From New Blushes 2.23
As Jane stubbed out the cigarette carefully on a wooden post, she tucked the butt-end into her jacket pocket to hide the evidence. It was only then that she heard the slight rustle of another presence in the stall as feet disturbed the thick lining of straw.
‘You know the rules about smoking in the stables, Jane,’ came a voice out of the gloom, ‘and the penalty for it.’ Jane peered into the darkness, trying to identify the owner of the voice: ‘Who the hell’s that?’
The head lad stepped out of the shadows and moved down the row of stalls towards the girl. ‘And in my opinion, you would benefit considerably from a sound thrashing.’
‘A thrashing, Mr Greaves?’ Jane’s voice rose nervously as she realised she had been caught out at last. All those surreptitious gaspers she had snatched behind the barn, in the barn, in the tack room, in the stables themselves, and she’d never been caught. In six months as a trainee stable girl, she’d worked hard and managed to stay out of trouble. Until now. Greaves had been waiting for an opportunity like this. The haughty tall youngster had irritated him from the start, thinking herself a cut above the other girls and lads who also worked at the stables. Now there would be a chance to bring her down a peg or two and enjoy her discomfort at the same time.
Jane’s mother had been keen that she should come to Red Lodge, as they treated their staff well and had a high reputation with the racing fraternity. Just out of school at 18, Jane was a bright girl who saw Red Lodge as a stepping stone to greater things. Which might account for her apparently aloof attitude: an attitude which had already caused Greaves to mark her down for special attention. The problem, of course, was that Jane’s work was faultless. Always perfectly turned out — as she was now, in spotless cream jodhpurs and hacking jacket, the white blouse neatly pressed, the boots well-polished — she was a source of inspiration to the other girls, and a source of attraction to the stable lads.
Up to now, none of them had managed to get close to her, let alone take her out. Only young Derek had dared snatch a kiss, for which he’d been rewarded with a sharp slap across the face, an encounter he wasn’t about to forget. The incident had brought down the derision of his friends on him, in a gently mocking way, and Derek was always looking for ways in which he could get back at Jane. Telling old Greaves about ‘someone’ smoking in the stables was a neat way of obtaining revenge.
‘You were smoking, Jane, I saw you,’ Greaves went on, ‘show me the fag-end would you please?’ Jane’s hand went automatically for her jacket pocket and she pulled out the remains of the cigarette and held it out. He took it from her and smiled. ‘Well, well, so you’re not quite perfect, are you?’ She said nothing, just staring at the evidence in his hand and wishing she were somewhere else. Anywhere else. But she was here. ‘I’ll have to report this, of course. Mr Boughton will not be pleased. Smoking he disapproves of. Smoking in the stables, where the fire hazard is considerable and you put at risk thousands of pounds worth of racing animals, he looks on very seriously indeed. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was two visits to the study for you, my girl.’ Greaves smiled tapping the riding crop slowly against his boot. Derek, standing just around the corner of the stables, smiled too. Jane knew about visits to the study. Other girls had told her about the beatings meted out there to stable lads and girls in equal measure. The strap and the cane were commonly used at Red Lodge, the owner believing in the effectiveness of corporal punishment as a deterrent.
‘Two visits, Mr Greaves?’ she heard herself ask.
‘Uh-huh. Two doses of six of the best, I wouldn’t be surprised. Bare arse, of course. To make sure you get the full benefit.’
‘Do you have to report me to Mr Boughton, Mr Greaves. I mean, it is my first offence, and everything…’ Jane began.
‘No, I don’t have to report you. I might decide to deal with you myself, right here and now, as Mr Boughton’s away for three days.’ Jane’s jaw dropped as she caught what he had said. The idea of a beating from this self-important little man was something she found even less appealing than being punished by Mr Boughton on his return. Outside, Derek’s grin widened as he realised what old Greaves was up to.
All Jane’s brain could manage was a weak ‘Ooohh.’ She shifted her feet awkwardly as Mr Greaves looked her up and down.
She was a good-looking girl, tall, slim, with breasts a little heavy and bottom rather plump for her frame, a fact which could not go unnoticed in her skin-tight jodhpurs. He decided to take a risk and exceed his authority with this attractive little minx: if old Boughton found out, there would be hell to pay. But even if there was a risk, it was one he would enjoy to the full.
‘Been up to the study before, have you Jane?’ he asked, knowing full well she had never had cause to be called up to the house for punishment.
‘No, Mr Greaves.’
‘Know what happens up there to those who step out of line, do you?’
‘Well, they get their backsides tanned with a strap or the cane.’
‘Quite right. Ever get them at school, did you?’
‘No, Mr Greaves, they didn’t use corporal punishment at my school.’
‘More’s the pity, my girl, because you’re about to get your first dose of it here. Get off to the tack room and wait for me there. Put a saddle on the trestle for me, would you.’
Jane nodded and shuffled out of the stall and across the yard to the tack room on the far side of the stables. This was the moment she’d been dreading. And to get it off grubby Greaves instead of Mr Boughton, who at least wasn’t common like the head lad. Derek sidled round the stable block and trotted on the grass round to the back of the tack room, where an open window afforded him a restricted view of the interior. He could see Jane placing a saddle on the trestle before looking round nervously at the approaching footsteps of Mr Greaves. Derek was glad his view wasn’t obscured, but it was a pity he couldn’t let the other lads know in time. They’d all get a kick out of snooty-boots getting it.
Jane noticed with alarm that Mr Greaves had changed his own crop for a longer one of split and twisted cane with a silver handle, the wood plaited skilfully to make a particularly whippy crop, the fold of leather at the end making it seem spectacularly long.
‘You’re not going to use that, Mr Greaves?’ she asked in a high, nervous croak.
He pretended not to have heard: ‘Get your jacket off, Jane, and stand by the trestle: this thrashing is long overdue.’
Jane shook her jacket off her shoulders and hung it carefully on a hook on the wall before crossing to the trestle as she had been told. The jodhpurs emphasised the slimness of her legs and the swell of hips and buttocks above them. Greaves eyed up the target area appreciatively, as the muscles tensed and relaxed.
‘Let’s have those jodhpurs down now,’ as the crop whistled through the air in a practice arc, causing Jane to flinch involuntarily. She fiddled at the waistband for a moment, and the tight material was shortly being pushed down her thighs to rest at her knees. ‘Tuck that shirt up, girl,’ he ordered, and Jane rolled the shirt up high above her waist, revealing the snug-fitting white cotton knickers she always wore. Marks and Spencer would be providing no protection today, she thought. There was an awkward pause as the teenager stood there waiting for the order to bend over the saddle, Greaves toying with the idea of whipping her bare. Ah well, he thought, in for a penny. ‘Take your knickers down and bend over the trestle,’ he ordered grumpily.
There was not a moment’s hesitation and Jane’s fingers hooked into the waist of her knickers and hitched them slowly, oh so slowly, down the full swell of both cheeks, past the crease between thigh and buttock, down the smooth curve of her legs to rest with her jodhpurs at her knees. The girl was now entirely bare from midway down her back to her knees, the rounded protuberances softly tensing as she moved position to bend over, the light tan of sunbathing emphasising the target area where the bikini had preserved the pale cream flesh.
‘How many am I going to get, Mr Greaves?’ Jane asked, looking over her shoulder.
Two more for asking,’ he grunted.
Jane bent without further delay and wiggled over the saddle until she was comfortably lying across it, her hands spread to grip the legs of the trestle, her legs straight behind her.
‘How old are you, Jane?’
‘Er, eighteen, Mr Greaves.’
‘And never been tanned eh! We’ll have to make up for that omission, won’t we now?’ Jane didn’t respond.
Outside the window, Derek made furtive adjustments in his trousers as he manoeuvred himself into a slightly better position. Jane certainly had a terrific arse, full and well-fleshed despite her bent position.
‘I said, won’t we now, Jane?’
She just wished he’d get it over with. The waiting was agonising, the embarrassment excruciating. She felt a light slap on her right cheek as Greaves tapped her with the palm of his hand. ‘You’ll not be smoking in the stables again, will you, my girl, not after this little lesson?’
‘No, Mr Greaves.’ There was the smallest tingle as he unfastened the buckle of his belt, and from her upside-down position Jane could see him pull it through the loops and double it over. It disappeared from view and a moment later Jane experienced the blazing impact of leather on bare flesh. The crack of its arrival surprised even Greaves, who let it fall to his side while he waited for the red welt to grow on her bottom.
He laid the leather across the cheeks again to measure the swing, brought it up and applied it harder still in a swooshing arc to extract a gasp of pain from the girl: ‘Owwwoooohhh!’
Four more times the belt rose and fell, the exclamations from the bent figure rising in pitch with each stroke. There was a long pause, and Jane could see Mr Greaves feeding the object of her discomfort back through the loops in his trousers. She shifted position slightly, and took a new grip on the trestle. The sweat on her forehead trickled into her eyes, and she shook her head, the droplets spinning off to each side. The short hair at the nape of her neck was damp with perspiration and clung to the skin. Derek’s eyes bulged as his breath came faster: Jane was really catching it in there, and he was the only one to witness her beating: the others would be furious.
‘Is that it, Mr Greaves, may I get up?’ asked Jane hesitantly, her buttocks tensing as she shifted slightly on the saddle, her legs parting as her boots scrabbled momentarily for a grip on the stone floor. The glimpse of those young secrets between her legs caused Greaves to walk over and stand beside her, running his hand over the welted flesh and slapping each cheek lightly.
‘No, Jane, there’s six more to come. Plus the two extra for asking how many you were going to get.’
No response, just a sigh from the girl. Greaves’ hand went between her thighs and roughly pulled them apart as far as the taut fabric of knickers and jodhpurs round her knees would allow. He grasped her hips and hoisted her a little further over the saddle, his hands sliding up and lifting her blouse higher, higher, to her shoulder blades, until the twin globes tumbled free with a protesting: ‘Oh, Mr Greaves!’
He walked to the other side of the trestle and Jane looked up at him, totally exposed now and anxious for the second part of her punishment to be over. Idly, Greaves stroked the bare breasts with the tip of the riding crop.
‘Eight more, Jane: ready for them, are you?’
‘Yes, Mr Greaves, just please get it over with.’
He beat the girl’s bare cheeks slowly and hard, the crop raising rapidly purpling welts across both buttocks, the lines building as Jane’s yelps and little screams built in pitch and volume. Derek’s view was slightly obscured by Greaves shoulder, but he could see the damage inflicted on the teenagers rear-end when Greaves swung the crop up for the next stroke. Greaves was thrashing the girl harder than she would ever have been punished by Mr Boughton. If he had walked in now, Boughton would have gone berserk and Greaves would be out of a job. Interesting thought, that.
When there was a crunch of car tyres on gravel at the side of the stable block, Derek thought he must be psychic. He clambered down from his vantage point: Greaves had paused after the fourth stroke to adjust Jane’s position to his satisfaction in any case. Sidling round the block, Derek caught sight of Mr Boughton walking with two young ladies towards the paddock. One of them, a pretty little thing, turned and saw Derek.
‘There’s someone there, Mr Boughton,’ she pointed, and Boughton swung round towards Derek: ‘Ah, Derek. Don’t look so surprised to see me: flew back early. Is Mr Greaves about this afternoon?’
‘Er, er, well, I’ve…’ Derek mumbled, then as his brain got into gear: ‘He’s in the tack room, sir.’
‘Ah, thanks Derek: this way, girls. Derek could just hear the subdued cries of poor Jane as Greaves started whipping her again, and a sudden roar of rage as Mr Boughton strode into the tack room to see his head-lad flogging one of his teenage employees without authority.
Less than thirty seconds later, Boughton was escorting Greaves across the yard to his car, giving him the full benefit of his tongue: ‘And I think after this dreadful incident, Greaves, we won’t be seeing one another again: you’re fired. I want you out of that cottage by six o’clock tomorrow morning. Understood? And if that girl doesn’t sue for assault you’re a very lucky man. You swine.’ (This from the man who routinely thrashed his stable girls and lads).
Derek walked into the tack room to find the two strangers consoling a sobbing Jane, her jodhpurs still round her knees, her knickers being eased over her throbbing backside by one of the other girls.
‘Oh Derek, that man is an evil sod,’ Jane gasped. ‘He made me undress almost. I should have refused, but I was scared. And then he whipped me, bare backside and all.’
‘I don’t think we’ll be seeing him again, Jane, so don’t worry. Are you going to be all right?’
‘Providing she sleeps on her tummy, the worst of it should be over in a few days, but it’s going to be a bit uncomfortable,’ one of the girls said, ‘when we had that caning at college, didn’t it Debs?’ The other agreed.
Derek looked alarmed: ‘Caned?’ he blurted.‘Yeah, don’t tell me you’ve never had it,’ the girl sniggered. ‘We’ll have to put that right, won’t we Debs?’ and they both roared with laughter, raising a smile even from Jane.