From Blushes 55
Arlene looked idly at the shelves, the books. Mr Filchard had an awful lot of books. Or more accurately a lot of awful books she thought, picking out a title here and there and frowning as she did so. Nothing remotely readable, not what you’d enjoy reading. All dry as withered old bones. The books you’d expect a tutor to have in fact; probably Mr Filchard himself was like a withered old bone himself. Why did she have to be here? To have some of these awful old books drilled into her was the answer. English, French, Eng. Lit. Oh Christ. What she needed instead of that was to see Mark. Her boyfriend. See him and get some action. But her mother said…
Arlene turned, frowning still, sauntering over to the large window. Outside there was Mr Filchard’s garden bright in the afternoon sunshine.
Arnold Filchard observing her through a little spyhole made for this purpose at convenient eye level in one of his bookcases. Seeing but unseen. It was always most valuable, most instructive, to have an initial leisurely unseen observation of a young person sent to him. To observe her mood, her movements whilst she was unaware of being observed.
He had observed the frown, the look of perhaps discontent on the pretty face. A pretty face framed in shoulder-length fair hair. A quite tall girl, this Arlene Willett, in sleeveless top, jeans and high heels. Did they go with the look of discontent, the jeans? A girl might wish to indicate an intention of taking matters seriously, an intention of working in fact, by wearing a dress. Whereas jeans… The jeans did show the shape of her bottom though. The jeans were tightly fitting and showed it very well. It was an extremely well-shaped bottom, emphasised by a slim waist. The well-defined cheeks swayed in a womanly manner as young Miss Willett was aware of the attractiveness of her bottom, and that it swayed more than was strictly necessary. Hmm. And that look of discontent, of boredom. Was he going to have his work cut out here?
His eyes were still on her bottom. She should have worn a dress, it would have shown more respect, more good intention. But he didn’t really object. He certainly liked the look of her bottom, and the rest of her too. As for the jeans, well, jeans could be taken down, taken off. Just as a dress could be lifted. Oh yes, there was no problem with jeans. And from that look on her face, and the rather insolent, sexy sway of her hips (accentuated no doubt by the high heels) Arnold Richard thought it highly likely that Miss Arlene Willett’s jeans would have to come down, come right off indeed, quite early in the proceedings.
Yes. Arnold turned away from his little spyhole. Time to go in and greet his new charge. Time to get to grips. Figuratively speaking of course, for the moment. Not get to physical grips right away. Not actual physical contact with bared bottom-flesh today. No but quite possibly tomorrow. Yes, he’d very likely need to tomorrow.
Arlene turned as she heard the door open. He had been keeping her waiting in here and she had thought of pretending not to hear when he did finally come, and continuing to look out of the window. But curiosity and also caution prevailed: well, Mr Filchard might be a silly old fart but it would be wise nonetheless not to get off on the wrong foot.
‘Hello my dear. Arlene yes? I’m sorry I’ve kept you waiting a few moments.’
Arlene produced a tight little smile. It had been more like ten minutes. Her appraising blue eyes took him in. Mr Filchard did look like something of an old fart with glasses, a chunky moustache and thin greying hair. Quite a big man, though, in his tutorish outfit of linen jacket and tie and crumpled grey trousers.
He was going on, about what her mother had said she wanted, the subjects Arlene needed to improve (and improve considerably) to get into college. But of course Arlene wasn’t bothered about getting into college, presumably Mr Richard didn’t know that. If she did she wouldn’t be able to see Mark for weeks on end. And that was much more important than going to a silly college.
Arlene’s mind flitted to Mark now as Mr Filchard wittered on about the boring old books they’d have to study. Hopefully she’d see Mark tonight. And then… She had recently started doing it with Mark, doing it for the first time, and it was really fantastic. A feeling out of this world. A feeling impossible to believe unless you had done it. Mark’s big stiff thing. Stroking it in her hand. And then having it slide up into her. Even though it was so big it went in and right up. A fantastic feeling, almost as if you were going out of your mind.
Of course her mother didn’t know they’d started doing it. Her mother would probably kill her — or try to —if she knew. She didn’t want to know that at 18 you had the feelings of a woman. She just thought you wanted dry books and a silly college and then ‘a good job darling, a really good job.’ Certainly she didn’t think that her dear daughter wanted sex, would like it every night if she could get it. With darling Mark. Tonight…
‘Wha… What? Uh sorry…’
Mr Filchard gave a little laugh. ‘Do we seem to have a small problem with daydreaming my dear? That perhaps is something we shall have to work on. Or I shall have to work on. I was merely referring to your choice of attire. The jeans. They are very attractive of course, very becoming. But… you didn’t think a dress might be more suitable? For the tutorial atmosphere. For the… ah… discipline of study?’
Arlene had wrenched her head with some effort from hot thoughts of Mark’s erect penis. What was silly Mr Filchard saying: she shouldn’t be wearing jeans? She fluttered her eyelashes, and shifted her weight — the firm twin fruit of her buttocks from one high heel to the other.
‘I uh… thought they’d be OK.’
Arlene’s tone could be seen as somewhat insolent. As indeed could her stance, the whole attitude of her ripe young body in the tight jeans and high heels, not to mention the tightish top which outlined firm high boobs. Through Arnold Filchard’s head went the thought that perhaps he should take the jeans down right away and not wait until tomorrow or whenever. It was rather clear that this particular young lady was going to need what was known as a short sharp shock. Which was indeed what her mother had indicated.
‘You did eh? Turn round please. Let me have a better look.’
Arlene hesitated and then with a swing of her hips did so. Standing straight, her weight sitting equally on both legs. Giving Mr Filchard a square-on view of her enticing bottom. She knew men liked to look at her bottom, their heads turning as she walked by. Older ones as well as dishy young ones like Mark. Older ones who were no doubt Dirty Old Men dreaming of getting at her. Was Mr Filchard a DOM? She gave her bottom-cheeks a little wriggle.
‘Yes I see Miss. Most attractive. You have a lovely shape and the jeans do fit it perfectly. I suppose that is why you wear them? To show it off. Much better than a dress.’
Arlene didn’t quite know what to answer. Was he taking the mickey?’
‘But now what I am going to suggest, Arlene, is that you take them down. Right now. We are going to have a very early lesson in discipline. I can somehow sense that you are in need of it. And as you do like to show your bottom off… well what better way is there than with your jeans and knickers down? Indeed right off.’
At first Arlene thought Mr Filchard was trying to be funny. Well he couldn’t be serious. But he was. He meant it. And when she exploded in a little unbelieving outburst Mr Filchard came on all hard, his voice hard and gritty in contrast to his sweet-talking tones up till now. But it wasn’t just his voice, it was what he was saying. In the first place about what her mother was supposed to have said: that he had to be firm with her, would have to if he was going to get anywhere. And in the second place… about Mark.
Mr Filchard knew about Mark. Not just knew about him, he knew all about him. Her mother it seemed had told Mr Filchard that Arlene had a boyfriend, an undesirable boyfriend. Called Mark Rexford. But her mother didn’t know what Mr Filchard knew: that she was screwing Mark. ‘Engaging in regular sexual intercourse,’ was how Mr Filchard, now resuming his sugar-sweet tones, put it. Arlene felt herself break out in a cold sweat. And then felt an icy hand turn in her tummy as Mr Filchard went on: if her mother learnt of this he was quite sure what she would do, and indeed he would advise it. Arlene would be sent away, to stay with a distant aunt. Mark would be warned off, scared off. And Arlene wouldn’t see him any more.
‘How would you like that Arlene dear?’ Mr Filchard asked in his softest tones. ‘Your hot little affair nipped in the bud. Kaput. Finished. Just like that?’
Arlene didn’t answer. Half of her mind was contemplating this shock, impossible prospect. The other half of her mind was contemplating a new fact: that Mr Filchard had placed his hand on her bottom. The hand was cupping one tightly-jeaned marvellously-shaped cheek. One of those cheeks that, she knew, men dreamed of getting their hands on.
As regards the hand her immediate thought was to squirm sharply away, push it angrily off, as you would if a man on the bus, say, tried that sort of thing. But in the circumstances Arlene decided to forget about the hand. The other thing was of much greater consequence. This other shock horror matter.
‘I uh I don’t… No. I don’t do… any of that.’
The hand at her bottom took a distinctly firmer grip. ‘Don’t bother me with the little fibs Miss. Not unless you want me to fetch my cane. My information which I know to be perfectly reliable is that that young man has it up you, if you will excuse the phrase, most evenings. Right under the nose of your poor mother who is striving so hard to keep you on the straight and narrow path. So no lies please. Just… do what I say. This instant. Or I shall fetch the cane and give you six on this hot little backside with it stretched over the arm of the chair.’
Arlene made a whimpering sound but didn’t answer. Mr Filchard spoke with such an air of confidence and authority that she couldn’t doubt that he did know, also that he would do the awful things that he threatened. His hand had a final squeeze — or grope to be more accurate — of her bottom, then came away. Arlene let out another distressed whimper. As her hands went to the waistband of her jeans.
Mr Filchard had got his information from Mark. Mark had told him. Arlene learnt this further shock fact from Mark that evening, a very reluctant confession. Mark! How could he!
Earlier, before she left at the end of that first ultra-shock tutorial session, Mr Filchard had told Arlene that although he could ban her from seeing Mark any more he wouldn’t for the time being.
‘I am aware, Arlene,’ he pronounced unctuously ‘that once a girl of your age has started sexual intercourse it can become something of a craving and somewhat unsettling if she is made to cease abruptly. It is all to do with her hormones of course. And I imagine your hormones Arlene, doing it almost every evening as you are, have become most active.’
What could you say to something like that? What could a girl reply? Especially if she was clothed in only her top and a pair of white high heel shoes. There was no answer was the answer.
‘So I shall allow the relationship to continue for the moment. I shall allow you to see him, shall we say twice per week? Although I hate to be a party to this deceit of your charming mother.’ Mr Filchard shook his head sadly. ‘Really I don’t know why you haven’t been able to follow her guidance. I am quite sure she herself would never have dreamt of indulging at your age, or indeed before marriage to your father. Just as I am quite sure your delightful mother does not now open her legs for anyone except your father. No.’
Arnold Filchard had given the trembling, half-nude Arlene standing before him an owlish look. Mrs Willett was indeed a most attractive woman. With as he vividly recalled in particular a ripe well-fleshed body. Did she keep it all for her husband? Those marvellous thighs he had eyed beneath her tight skirt. Were they ever parted on the q.t. as it were? Could it be like daughter like mother? With this stimulating thought Arnold Filchard had taken the daughter once more across his crumpled-trousered thighs.
Yes the traitorous Mark had told Mr Filchard. ‘I couldn’t help it,’ Mark told her shame-facedly. ‘He made me. He threatened me. He said if I didn’t admit it… And anyway he seemed to know. Though I suppose he was just guessing.’
Arlene and Mark were in Mark’s friend Simon’s flat. It was here that they did most of their fucking, a really cosy and convenient pad that Simon let them use when he was out and if he was in, well, they could use the spare bedroom anyway. But Arlene and Mark weren’t fucking this evening. Arlene’s head was too full of her shock meeting with Mr Filchard. And Mark too had apprehensive thoughts about that same gentleman — as a result of his own recent and not at all pleasant encounter with him.
‘Oh Jesus!’ was Arlene’s response when Mark finally admitted it. ‘Why did you! Of course he was only guessing.’
‘I told you,’ Mark answered grimly. ‘He threatened me. He was going to go to my boss. I had to come clean. Anyway how did you get on? Is he… OK?’
Arlene was not about to tell Mark what horrors she had undergone in that first, unbelievable session with Mr Filchard. That he had made her take her jeans and, knickers off. And then got her over his lap and soundly spanked her bare bottom. Twice! And not only that. He had felt her cunt. Made her open her legs and… it made Arlene sweat just to think about it. He said he was checking. Because of what she was doing with Mark. Checking that everything was OK. Mr Filchard was a Dirty Old Man, there was not much doubt about that. But… what could she do? Nothing, was the answer.
‘Awful!’ she blurted in heartfelt tones. It was bloody awful.’ But no, she wasn’t going into details.
The next afternoon, Tuesday, Arlene wore a dress to Mr Filchard’s. Hopefully it would avoid some at least of the awfulness of the preceding afternoon. It was a pretty blue, full-skirted dress and she wore her white high heels again. Well he had said she should look smart. No tights or nylons, bare legs. Arlene wasn’t sure about this but it was a warm afternoon.
‘Why not the sexy jeans?’ Mr Filchard greeted her with. He chuckled. ‘I suppose you thought if you didn’t wear them I couldn’t take them off, is that it?’
That was exactly it. Arlene flushed and muttered something. Mr Filchard chuckled again. ‘But I can take your knickers off, can’t I? In case we need them off. For disciplinary reasons. So would you like to do that please? Slip your knickers off.’
It was the same as yesterday — she didn’t have any choice. Red-faced Arlene took her knickers off. Mr Filchard slid his hand up her skirt to her bottom. Stroking and squeezing it.
‘I suppose we may have to give this some more action. Do you think?’
Arlene didn’t have any answer. He turned her round, with that one hand still up her skirt. She was facing him and the hand… took hold of her cunt.
Do it last night did you young lady? You and that boyfriend?’
The hand squeezed what it was cupping. ‘I reckon you did. I’m sure you did.’
They had, and Arlene sensed there was no point in denying it. He would force it out of her. They had done it later on, after the arguments about Mark telling Mr Filchard. They had done it because they both wanted to. They always wanted to but last night, eventually, with what had happened they wanted to even more, were both desperate for it. Afterwards Arlene told Mark: ‘He’s only going to let me see you twice a week. That’s what he said.’
On Wednesday Mr Filchard changed his mind. He didn’t think seeing Mark twice a week was a good idea after all. Arlene’s work was bad, she wasn’t concentrating. So he thought a complete break was the thing. Arlene had better ring Mark up at work and tell him right away.
‘No!’ she gasped. Mr Filchard said yes. Right away. Or he’d get his cane out, did she want that?
Arlene started whimpering, making sobbing sounds. She was in her jeans again today, Mr Filchard had said yesterday he thought he’d like the jeans again today. ‘I like making you take them off,’ he had laughed. At the moment Arlene still had the jeans on.
‘Pick up that phone,’ he told her grimly. ‘This instant. And phone him.’ Half-sobbing she did it: Mr Filchard standing close listening as in a choked voice she told Mark. She wasn’t going to be able to see him. ‘Tell him perhaps in a month’s time,’ Mr Filchard ordered. ‘We’ll see how your work goes.’
‘Good,’ he said when, in a half-blubbing voice, she had done it. ‘That’s a good girl. Now stand up. And take your jeans and knickers off. Come on, nice and smartish.’
Arlene obeyed, blinking away the tears. A month. Maybe a month he said. A month is not forever. But it can seem like forever. Not seeing Mark and also… not doing it. With this awful business, Mr Filchard, she’ll be going out of her mind if she can’t see Mark and she can’t do it.
‘That’s lovely.’ Mr Filchard eyed Arlene approvingly. She had taken her jeans and knickers off and put the high heels back on. ‘I do like you like that with your bottom nice and ready for a little warming up. Now come here. Over my lap. You are going to have to work a lot harder my girl.’
Arnold Filchard stroked Arlene’s bare bottom as she lay face-down across his thighs.
‘Yes we’ll try a month,’ he said. ‘A four-week period of abstinence. I think that should concentrate your mind. Not having it for a month. Not having that randy young man at you. Yes. But if you don’t show significant improvement… it will be longer. As long as it takes. Is that understood?’
Arnold Filchard gave his little laugh. ‘That’s the bottom line.’Arlene made a despairing groaning sound. Mr Filchard commenced to spank her. Hard, crisp splats of his large hand.