting blouse that showed off the shape of her firm and unfettered boobs that Mr Finleigh was so complimentary about; and a short pale blue skirt that was tight over Charlotte’s ripe rear. Charlotte’s rear received even more attention from Mr Finleigh than her boobs. Indeed it had received attention this morning right after breakfast, an hour ago, and it was then that he had said about going outside again. This morning. In this nasty rain. But it had been a joke. Hadn’t it? Under the short blue skirt Charlotte had knickers on, brief little semi-transparent ones, put on after Mr Finleigh’s attentions to her bottom. The skimpy knickers were Charlotte’s only undergarment. Her long legs were bare. On her feet were the white high-heeled sandals again.
Charlotte glanced across at Mr Finleigh’s ornate mantle clock. The hands indicated 11.05. He had said he would see her in here at 11.00. Mr Finleigh wasn’t normally late in his arrangements. A few minutes at the most. But… perhaps Mr Finleigh had had to go out! Charlotte felt her spirits surge at this sudden idea. Because in that case… She looked out again at the softly falling rain, the dripping trees. If Mr Finleigh had had to go out she wouldn’t have to…
Charlotte gave a sudden start. A squeal of shock. Mr Finleigh wasn’t out. He was all at once there, right behind her. He had stepped silently across the deep pile carpet on those crepe-soled shoes. Charlotte shivered. Her springing hope had gone almost before she had had time to consider it.
‘Still coming down Charlotte dear. Lovely eh? The garden does need it.’
‘Y… Yes Mr Finleigh.’ Mr Finleigh had taken hold of Charlotte’s upper arms. his person pressed hard up against her back. Her back and her bottom. Mr Finleigh’s voice soft in her ear. His hands slid over to Charlotte’s front. To her soft firm boobs bare under the thin blouse. Cupping them. And then his fingers at her nipples. Charlotte groaned.
And perfect for a little rain-bathing Charlotte darling. Yes, I thought you might have your things off already. Ready to go out. Mmm? Out in this lovely rain with nothing on. Yes?’
Charlotte squealed at the thought of it. Mr Finleigh was unbuttoning the little buttons of her blouse now. The top one and then working methodically down. The thought of being outside nude in the rain made her feel quite sick. The unfastened blouse was being pulled open, Charlotte’s pretty nipples revealed as more or less erect. After Mr Finleigh’s earlier ministrations. Pretty pink thumbs sticking out. Mr Finleigh took hold of them.
‘I know how much you’re looking forward to it Charlotte darling.’
‘Noo… ooo… Please.’
Charlott could feel Mr Finleigh hard against her. His hardness against the soft swell of her bottom. Pressing into the cleft dividing the ripe cheeks. Groaning she wriggled. Thrusting her bottom back against it. Anything would be better than being outside nude in the rain. Anything.
The voice soft in her ear. No Charlotte darling? Well what else… could you think of. Instead of that?’
Mr Finleigh didn’t make Charlotte go out in the garden without her clothes on. Instead she had to go and see Mr Wilmot. Mr Wilmot was a friend of Mr Finleigh who had been away on holiday. Charlotte had met him two days ago when he had briefly looked in on Mr Finleigh on his return. Charlotte had been fully clothed on that occasion, not sunbathing nude under the yellow sunshade, nothing like that. But Mr Wilmot had nonetheless evidently admired what he had seen and now he had, it seemed, phoned to ask if Charlotte could come round to see him. For tea perhaps. Mr Finleigh had apparently said yes of course.
Mr Finleigh had told Charlotte all this afterwards. After they had gone up to her room to do what Mr Finleigh wanted to do instead of making Charlotte go out in the rain without her clothes. Charlotte didn’t really mind doing it, it was certainly better than being out in the rain. It was certainly also better for that matter than being given the cane, which Mr Finleigh might also have suggested as an alternative. Oh yes it was certainly better than having Mr Finleigh’s whippy cane excruciatingly across her bare bottom.
‘Just take your skirt off,’ Mr Finleigh said. ‘And the knickers of course. Keep the blouse on. I rather fancy my Charlotte in just that pretty blouse. And the sandals too, keep them on as well.’
They did it on the bed. On the top, not actually in the bed. Which was just as well with Charlotte still having the high-heeled sandals on. Mrs Smithsdon who was Mr Finleigh’s housekeeper would have had something to say about shoe marks on the sheets. But first of all, before Charlotte had to get on the bed and when she had taken off the skirt and knickers, Mr Finleigh wanted to smack her bottom. Because she shouldn’t have argued about the nude-in-the-rain thing. It was a matter of discipline. But at least having her bottom spanked, over Mr Finleigh’s lap, was not as bad as the cane. Oh no it wasn’t half as bad as the cane.
It was still raining when Charlotte had to go to Mr Wilmot’s. Still that steady persistent rain falling out of a leaden grey sky. Mr Wilmot’s house wasn’t particularly close, about a mile away on the other side of the village. Within walking distance on a nice sunny day but this wasn’t a nice sunny day, just the opposite. But Charlotte was going to have to walk.
Mr Finleigh could have driven her over but he wasn’t going to. Charlotte was going to have to walk and moreover without a raincoat or umbrella or anything. Smiling, Mr Finleigh said. ‘I think Mr Wilmot would like you nice and fresh from the rain Charlotte. So wear that pretty green dress with the big buttons down the front and a little pair of knickers and that’s all. With the sandals, and a pair of socks if you like. But nothing else. It’s not cold rain.’
Charlotte had let out an involuntary wail on being told this. Mr Finleigh’s voice became sterner. ‘You wouldn’t like a little touch of the cane first of all by any chance dear? To put you in the right frame of mind?’
Charlotte had quickly said she wouldn’t. Mr Finleigh put his arm round her. ‘That’s a sensible girl. It isn’t cold and not really very far. And I’m sure Mr Wilmot will have something nice and warming for you when you arrive. After he’s taken your wet things off.’
What Stanley Finleigh had thought of course was that it would be a nice little disciplinary exercise for Charlotte, walking over to Arthur Wilmot’s place in the rain in only a thin dress and knickers. She wasn’t going to come to any harm, not catch a chill or anything, as it wasn’t a cold day; but she would feel some discomfort and that was always good for discipline. And as Arthur Wilmot would no doubt be taking her clothes off anyway it didn’t matter if they did get wet. In fact it would give Arthur an excuse to take them off. Not that he would need an excuse.
It was very unpleasant in the rain with scarcely anything on and nothing remotely waterproof. Charlotte was very soon soaked through, the thin cotton dress sticking to her body like a cold wet skin. She did her best to ignore the discomfort, walking briskly to get to Mr Wilmot’s as quickly as possible. Luckily there was no one else about on this dismal afternoon. Only two cars passed her and one of them stopped, the man in it offering her a lift. Charlotte shook her bedraggled head, conscious of the man’s eyes on her shape in the clinging wet dress. On no account accept any lifts Mr Finleigh had instructed.
‘You look drowned,’ the man said, his eyes focussing on Charlotte’s clearly defined nipples. ‘Let me take you home and get those wet things off.’
Charlotte insisted she was alright, she liked walking in the rain and anyway she didn’t have far to go. The car went off. She tried to quicken her step. Rain was running down her neck in little rivulets just like on Mr Finleigh’s french windows.
Eventually Mr Wilmot’s house, which Mr Finleigh had pointed out to her earlier when it’s occupant was away, came mistily in sight. It was a big house, like Mr Finleigh’s, set back from the road and this afternoon like everything else looking dank and gloomy — but nonetheless a welcome sight. Charlotte would at least now be out of this awful rain; She would also no doubt be able to take off her dripping garments. But at the same time it meant… it would presumably mean… Mr Wilmot…
But anything was better than her present state Charlotte told herself. Shivering, wiping rain out of her eyes, she pressed the bell. The door opened almost immediately.
‘Good Lord! What’s this, some sort of drowned rat?’
Arthur Wilmot’s eyes were wide in mock shock. He stood aside to let Charlotte in. As she passed him his hand slid over her ripe rump in the soaking skirt. ‘Did you enjoy your walk my dear?’
Charlotte could feel dribbles of water running down the insides of her thighs, as if she had wet her knickers. She groaned and shook her dripping head. Mr Wilmot was grinning at her. He was Mr Finleigh’s age, fiftyish she supposed. Charlotte didn’t know what he was like, she had only met him briefly that one time and never been here in his house before. He looked amiable, a friendly old gentleman. But Mr Finleigh’s other friend Mr Granther looked kindly and harmless too and he could be diabolical. Still she was at least in out of that rain. And Mr Wilmot was no doubt going to tell her…
‘Well we’d better have those wet things off eh Charlotte? Don’t want you catching your death of cold.’
Mr Wilmot was eyeing her nipples. Just like the man in the car had. They were probably sticking out even more now with the cold and wet and also the rain seemed to have tightened the thin material of Charlotte’s dress. stretching it skin-tight over her boobs. Mr Wilmot stepped closer. His hand came up and jiggled first one and then the other. ‘We can’t have these catching cold or anything. Can we?’
Arthur Wilmot led his young guest along the hall and then let her precede him up the stairs. He watched appreciatively as the muscles of her beautiful buttocks worked under the taut skirt. He could see the outline of brief knickers underneath but that was evidently all she had on apart from the thin dress. ‘I’ll send her over in something nice,’ Stanley had said. ‘But nothing very much.’ Stanley had been as good as his word. Arthur Wilmot’s hand patted one surging cheek. This latest girl of Stanley’s really was a stunner. Even more of a stunner than she had appeared when he had seen her two days ago.
‘In the bathroom,’ Arthur Wilmot said at the top of the stairs. ‘Along here on the left. Yes we really must get these wet things off right away.’
Charlotte wouldn’t argue with that, she wanted the clammy wet dress and knickers off too, not to mention the sodden socks. But… she didn’t want to strip off in front of Mr Wilmot. Not if she had any choice in it. But Charlotte knew she wouldn’t have any choice: if Mr Wilmot wanted to stay and watch… who was going to stop him?
In the quite large bathroom Mr Wilmot sat down in a cane chair. He certainly didn’t look as if he was leaving.
‘My oh my, just look at you.’ Shaking his head. ‘A very pretty drowned rat. Lift up the skirt please Charlotte.’
She dragged it up, baring wet thighs. Mr Wilmot had her lift the skirt higher, to reveal the skimpy bikini knickers. The wet knickers were virtually transparent, clinging to the pink flesh and revealing a tight nest of brown curls where Charlotte’s thighs began. Mr Wilmot’s hand came out, to skim lightly up the wet thighs. Charlotte gave a little squeak as the fingers grazed over the curls.
‘And this Miss. We certainly mustn’t have this catching cold, must we?’
Charlotte didn’t answer. The fingers pushed in at the top of her quivering thighs. She resisted for a moment, then relaxed her legs. Mr Wilmot’s hand slid in along the tight crotch of Charlotte’s knickers.
‘Actually… it still feels nice and warm,’ Mr Wilmot intoned. ‘Doesn’t it?’ He slid his finger in and out. Along the line of Charlotte’s slit. She shuddered, her breath hissing softly out through parted lips.
Arthur Wilmot pulled his hand away. ‘But I mustn’t sit here tickling you up when you’re still soaking wet. That will never do. Let’s get those things off right away.’
Charlotte took a deep breath and let her skirt fall back down. She felt all shivery — from her wet clothes but perhaps even more from Mr Wilmot’s finger stroking her pussy. Now she had to take everything off. And then… She glanced at Mr Wilmot. He certainly wasn’t going. Well what did she expect, of course he wasn’t going. He wanted her nude and then he was going to… What? Turning she sat heavily down on a stool and reached down for the strap of a sandal. What was Mr Wilmot going to do… when he had her nude?
‘Discipline Charlotte? I know Mr Finleigh is a believer in discipline for girls. Are you getting a lot? Of discipline?’
Charlotte was nude now. The clinging dress had followed the sandals and socks. And then the little knickers. Standing nude in front of Mr Wilmot. It was warm in the bathroom and she was drying off. Her hair was still very wet though and little trickles kept appearing, to run down her face and back. Charlotte wanted to wipe away one that was running down her nose but she resisted the urge. She also wanted to put her hands in front of her, to cover her bare boobs and pussy but Mr Wilmot of course didn’t want that. He wanted a nice good view of everything. She made an affirmative sound to Mr Wilmot’s question.
‘You really are a lovely girl Charlotte. What sort of discipline does Mr Finleigh give you? I know he’s got a nice whippy cane. Does he use that… a lot?’
Charlotte swallowed. Mr Wilmot was staring at everything of course. Her boobs, her pussy. Her nipples were sticking out. She wished they weren’t but she couldn’t stop them. It was getting all wet… and also what Mr Wilmot had just done.
‘Uh… yes… Quite a bit.’ She smiled nervously thinking of Mr Finleigh’s cane. Oh Jesus.
‘Turn round dear.’ Mr Wilmot evidently prepared to forgo gazing any further at Charlotte’s front. For the moment at least. ‘And come… a bit closer…’
Charlotte shuffled back. until she was very close. Her ripe bare bottom very close to Mr Wilmot. His hand took hold. Jiggling a cheek. Charlotte shivered.
‘Had it… today dear? On this truly splendid part of you. Have you had Mr Finleigh’s cane on it?’
‘N… No…’ There had been two bare-bottom spankings but not the cane, not today. Yesterday she had. Up in her room after the sunbathing session. Nude over the side of her bed. Four breath-stopping strokes. Not for any particular reason other than Mr Finleigh thought she was due for a caning. But not today. Today there had just been the spankings… and that other.
Mr Wilmot behind her, gently jiggling the right cheek of Charlotte’s bottom, said, ‘I’ve got a cane you know Charlotte. Did you know that?’
‘No… ooo,’ she breathed.
‘Yes I have. Just like your Mr Finleigh. Actually it hasn’t seen any action for a little while. And a cane needs to see regular action.’
‘No!’ squealed out. ‘No please.’
‘Just ah… open your legs a little Charlotte dear.’
Obediently shuffling her feet apart. Please not the cane. ‘That’s better.’ Mr Wilmot’s hand… ‘Yes it does Charlotte. Need a spot of action. Are you sure… you wouldn’t like it…?’
‘No please!’ Mr Wilmot was stroking her. No knickers now, her bare pussy. His fingers along the oh-so-sensitive moist lips. Charlotte’s knees were getting rubbery. With the thought of the cane plus what that hand was doing. In spite of everything she was getting wet and it wasn’t rain this time. Charlotte’s hips and bottom started rolling.
‘I do… do… don’t want…’ she stuttered.
Mr Wilmot took his hand away and stood up. A brisk smack to her bottom and then handing her a towel. ‘Dry yourself my dear. Your hair’s still wet — and anything else that seems to need it.’
Charlotte rubbed at her wet head, relieved not to be standing still (or trying to stand still) with Mr Wilmot’s hand between her legs. She wasn’t going to be caned was she?
‘We could have gone out in the garden but I don’t think so in this rain. So we’ll go in the bedroom.’ Mr Wilmot was watching the jelly-like motion of Charlotte’s tits as she rubbed at her hair. ‘My little room that I keep for guests. Mr Finleigh said… you could stay the night if you wanted to. Or rather… if I wanted you to.’
His hands reached to palm Charlotte’s nude boobs. ‘What do you think Charlotte dear?’
I d… don’t want the cane…’ Mr Wilmot’s hands made her shiver again. He laughed. ‘Are you dry now? Everywhere?’
‘Y… Yes. Yes thanks.’
One hand came down, to Charlotte’s bush. ‘You were wet here. In here. A few moments ago. Are you sure…’
The fingers pushing in found she was still wet. Mr Wilmot laughed his little laugh again. ‘A hot girl Charlotte. Are you a hot girl?’
Charlotte squirmed. ‘No. No… ooo.’
In the bedroom Mr Wilmot said it again. ‘Are you a hot girl Charlotte? I think you might be.’
‘No! No really.’ She couldn’t help getting wet, not when Mr Wilmot did what he had done, his hand there. You couldn’t help it, it didn’t mean you were… hot. Not like Mr Wilmot meant. She wasn’t keen on doing it. Not at all. Although if she had to, well…
‘No,’ Charlotte said again. It was a cosy little bedroom with a cosy white-covered bed. She was here in this bedroom with Mr Wilmot. Nude.
‘Well if you’re not hot Charlotte… perhaps I should make you hot. Warm you up?’
‘No!’ she yelped. ‘No I… uh…’
‘I don’t know.’ Mr Wilmot shook his head. ‘You don’t seem to know if you’re hot or not.’
‘I… I’m… hot enough… Charlotte managed.
Mr Wilmot pulled her to him. Charlotte’s bare boobs flattened against his shirt front. Down below a hard bulge in Mr Wilmot’s trousers was firmly pressed against Charlotte’s bare belly. Mr Wilmot’s arms round her, one cupping a cheek of her bottom.
‘Hot enough eh?’
He let go of her. ‘I don’t know. I’d better give you a little test.’ Mr Wilmot was fetching a tall white stool and placing it by the foot of the bed. Then putting a pillow on the top.
‘Get up on the stool Charlotte. Kneel up with your hands on your head. We’ll see how hot you are.’
‘Look please…’ she protested but only got a sharp smack on her bottom. ‘Get up,’ Mr Wilmot repeated in a harder voice. So Charlotte scrambled up. In position as instructed she got another one, this time just about as hard as Arthur Wilmot could manage.
A bright red palm print appeared on the tender flesh. ‘Don’t move. Keep in position.’ Mr Wilmot’s hand splatted hard in again. ‘I’ve got to see… if you’re hot or not.’
Amid gasps and yelps about a dozen were delivered, each as hard as the last. Finally Mr Wilmot, breathing a bit heavily now from his exertions, said, ‘Right, That’s a start. And now the cane.’
‘No!’ Bottom now bright red all over Charlotte half fell off the stool. Picking herself up she grabbed Arthur Wilmot’s arm.
‘No! Please! I am now. Hot. Really hot.’ She swung round and got in close. Rubbing herself up against him. ‘I really am. Hot… for anything. Only don’t…’
‘Hot for anything?’ Mr Wilmot repeated. One arm had come round Charlotte’s waist; his other hand slid lightly over her hot bottom.
‘Yes.’ She squirmed herself against him. Squirming her hips against where the hard bulge had been. Charlotte could feel it hardening again.
‘Hot and… ah… wet?’ Mr Wilmot queried. ‘But a girl does need the cane. Even a hot girl. At reasonably frequent intervals. For discipline.’
Charlotte babbled that she was really hot. And also wet. And also she had had the cane yesterday so she was not in need of it now, today. She squirmed her hips in even harder. There was no doubt that Mr Wilmot was responding to her writhings. ‘Something else,’ she breathed. ‘You know. Because I really am… hot.’
Mr Wilmot did know. Well of course. And he said that if Charlotte really was that hot, without having the cane, and if anyway she had had it yesterday, well in that case…
What a relief! Because Charlotte didn’t mind doing it. In fact right now after having that hard spanking and with all the excitement and fear of having the cane, she actually felt like doing it. In the bed with Mr Wilmot (in because Charlotte had nothing on, no sandals this time to make marks on the sheets, and Mr Wilmot had taken his things off, or some of them, certainly his shoes) Charlotte thought: maybe I am hot, a hot girl. Sometimes at least.
Afterwards Mr Wilmot gave her a pair of pyjama bottoms to put on. ‘So you’ll be decent,’ he laughed. ‘I’ve got a couple of friends coming round later.’ But he only gave her the bottoms. not the top.
Later on Charlotte got some whacks with a clothes brush. Kneeling on the bed with her face down in the cover and the pink pyjama bottoms down round her ankles. It was in lieu of a caning tomorrow (because of course Mr Wilmot was having Charlotte stay overnight). Yes she would probably need a caning tomorrow he said.
The whacks with the back of the clothes brush hurt and made her yelp but it was not as bad as the cane. As for tomorrow, well, there was always the possibility that she could persuade him not to, Charlotte thought. She would worry about that tomorrow.
First of all there were these two friends of Mr Wilmot coming a bit later. Mr Wilmot had put on a clean shirt and a bow tie but Charlotte was just going to be wearing the pink pyjama bottoms. He had told her that. She would be bringing in the drinks etc and generally entertaining the guests Mr Wilmot said.
What did that mean she wondered: entertaining? And were they going to be staying overnight as well?After the clothes brush whacking. which made her bottom smart all right, Charlotte, with the pyjama trousers pulled up again, went to look out of the window. It wasn’t seven o’clock yet but already it was getting dark. That rain was still falling.