From New Blushes 2.23, also published as High Flying Takeover in Uniform Girls 25. Do you remember when BA took over British Caledonian in 1987…?
There had been rumours of job losses, of course. It was to be expected. But little had Amanda thought that the takeover of her airline by the giant of the industry allegedly the world’s favourite airline — could result in her being threatened with what the new manager had quaintly termed ‘a little old-fashioned discipline’.
She smiled uncertainly at him. He returned the smile. But there was no warmth. More like a lizard, she thought. If a lizard could smile.
The problem, Amanda, as I see it,’ he glanced at the thin folder before him. ‘Is that there are only a certain number of jobs available, and far too many cabin staff to fill them.’ Amanda bit her lip.
‘And the notes here say that you are: One, overweight. Two, frequently wear unauthorised uniform items — like that skirt today, which is far too short for work. And three, you are often insubordinate to superior members of cabin staff and management.
‘Well, I suppose some of that is true, but…’
Is it true or isn’t it?’ A pause, heavily silent.
‘Yes, it is. But I’ll shape up if you’ll let me stay Mr Burgess, really I will.’
‘How did I know you’d say that?’
‘No, really, I will,’ Amanda protested.
‘If you’ll forgive me for saying so, young lady, what you need is a bloody good hiding… a little old-fashioned discipline.’
So it was that Amanda was back in Mr Burgess’s office long after the remainder of the staff had gone home. Direct from her Rome flight, she parked outside the darkened building and smiled at the security guard at the desk. ‘You’re late, my dear. Have to sign in. Who are you seeing?’
‘Mr Burgess, personnel.’
‘Ah yes, third floor, turn left out of the lift, down the end of the corridor. Name on the door.’
She fancied that he’d half-smiled when she’d mentioned Burgess’s name, but she must have been mistaken.
The lift door opened, and a statuesque brunette stalked out, looking at the floor.
‘Third floor, you said,’ called Amanda over her shoulder to the security man, now engrossed in Dallas on his portable.
‘That’s the one!’
Mr Burgess was distinctly cool, the room stiflingly hot. The conversation was stilted.
‘I’ve decided to give you an opportunity to redeem yourself, Amanda, but you must first demonstrate that you are willing to submit to authority, and to be punished for your misdemeanours.
‘What, er, punishment, exactly? It’s all on this form, which I want you to sign.’
Amanda began to scan the single sheet of paper, which was headed with her name and personnel number, followed by her address and age.
Close typed, it was filled with phrases such as ‘in due consideration of company disciplinary infringements’ and details of her offences. The crunch came at the end. After a lot of waffle about ‘of my own free will and with my full agreement’ there were two handwritten lines which followed the revealing phrase ‘such corporal punishment to be administered to my bare buttocks and to consist of…’ Amanda gulped as she saw Mr Burgess had filled in ‘Hand spanking, followed by 50 strokes of the leather strap’.
‘Fifty strokes?’ her voice squeaked. ‘You can’t mean it?’
‘Read on,’ he suggested. Amanda’s eyes swiftly absorbed the useful information that the full punishment could be spread over six weeks, with the strokes split equally between each punishment appointment. Subsequent punishments would be administered at Mr Burgess’s home outside Crawley.
‘But fifty strokes!’ she protested.
‘I can always make it a hundred, Amanda.’
‘You wouldn’t! You would, too. All right, all right, I’ll take the fifty. But over the six weeks please.’
‘You get the first dose tonight, which will be eight strokes, so that’s another six sessions of seven strokes each. Agreed?’
Amanda nodded, and Mr Burgess smiled for the first time. ‘Then sign the disclaimer please.’
‘I don’t think it’s fair…’
‘I would have thought it is a small price to pay for a twelve-month guarantee of full employment. But after that it’s up to you.’
Amanda laid the paper on the table and scribbled her signature. It passed through her mind to question who had typed this document in the first place. Probably some poor, sore-bummed secretary similarly threatened with the sack or a simple, expedient option.
It was obvious, really. Kilt lifted, spotted white knickers hitched up between the cheeks, front edge of the desk firmly gripped, and bend over nothing to it. Until she felt his hand, rough on the smoothness of her now bare cheeks.
‘Your little weight problem does have the benefit of increasing the generosity of your proportions down here, Amanda, which is some consolation. He patted her bottom affectionately, and it quivered obligingly. ‘But no amount of padding will protect you from the whacking you’re going to get now.’
His hand rose and fell with monotonous regularity for the next ten minutes, each buttock-wobbling slap bringing a small yelp from the bending girl.
Downstairs, the security man was mysteriously absent from his post. The need to ‘do his rounds’ was suddenly pressing, as it did whenever he spotted a particularly attractive girl on her way to the third floor for a late-evening appointment… and this was his third ‘round’ tonight! The noise of Amanda’s spanking could be heard clearly as soon as the lift doors opened, the sharp slap of palm on buttock ringing down the corridor despite the closed door. That was the trouble with these new buildings. Soundproofing was abominable.
The silence came suddenly after the spanking tattoo. The guard smiled knowingly. Phase two was about to be put into action. Pass key into the adjacent office, chair moved under the fanlight window above the connecting door.
He was rewarded with the sight of Amanda’s flushed face, cap still in place but now askew, skirt dropped but knickers in evidence below her knees, as Mr Burgess fingered the strap and lectured her about the benefits of discipline. It was a lecture which didn’t particularly interest her. The only thing that mattered was getting it over with as swiftly as possible.
‘Lift your skirt, and get over the desk again,’ Mr Burgess ordered, swinging the strap through the air almost experimentally. ‘This is the first eight, and it’s going to hurt, so let’s have those hands behind your back.’
Gripping her wrists in his right hand, Mr Burgess swung the tawse up high and glanced up to the fanlight. He didn’t appear surprised to see the guard’s face smirking through the window, but jerked his head in an obvious order to the man. Security meant ensuring that the punishment was not disturbed, not indulging in a little voyeurism.
The first blow of the tawse brought Amanda’s knees sharply forward in reflex, taking her weight on her tummy and allowing the guard a tantalising glimpse of labial folds as she struggled to get back in position, squawking protest the meantime. Finally her feet touched the floor and the strap was raised once again. The guard appreciated the framing of Amanda’s ample bottom by the white suspenders, a sight which all but took his breath away. He pulled his face from the window with difficulty.
Back at his desk, he couldn’t resist a broad smile at the girl as she passed him five minutes later, the cold water splashed onto her face not reducing her red-eyed humiliation on the third floor. One more to go tonight, then it was lock-up time.
Half-an-hour passed, and still no stewardess appeared. Mr Burgess rang down: ‘Any sign of the Jennifer Longdon girl?’
‘No, Derek, she hasn’t turned up yet.’ The first-name familiarity born of their shared secret.
‘Well I can’t wait all night. If she comes, tell her to call me and make another appointment, would you?’
‘Right you are, I’ll see to it. If she turns up, of course.’
Almost an hour after Mr Burgess left the building, there was an urgent tapping on the glass door. The guard looked up from the television to see a uniformed stewardess standing there, crew bag over her shoulder.
‘Christ, I’m horrendously late for an appointment with Mr Burgess,’ she gasped, out of breath from running all the way from the terminal building.
’ls he still here?’
‘No, my dear, he’s had to go…’
‘Oh shit… my flight was delayed you see, and it was an important appointment…’
The guard smiled encouragingly: ‘I know.’
‘Yes… it’s Jennifer Longdon isn’t it?’
‘That’s right. But Mr Burgess…’
‘Yes, he asked me to deal with it,’ the guard smiled again.
The beauty of the girl made his mouth dry. Tall, nearly six feet, with a stunning figure and seemingly endless legs. The face, wide-eyed, pretty, was young… early twenties he would have said. If he played his cards very carefully…’
‘Er, well, I don’t think Mr Burgess would have asked anyone else to deal with this matter… it’s pretty confidential,’ she pattered on.
‘I know that, Miss Longdon. Have you brought the form?’
‘Yes, the form you had to sign, the disclaimer.’
‘Oh, so you do know, then. Yes, I’ve got it here.’
Unfolding the paper, his eyes widened as he saw that Jennifer Longdon was indeed due for an appointment with Mr Burgess a particularly painful one at that. And only 21 into the bargain. Sweet youth.
‘Hand spanking, followed by thirty strokes of the cane,’ the handwriting informed him. Jennifer had signed it, and filled in the request for the canings to be spread over three weeks.
‘That’s ten strokes each time, you know,’ exclaimed the guard.
‘I know, but I wanted to get it over with quickly, as I’ve got a holiday coming up soon.’
‘Oh, I see.’ He couldn’t take his eyes off her face, high cheek-boned, rather angular jaw, very pretty. ‘Follow me.’
Standing in the lift, his hands were clammy. He wondered if hers were clammy too, the nervous tension so tangible in that confined space. He followed the gentle sway of her hips as she walked in front of him to the end of the corridor.
‘It’s the spanking first, followed by your first dose of the cane. OK?’ She nodded.
‘Right, slip your jacket and skirt off… and your tights too, please. I’ll be back in a moment.’
A swift visit to the gents for some essential adjustments and a splash of cool water. This was crazy, incredibly risky. But what an opportunity!
She looked up as he returned, closing the door firmly behind him. Without a word, he pulled the upright chair round and sat on it, indicating his lap. Jennifer’s legs did indeed go on for ever, and were topped by the most beautifully sculpted bottom he had ever seen, perfect in its proportions, and clad only in brief white knickers which soared from crotch to hip.
She said nothing, just flicked her fingers into her knickers and whipped them down in one movement before lowering herself obediently over his lap, taking her weight on spread fingers. A brief glimpse of the dark triangle, and then those twin creamy mounds under his palm, the smooth thighs stretching away to the right.
It was an extended spanking, with much heavy breathing from both parties, and a satisfactory rosy glow imparted to the full area of both cheeks, from the crease between buttock and thigh to the highest part of her buttocks.
‘You can have a short break, then it’s the cane,’ he announced.
‘Bloody hell, that stung…’ Jennifer whined, rubbing her bottom to little effect after she struggled to her feet. Little effect, that is, apart from the evident further arousal of the guard! She pulled the knickers over the abused flesh and ran the fingers through the thick dark bob, somewhat disarranged from her recent inverted position.
The cane rattled as he pulled it from behind the cupboard, and her eyes were drawn involuntarily to the long yellow length of malacca, the curve of its handle evidence of its pedigree as an instrument of punishment. Its inherent flexibility made it useless for holding up runner beans, that was for sure. But for wrapping round recalcitrant female bottoms, it was unbeatable. As it were.
Having gone this far, he decided to take the plunge. What the hell… she could only refuse!
‘Take off your blouse.’
‘What?’ But her fingers had gone to the top button, implicit obedience.
‘Take it off… and your bra… just do as I say, please.’
Slowly, reluctantly, but sensing his control of the situation and powerless to resist, the buttons popped apart, the curve of clavicle and then bust now visible. Jennifer shrugged the garment off her shoulders and placed it carefully across the chair before reaching behind and unclipping the brassiere.
What seemed an interminable pause was relieved by her breasts quivering free of the restraining harness, bouncing for a moment before lying still — sullen, full gourds on her chest. She didn’t look him in the eye again, but concentrated on the floor.
‘Good. Come here.’ The cane tapped the door frame connecting Mr Burgess’s office with his secretary’s, the fanlight over it open now, as was the door. ‘Stand in the doorway, and put your hands up here.’ Cane tapping the top of the frame helpfully, as she reached high above her head to grip the frame. It was just beyond her reach. As he had calculated.
‘Jump up and grab the frame, my dear. I want you hanging free for this.’ He stood in front of her, in the adjoining office, as she judged the distance and jumped the necessary nine inches to grab the frame, swinging from side to side as she adjusted her grip, breasts counterbalancing the movement perfectly. Finally, she hung full-length, toes just three inches from the floor.
‘Good. Now, I am…’
‘Is all this necessary, really, I mean… I know I’ve got to be caned and everything, but… it’s bloody uncomfortable.’
‘As I was saying…’ Jennifer’s grip slipped and she dropped to the floor.
‘I am going to cane you like this. If you drop to the floor before you’ve had ten strokes, then the caning starts again. OK?’
Jennifer looked up, judged it again, and jumped. This time she made sure her grip was stronger. He looked her in the eye, and asked: ‘Ready?’
‘Yes, but be quick, please…’ He pushed past her into the other room, and she swung violently to keep her grip. The cane brushed her thigh as he pulled her knickers off the already reddened roundness and down her legs to fall in an apologetic crumple on the floor. The briefest of pauses, a short Whrrppp! and a blazing pain across both cheeks.
‘Owwweee. Shit that hurts!’
Whhhrppp! Harder still, lower across the full fleshiness.
‘Ahhh… bloody hell… ohhh!’
‘Be quiet, Jennifer… just count the strokes out loud. You’ve had three.’
‘Don’t I know it!’
‘FOUR!’ The voice was high, tense, and rose in a crescendo over the succeeding five strokes.
‘Last one,’ he announced unnecessarily.
‘Thank Christ!’ The cane swung down in a wicked arc to burn its brand of pain across the girl’s already striped bottom: Whrrppp!
‘Yooowww!’ followed by a slump to the floor and a subdued: ‘Ten. God that hurt. It was really hard!’
‘Yes, my dear, it was. You can get dressed now, and come downstairs when you are ready.’
It was more than fifteen minutes before Jennifer emerged from the lift on the ground floor, hair tied back, cap in place, uniform pristine, as if nothing had happened. God she was attractive, he thought.
‘When do I have to come for my next appointment?’ she asked, the flushed face a small admission of recent events.
‘Your next appointment?’
‘Mmmm… I’ve got another two, haven’t I? Ten strokes?’ her voice a whisper, as she looked round her. ‘Will you be here… next time… for the caning I mean?’
‘Oh yes, I shall be dealing with you from now on. Same time next week, if that fits your schedule.’‘See you then.’