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Friday, 12 April 2019

Sally on the Showground

From Blushes 45
A very smackable young bottom in a very tight pair of shorts. It belonged to a girl called Sally, and she was presently occupied, standing upon a bale of hay, posing for passing photographers. Her tits were very presentable, too. Firm and rounded, and only just held in control by her thin tee-shirt, tied casually around her midriff. The weather was set fair. The punters were queuing at the entrance gates. The Annual Claytor Fayre was open for business.
Young Rick called across the field to her. ‘Hey, Sally? You’re wanted.’ She smiled at the young — and not so young — men who were entertained by her pretty presence and skipped back to the tent. A firm male hand landed a sound slap across the seat of her tight shorts. ‘What do you think you’re doing? A sideshow of your own?’ The hand slapped again, this time across the back of one bare fleshy thigh. ‘You behave yourself, young lady, or you’ll be across my knee for lunchtime.’
She sulked, blushed a little, and walked back out to face the visitors. ‘Keep an eye on her,’ the old man told his young assistant. ‘She’s trouble, that one. And I’ll deal with her before she manages to ruin the business.’
Sally was a delightful sight. The young single men hovered around her stand, whilst the other men tried to lose their wives and children for a moment or two. A few months past her nineteenth birthday, there was something very provocative about Sally. She was pretty enough; and usually polite too. And she smiled, and served her customers with a pleasant and social manner. But there was more. At the back of the crowd which clustered about her demonstration, one old man put his finger on the matter — and wished he could apply not just one finger, but his entire hand!
‘By God! That one needs her bottom smacked!’ Several other male onlookers found themselves nodding in unconscious agreement. Any girl who flaunted a bottom like hers, deserved to have it smacked. Deserved to have her little shorts taken down, and her knickers too, if she was wearing any; and needed her firm round bare bottom tanned until it was smarting crimson! The old man continued to watch her. He saw her flaunting her charms at the young men. Saw her tug at her tee-shirt so her tits were even more prominent. Saw her wriggle that bottom of hers. ‘Ten minutes in my hands,’ he whispered to himself feeling an itch upon the palm of his hand. ‘Ten minutes in my hands and I’d teach that young madam a few ground rules.’ He shook his head, and wandered on towards the next, eminently boring sideshow.
A few minutes before midday, young Sally was frog-marched into the back of the tent, one hand gripping the nape of her tee-shirt, the other firmly grasped around the back of her shorts, fingers intruding beneath her tight knickers. ‘I warned you, young lady.’
She began to shout abusively at him, but a sound slap across her thighs temporarily silenced her. The old man tipped the young girl face-down across his knee and began slapping her.
‘I’ll teach you, you young madam.’ He began tugging at her tight shorts, pulling them down, revealing her bottom cheeks. ‘Short-changing me, and short-changing the customers.’ The shorts came down, and her little white knickers too, tangled around her thighs, her pale bottom bared. His hand rested roughly against the curve of her bottom cheeks. ‘I’ll teach you, young lady.’
Outside, surrounded by the noise of the fairground organs, steam engines and tannoy speakers, the customers still clustered around the stand, happily oblivious of the lesson in discipline being handed out behind the heavy canvas.
As he slapped her, the girl bucked and kicked, and squealed and swore, tossing her head from side to side, wriggling away from his grasp. But not until every cheeky bare inch of Sally’s bottom had been smacked into crimson submission, did the old man relax. ‘Now get back to work,’ he muttered, aiming one final slap at her rump as she struggled to pull up her knickers and shorts. ‘One more problem from you, young lady… and look out.’
The sun was setting, a deep red in a misty blue sky. The last visitor had filed out of the showground towards the distant car parks. For the exhibitors, it was time to tidy up, relax and prepare for the second day of events. A tiring time; but a prosperous time too, and one which kept many showground families in food and clothing for the remainder of the year. There was a whisper on the site. A special showing. The old families knew the code. At the back of Joe Lewis’s stand. Old Man Evans would be there, too, so said the gossip. At sun-down. The families nodded. They would be welcome observers. But first came the tidying up, and the battening down in case of overnight rain.
As the sun finally slipped below the distant hills, the families gathered quietly at the corner of the showground behind Joe’s tent. They sat, old men and old women, on the dry grass, in a quiet semi-circle. The murmur of expectancy diminished into a respectable hush as young Rick pulled on the rope and raised the back of the tent. Behind the canvas, facing the audience, was old Joe. ‘Two young miscreants, tonight,’ he announced to the assembled gathering. ‘Sally, here, has already had her bottom smacked, but deserves a great deal more…’
The girl blushed, looking suitably embarrassed. She tried to look away from the audience, knowing that each and every one of them knew her. Many had known her since her cradle days. Not a few had seen her chastised before. And some of the men had actually applied a hand or more to her cheeky rump in times past.
‘And young Christine here has been particularly disobedient, so I’m told.’ A pretty blonde, in shorts and tee-shirt, was pushed into view. ‘Jim Evans has asked me to deal with her…’
The little audience of showground folk clapped quietly and appreciatively, and waited for the pronouncement.
‘For risking the reputation of the people of the fairs. For risking the reputation of the great names of the showgrounds. For attempting to deceive the members of our public…’ There was a silence in the field. ‘Six strokes of the cane apiece…’ Another polite round of applause.
And as darkness crept upon the field, the showground folk witnessed the age-old discipline of the land and the road. And two young miscreants promised never to misbehave again, and retired to their bunks with painful crimson tramlines across the bottoms.
Another day would pass. The sun would rise. The public would return. The lights would flash, the music would play. The girls would smile. And minute by minute, hour by hour, the old men would watch the behaviour of the younger generation. Perhaps tonight it would be Bill Sawyer’s tent. Or Fred Jones. And two more girls or more — would be stripped naked for punishment. Perhaps it would be the cane. Or the strap. Or a leather belt. Or something a little more imaginative.
Two lovers were walking along the lane by the side of the camp. They could see the glimmer of hurricane lamps and the murmur of people. And an urgent crack of something very painful hitting something very soft and vulnerable. ‘What on earth’s going on?’ asked the girl. Her boyfriend gave her bottom a quick squeeze. ‘Never you mind,’ he whispered. ‘These travelling folk have strange habits, you know.’ He gave the girl’s bottom a second tweak. ‘And what do you need tonight?’ he asked her, promising himself that he would get his hands on her bottom tonight, and thanking himself that he was not one of those uneducated folk in the tents across the way.

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