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Sunday, 23 June 2019

The Tea Party

From Uniform Girls 30
The Brigadier strode purposefully across the patio and sat down in his favourite seat. A tall pretty girl hurried across the lawn to meet him. She appeared a little out of breath by the time she stepped onto the patio.
‘What’s your name, then? A new girl, aren’t you?’
Long limbed Sally nodded politely. ‘Yes sir. I’m Sally, sir…’
The Brigadier approved of the new recruit. She was a pretty lass; and as she was wearing only a pretty crisp white blouse and a pair of white knickers, it was quite easy for any discerning visitor to judge her attributes.
‘Do you have a menu, young lady?’
The Brigadier knew the answer very well. ‘Yes sir.’ Her pretty face blushed.
‘So where is it?’ It was a game he played with all the waitresses. Especially the new ones. Somehow, the new recruits always seemed younger and prettier than the regular staff. Perhaps it was because they blushed so easily.
‘Inside my… my knickers… sir…’
He beckoned her to come closer. ‘Put your hands on your head.’ Sally stretched up, the action lifting her blouse well clear of her tight knickers. ‘Now let me see…’
Very slowly, with great deliberation, his fingers peeled down the front of her knickers, revealing the springy dark curls which hid her girlish secrets from his view. Turning the fabric inside-out, he found the menu, printed upon the inside of the girl’s pants at an angle which enabled visitors to read the contents clearly and easily. He took his time, reading out each item, watching the girl’s soft tummy, detecting the occasional bead of sweat upon the fine hairs of her downy skin. And then he released her pants, letting the elastic snap them back against her body.
‘Good. I have chosen. Bring me the ruler…’
Sally gave a faint sigh, and bent down to reach beneath the patio table. With much reluctance, she drew out the thin wooden ruler and held it out towards the Brigadier. There was a very unique and special way of ordering food at the Brigadier’s exclusive establishment. A way which ensured that no waitress ever forgot the order.
‘Touch your toes.’ There was just a moment of flurry as Sally dropped her knickers and rucked up her blouse. before bending down, her bared bottom awaiting the man’s attentions.
‘Item thirty-five on your menu.’ He told her. ‘Three and five.’
She waited, her round bottom-cheeks quivering in anticipation.
The ruler was raised. Whack! Whack! Two stinging strokes of the thin wood were applied to her left bottom-cheek. Two red lines appeared. Clear red lines. The Brigadier changed his stance slightly before delivering the third stroke. Whack! The girl yelled with the stinging pain. He stood back, admiring his accuracy. Three well-defined lines, each beneath the other, across the softest part of her left bottom-cheek.
‘And five…’ He moved his position again, and Sally clenched her bottom slightly, anticipating a full five strokes across her other cheek. Whack! A perfect stroke. Whack! Whack! And another. Sally squealed loudly as the ruler landed upon her bottom. Just three to go. Sometimes it was difficult to keep each stroke apart. It was imperative that the Servery staff could ‘read’ his order. Whack! Whack! Just one to go. The girl was gasping loudly with the excruciating stinging in her bottom. In a moment she would have to hurry back to the Servery, and then touch her toes, her knickers down around her ankles. Without a word being said, the staff would ‘read’ her bottom, counting each stroke of the ruler. And any stroke which had faded too quickly, or had blurred into another stroke, would probably result in the wrong reading. And the wrong dish being prepared and delivered to the customer. Sally would be in very hot water if that happened. Not to mention how hot her bottom would become. Whack! Three and five. The message quite clear in eight very hot bands of brightest pink across Sally’s delightful rear end.
‘There we go. They should last.’ He patted the underside of her bottom-cheeks. ‘Off you go.’ She scampered away, pulling her knickers up as she ran.
The Brigadier was a kindly man, after all. Wouldn’t want to get this new little minx in too much trouble. That was why he had laid on the strokes with considerable force. So they wouldn’t fade too soon. Anyway, these youngsters could cope with it. Just what those pretty rumps needed from time to time. A good sound tanning. Kept them all on their toes, didn’t it?
Sally was wearing her knickers when she reappeared, the requested order of fresh strawberries and thick double cream upon the tray. ‘Will that be all, sir?’ she turned to leave, hoping that she would get away from him.
‘Er… I’d like you to stay… and assist…’ Sally forced a modest smile. The Brigadier smiled back. She was a real little charmer. Of course she would stay to assist him. The Brigadier always tried out the new recruits.
He lifted the two small dishes from the tray, and sat down, holding them aloft. ‘Come on, young lady. You know the drill. I’m sure.’
Silently, she stood beside him and then bent forwards, lowering herself across his knee. She wriggled a little, until she was sure that her bottom was uppermost across the man’s lap. And then, reaching behind her, she pulled down her knickers. ‘Good girl. Good girl.’ The Brigadier always offered praise and encouragement when it was deserved. Carefully. he placed the two small dishes, one of strawberries, and one of cream, each upon one of Sally’s wobbling bottom-cheeks. Having so recently been warmed up by the application of the ruler, the girl now gasped with surprise, as the chilly surface of the dishes touched her warm flesh.
‘Keep still, young lady.’ Sally knew exactly what would happen if she didn’t. Both she and the Brigadier knew about Jennifer, one of the more experienced girls. Poor Jennifer. She had managed to upset a full dish of salad dressing because she wouldn’t or couldn’t keep still. Jennifer had been returned to the Brigadier later in the afternoon. To apologise. He had counted nine neat cane strokes across her delightful bottom. And then he had signed the chit to say he had seen them.
Sally kept perfectly still as the Brigadier sampled the sweet fresh strawberries, dipping each large fruit into the cool thick cream. She kept her long legs absolutely stretched, her toes touching the patio floor, helping her to maintain her balance. The cold flat bases of those two dishes felt so precarious, perched up upon the very crowns of her wobbling buttocks. Any sudden movement would spell disaster. The Brigadier took his time, enjoying the fruit, and the mild afternoon sunshine, and the weight of this pretty young woman draped so meekly across his lap, his shrewd eyes observing every little dimple, each dark curve of her bottom, leading to nests of secret little curls. Young Sally would make an excellent waitress.
‘Stand up!’ The girl jumped at the abrupt command, the dishes wobbling dangerously upon her still upturned bottom. The Brigadier lifted the dishes clear, and smiled at the two cold circles of white flesh thus revealed. No doubt her bottom would be warmed up again in due course. No hurry on that score. No hurry, whatsoever.
She scrambled to her feet, her face now very red. ‘I am very pleased,’ he told her, ‘In fact, I shall give you a tip…’
She shook her head immediately. ‘Oh, no, sir. Really. It really doesn’t matter…’ But she stood still, her hands back on her head, while he searched in his pockets for a suitable coin.
‘Manage fifty pence?’ She didn’t reply. The Brigadier made a mental note. Perhaps young Sally did need a little extra training, after all.
He found the coin, and sat down again, waiting for the girl to stand closer. ‘Here we are, young lady. Just for you.’ The cold coin was slipped between her bottom-cheeks edge-on, the girl hastily clenching her cheeks in order to keep the coin in place. ‘Don’t move, young lady. Not yet.’
His left hand slipped around her bare waist, and then fell lower, down into the dark triangle of her pubic fuzz. His fingers held her still. Sally held her breath, knowing where his fingers were. Knowing what those fingers might touch if she pushed herself against him. The Brigadier was still dealing with the coin. Parting her bottom-cheeks a little with two free fingers, slipping the coin between those pert young cheeks, and telling her to hold it tight.
‘Right. You may go…’
Very slowly, and awkwardly, young Sally moved away, her buttocks still firmly clenched, her knickers tangled around her ankles. She reached down very carefully, to collect the dishes, placing them upon her tray. And then began the long walk back to the Servery.
Eager eyes would watch her, and her wobbling buttocks, following the glint of the coin between her cheeks. If it was still in position by the time she had reached the Servery, the money would be hers. But if she dropped it… The Brigadier just knew a cane would have to visit that gorgeous round bottom in the not too distant future. Several visits in fact. Sally was very delightful. But a little too hesitant for his liking. Natural shyness was one thing. That was often a delight to behold. But it was a thin red line between that and laziness, or even insubordination. A very thin red line. Drawn across those sturdy young bottom-cheeks.
‘Sally! Stand up straight, young lady.’ Feet together, arms by her side, her pulse rate quickening, Sally stood in front of the manager. ‘I have been informed that your training has not been effective. That your behaviour and attitude is sadly lacking…’ The girl looked close to tears. She wondered who had complained. Most of the men had seemed quite pleased by her service. Even the one who’d pushed a big juicy strawberry between her bottom-cheeks as well as a tip.
As he lectured her, the man walked casually towards the cupboard on the far side of the room, opening the twin doors, running his fingers along a selection of canes. His fingers gripped a particularly thin and whippy instrument. ‘Yes. This will do,’ he said, almost to himself.
Sally’s frightened eyes followed its path and the whippy rod was flicked through the air. ‘Touch your toes.’ Almost completely automatically, she bent forward, yet again, this time to receive her very first cane-stroke. ‘You’ve never been caned before, have you?’
She found a squeaky sort of voice and answered him. ‘No… sir… no…’
‘Well I am sure this will teach you a lesson, young lady.’
The long thin cane quivered in the air above her upturned bottom, its tip vibrating evilly, waiting to whistle down upon her bare cheeks.
‘You’ll feel this young lady.’ He informed her, adding to her apprehension. ‘It won’t do you any harm, but you’ll feel it, I can promise you.’ And she did. The cane implanted itself in one long searing line of pain right across the full width of her bottom.
She screamed, and her hands whipped round to grasp the damaged area, her fingers anxiously massaging away the pain.
‘Even one stroke is quite effective, isn’t it?’ Sally had to agree, but her voice just wouldn’t work for her. ‘Imagine how six strokes like that would feel. All over that bottom of yours…?’
The girl really couldn’t imagine. Not for a second. How anybody could take six strokes, even three strokes like that? The tears began to flow. ‘Please… l’m sorry… I’m ever so… ever so… sorry…’
The manager tapped the cane against his shoe. ‘Next time. Six strokes. And for the time being, it’s the wash-up for you, until you learn how to behave in front of your guests.’
The girl left the room, her knickers clutched sadly in one hand, the bright red stroke across her bottom still perfectly visible. Sally wouldn’t like the wash-up, or that dreadful woman who supervised the girls.
Most of the girls passed through the wash-up during the time at the establishment. It was just about the most awful of tasks, especially the way that dragon of a manageress supervised them. It was bad enough just being there, bending forward, hands in the washing-up water for hours at a time. But they made you stand on a sort of wooden plinth, which meant you were just at the right height for them to get at your bottom. Discipline in the wash-up, as everywhere else at the establishment, meant having your bottom tanned — in one hundred and one different ways.
The very worst aspect of the wash-up was the fact they made you do it in the nude. Completely undressed, your bare toes against the wooden plinth, your bare waist and tummy touching the cold aluminium surround of the sinks, your breasts dangling above the soapy water, wobbling around, swinging from side to side as you scrubbed the pots and pans. In fact, with hot soapy water and rising steam to contend with, your breasts always seemed to get in the way. Those girls really well-endowed up top had a pretty rough time of it. Trying to do the washing-up without your breasts bobbing around too much meant that girls often forgot that the rest of their pretty bodies were equally bare and exposed, and vulnerable. Especially bottoms. With your hands in the water, your bottom was pushed out ready for instant punishment. And not only was the punishment instant: it was frequent too.
At the height of the season, up to ten girls could he working in the wash-up at the same time. A row of ten nubile young women, all totally naked, their bottoms lined up, ready to be dealt with. The sight offered the opportunity for direct comparisons. Once, when the girls had been chattering for too long, the manageress gave them all a slap. A smooth rounded wooden butter-pat which normally hung from a hook on the wall. The room always echoed. And the sound of that hard butter-pat landing across each upturned rump was a fearsome sound. Especially for the girl who was tenth in line. By the time the woman had reached her, she had perfected her swing. Ten young women sobbed and spluttered into the soapy water, each young bottom sporting a large red patch. ‘The next girl to talk gets all ten to herself.’ There was silence in the long room, save for the occasional continued sob.
The favoured instrument of discipline in the wash-up was the girl’s own washing-up brush. A simple plastic affair with nylon bristles. If a girl had the temerity to misbehave, she was ordered to hand over her brush. Still dripping with soap, the hard plastic back of the brush was applied to the girl’s tender cheeks. Six smacks each side really encouraged a girl to work hard. For half an hour afterwards, her bare feet would still be pacing up and down on the damp wooden plinth, as though the girl was marching on the spot. It was the only way to get rid of the pain.
Sally did not enjoy the wash-up. Her bottom was almost permanently red. The woman seemed to find ever new ways of punishing each girl. ‘Sally! Bring me your brush!’ Sally stood upright, her hands still covered in soap suds. She stepped down from the plinth and carried the brush towards the older woman.
‘I’ll teach you to slack, young lady.’ Sally shook her head. She hadn’t been slacking. Really she hadn’t. She had just stopped for a rest, for a minute or so. The manageress wouldn’t listen to her excuses.
‘Up on the table… Move!’
Sally twisted round, and climbed clumsily up onto the cold flat surface of the kitchen table. ‘On your back.’ She lay there. her entire body suddenly chilled by the uninviting work-surface. ‘Lift up your legs.’ She obeyed, as always. Her legs were raised, right up until her bare toes were pointing towards the skylight above her. She closed her eyes. Her totally exposed bottom received the washing-up brush. Six hard wet smacks each side. By the end of her punishment she was yelling her head off. And her long slim legs were waving around frantically, their owner wishing that she could dispel the sting which was running riot all over her bottom and upper thighs.
‘Now get back to the washing-up. And no more misbehaviour.’ A thoroughly chastened young woman walked back to the sink, still clutching the washing-up brush which had just tanned her bottom.
Then there was the cane. The ultimate punishment in every department of the establishment. The wash-up manageress caned hard. And all the new girls soon heard the story of Josie, the one girl who had actually sworn at the manageress following a particularly vigorous washing-up brush smacking. Josie had been reprimanded for not drying the crockery satisfactorily. Leaving smears of soap and water on the delicate china.
Josie had a long drawn-out caning, bent tautly over a high kitchen stool. After each stroke, to remind her of the necessity to ensure implements are kept dry, young Josie was sent back to her sink, with the cane in hand, where she was made to wash it in warm soapy water. The cheeky nineteen-year-old soon learnt her lesson. Bent over the sink, her bottom tingling like a thousand bee stings, washing the very cane which had just implanted itself across her cheeks. And then wobbling back across the kitchen, the cane still glistening bright with the soap smeared along its length. Bending over the kitchen stool again. Waiting while the woman took up her position above her. Measuring the swing of the cane. Feeling little drops of soapy water upon her bare limbs and her back as the cane quivered above her. And then the awful sickening impact which made her yell with all her might.
Twelve carefully applied strokes, the first ten almost perfectly horizontal and parallel to each other. The final two, dreadful painful diagonal strokes which crossed all the other red tramlines.
‘Now dry the cane. Properly.’ Josie had still been sobbing when the cane had been thoroughly dried and returned to its resting place on the kitchen work surface. The girl was ordered back to work. Each item of cutlery and crockery would be inspected individually. Just one item still damp, and Josie would be back over the kitchen stool.
Sally remained in the wash-up for three long shifts. Each punishment received during that time was carefully recorded in her file. It would be discussed at a later date with her.
‘Have you learned your lesson?’ The manager was sitting in his office, inspecting Sally’s bottom. She assured him that all the lessons had been learnt. She would be a good girl. Very very good. Just about the best waitress he’d ever had.
He upturned her once again, in order to take a closer detailed look at her rump. He placed her face down over one knee, her legs parted. These young women had good firm backsides. They all needed a firm hand. He tapped the very lowest curves of one buttock, the impact causing her cheeks to part briefly, revealing a little more the warm damp secrets nestling discreetly between her thighs. Her bottom was back in perfect condition. Not a mark or a blemish. She was told to stand, and was given her new orders. The firm round bottom disappeared through the doorway. In the direction of its next assignment.


  1. Brilliant story, one of my all-time favourites.
    I just love the sort of 'universe' it's set in. But I do have some questions that my fellow enthusiasts may be able to help with?
    1. What is 'the establishment' exactly, do you think?
    2. Why is the first protagonist a Brigadier, is that relevent?
    3. What institution is Sally a 'new recrit' to?
    4. Do the terms 'Brigadier' and 'new recruit' suggest a Cadet- style environment? (I do hope so)
    5. What ages are the 'girls', and how are they chosen?
    6. What were their lives before they were recruited, and how long do their terms of service last?

    Etc etc. So many questions! I'd love to hear some replies though. Can anyone help?


  2. 1. The establishment, I think, is a gentleman's club for the super rich males and the ruling elite of the patriarchal 'new moral order' of the near future which we have so often read about in stories on this website.

    2. The significance of the Brigadier is that this new era of authoritarianism and discipline has been brought about by a military coup in alliance with vested financial interest. We are actually told it is the 'Brigadier's exclusive establishment' so he owns it, probably as a result of his close links to leading figures in the new regime.

    3. Well, quite obviously, the institution which Sally is a new recruit to is the Brigadier's establishment, this gentlemen's club packed full of submissive young dolly birds for the use and enjoyment of super rich and ruling elite males.

    4 I'm not sure about cadets exactly but in the new era society is very much run on hierarchical and military ordered lines, the old hippy dippy do your own thing culture which started in the 1960s and which became associated with lawlessness and social decline now having been entirely swept away. And as I have previously mentioned, the Brigadier owns the club and so he tends to think of these girls a s 'recruits' as they are certainly not 'employees' in the ordinary sense as I will elaborate on later.

    5 All of the girls are aged between 18 and 21. They have been brought to this establishment as a form of 'National Domestic Service' (NDS) which like military service for males is now compulsory for all Class 3 and 4 girls (please see the first story on this blog - Girl Training 1998 for more of an explanation of these classifications). Most girls go to work in the homes of Class 2 males (where corporal punishment along with a number of other things is now the norm) but the Brigadier's establishment along with a number of other similar institutions has first dibs in recruiting the prettiest girls from the NDS ranks.

    6 Prior to being recruited these girls were pupils in schools for Class 3 and 4 girls. Though other than learning basic literacy and numeracy and R.E. most of their education as such has been in Domestic Science and home-making and how to be a good wife. Their terms of service are for 2 years.

  3. Can someone explain the clasification of girls system

    1. Read Girl Training 1998 and draw your own conclusions. My assumption is that Class 1 is the ruling elite and the super rich. Class 2 are the professional middle classes. Class 3 is the lower middle class. Class 4 is the working class. These classes don't just pertain to females.