I couldn't resist such an apposite title this week — a story by Nicholas Holland from Janus 57 and a tribute of sorts to our new glorious leader who might also fairly be described as “a big man with a big appetite for everything.” May God have mercy on our souls…
Boris Weiss was a big man with a big appetite for everything. He was the founder and owner of the Bernard Welsh Model Agency. Of course there was no such person as Bernard Welsh, it was a figment of Boris’s imagination. He fondly believed that the very Britishness of the name was preferable to the hybrid Eastern European concoction with which he was born. By retaining the same initials he maintained a tenuous link with his own identity. He had given it some considerable thought those 15 years ago. ‘Boris Weiss’ was not a name which would instil confidence in aspiring young models. He didn’t want them to think that he was a dirty old man, though admittedly he was. Hence the name Bernard (with the emphasis on the second syllable) Welsh.
Boris was everything you might imagine someone with that name to be. He was fat. He was bald. He wore glasses. He was on the wrong side of 60. He had three chins and a moustache that looked like a small clothes-brush. He did everything in excess: he ate and drank in excess, he smoked in excess and talked in excess, but he did run a good model agency. Or rather his secretary Jeanie did.
Jeanie worked hard, but then she had to. Boris paid her well and he made sure he had his money’s worth. He had no intention of getting involved in such mundane matters as appeasing the whims of temperamental photographers and pseudo-creative advertising executives. After all, he did own the damn agency.
Jeanie put the phone down and pushed back her rich black hair. Sally Dale sounded like a nice girl and had arranged to be interviewed by Boris at 5pm. She looked at the clock. It was 2.30 and at that instant a small red light just above the clock blinked on. Oh no, she thought, the old devil is at it again!
Indeed, Boris was ‘at it’ again! The recipient on this occasion was a quite delicious little blonde called Sandra Reed, who was rapidly making a name for herself as an ‘outstanding’ calendar model. She was outstanding in the breastworks department, and to say that Sandra was well-rounded would have been an understatement. Boris had no personal interest in the twin assets that had made her the lustful fantasy of a thousand garage mechanics on whose walls she was invariably pinned. His tastes were inclined in a less obvious direction. The very thing that Sandra considered her greatest liability as a top model, Boris liked. Her overweight — no fat — little bottom had cost her many a prestige job, but in another way it had also gained her much work. Never a girl to miss an opportunity to exploit what she had, Sandra soon learned that Boris was a ‘bottom man’ and Boris could get her work. After only two months, Sandra was the busiest girl on the agency’s books.
More often than not, it happened on Fridays, simply because she didn’t model at weekends. She seemed to accept the rather unusual, unwritten conditions of her contract. It was a small price to pay for the amount of work and the absolutely incredible money she was earning.
She was now in a familiar position staring at the maroon carpet. Her jeans lay on the top of Boris’s enormous desk and her knickers — an untidy scrap of white —were on the chair in front of it. By turning her head and looking through the blizzard of her carefully bleached hair, Sandra could see Boris. It was the black strap again. It was always the black strap. Still, she preferred that to the cane which he had once used on her when she failed to turn up for a minor casting. That had really made her hop about, and Sandra Reed hopping about (in the nude) was a sight to see!
Back in her own office Jeanie was sitting at the typewriter listening to strident pop music on a cheap transistor radio. She was typing out model invoices and booking forms. The combination of truly awful music and the machine-gun clatter of her ancient Adler was quite appalling. Abruptly she turned the volume of the radio down to an inaudible level and stopped typing. Leaning closer to the wall, she was immediately rewarded by the sharp sound of Boris’s black strap roundly slapping into the plump cheeks of Sandra’s bottom. Inwardly Jeanie winced. It was about the only time she ever felt any sympathy for the tarty little blonde. Thank heavens Boris had never given her the strap. She’d often let him hand-spank her across his knee and that was bad enough. Boris had a pretty powerful arm and Jeanie remembered examining her own taut, burning cheeks after one of his more enthusiastic administrations. They had been turned into two scarlet bull’s-eyes and stung like a swarm of bees. Still, she had enjoyed pleasing her boss and the after effect had been rather nice…
Feeling somewhat guilty about her increasingly naughty thoughts, Jeanie crossed her legs and leaned even closer to the wall. She heard at least a dozen of the sharp cracks as Boris gave the conceited young floozie a thorough thrashing. Jeanie could just imagine that fat little arse wobbling under the black strap. Serves her right! Everybody knew how Sandra made it to the top and it certainly wasn’t talent. Boris was merely exploiting a situation the same as everyone else. Jeanie didn’t really blame him, in fact she rather enjoyed the idea of Sandra being exploited by her boss…
A knock on the door caused Jeanie to jump. Frantically she turned the volume of the radio up again and carried on typing. There was a faint flush on her cheeks when Fenella Griggs, Sandra’s best friend, flounced into the office.
‘Sandy finished yet?’ Fenella raised a photographically perfect left eyebrow. ‘Or is the dirty old sod still at it?’
The ‘dirty old sod’ was. Sandra’s buttocks were now redder than Mr Factor’s boldest lipstick. Boris gave them one final thrash and threw the well-used strap on to the desk-top. It landed beside the blonde’s jeans.
‘Goot, Zandy, yah?’ Boris beamed, his jowls glowing with a mixture of good brandy, exertion and pleasure. He shuffled around the huge desk and sank into the black leather throne that he called a chair. Sandra scrambled into her painfully tight jeans — every now and then trying to soothe the flaming buttocks with slightly cooler hands.
‘Blimey, Boris!’ Sandra complained. ‘That was a bit bleedin’ hard! What you bin eatin’ — raw meat?’
Boris beamed again. ‘You are a naughtee girl Zandy, yah?’
Before Sandra could answer, Jeanie’s voice came through the intercom system.
‘Fenella is here for Sandra, Boris.’
‘Okay,’ said Boris. ‘Don’t zend her through —Zandy iz juz coming, yah!’
Boris had no wish to see Fenella. She wasn’t one of his favourites. She was a good fashion model, though skinny. Boris obtained little pleasure from fashion models. Sandra was almost his ideal. He preferred well-rounded indulgencies!
Sandra had scarcely zipped up the jeans when Boris unbolted the door and ushered her out.
‘Shoo, shoo, Zandy. I haf vork to do, yah?’
Oddly enough, Boris did have work to do. Certain ‘stocktaking’ had to be done. Not the usual stocktaking you would expect a Managing Director to do, but stocktaking peculiar to Boris’s way of running a business. For over an hour he busied himself checking the desk, various drawers and smart modern filing cabinets. He replenished many items that had diminished, delving into a cavernous briefcase that went everywhere with him. First there were eight bottles of cheap perfume to be added to the bottom drawer of his desk. These were doled out to girls he found various reasons to be pleased with. Likewise, three gilt lighters were placed in the top right drawer. Four packets of SuperKing mentholated cigarettes went into the top left drawer. Boris never, but never, ran out of cigarettes, even though he smoked around 80 a day. This was tomorrow’s supply, and there were emergency packets secreted elsewhere. Six pairs of stockings, in various shades, were placed in one of the filing cabinets. Finally, he lifted the top off a particularly tasteless globe of the world which happened to be a drinks bar. He carefully checked the contents and then telephoned an order to a local off-licence for two bottles of brandy and a crate of Austrian wine, requesting delivery first thing in the morning.
Satisfied with his ‘day’s’ work, Boris lit another cigarette and all but disappeared into the incredibly large (and expensive) leather executive chair. Soon, he hit the switch on the intercom.
‘Vhot iz next, Yeanie?’ Boris asked, stubbing out the SuperKing and searching for another.
‘Nothing for an hour, Boris,’ Jeanie answered sweetly. ‘Then you’ve got that young girl who was Carnival Queen at Witheringsea. She wrote to us if you remember — sent a dreadful Polaroid. Her name’s Sally Dale. She’s just 18, with no experience.’
‘Yah, yah,’ Boris grunted searching for his monogrammed Dunhill. ‘Zend her in vhen zhe arrive, yah?’
He clicked off the switch and located the Dunhill. He remembered the Polaroid all right. It had shown a pretty, auburn-haired young girl in a white one-piece bathing suit, looking back over her shoulder at the person who was taking the picture. It was a dreadful photo, but one thing attracted Boris’s eagle eye — the girl’s bottom. It was very rounded, possibly because of the puppy-fat of youth, and just a little too large. Exactly the way he liked them. He flicked the gold lighter and puffed out a rapid succession of small blue clouds, gradually filling the office with a dense haze. Eventually and inevitably, he started coughing.
Sally Dale was just over half-an-hour late. It had been so difficult trying to find her way on the Underground. Twice she had ended up on the wrong line. Travel in minute, sleepy Witheringsea was much less complicated. The choice was always easy. It was either her Aunt’s Welsh Cob or Shanks’s pony. At long last, in flustered exasperation, Sally emerged from the claustrophobic tube system into the agoraphobic melee of London’s teeming pavements. Totally intimidated by the city and its frantic, bewildering pace, she hailed a taxi she could ill afford. At least the taxi driver wouldn’t get lost, though judging by the route he took to the Bernard Welsh Agency, a native would have supposed he had just arrived from Outer Mongolia. Sally meekly paid the £7 fare and by the time she had tipped him, was left with a return ticket, 51 pence and a Mars bar. She gazed ruefully at the miserable contents of her battered handbag and thanked her lucky stars that Mr Welsh had promised to refund expenses. Heart beating with frightful speed, she turned down the narrow alleyway that lead to Jeanie’s office.
‘Sally Dale has arrived, Mr Welsh,’ said Jeanie’s voice over the intercom. She always said ‘Mr Welsh’ whenever a client or a new model needed to be impressed. Boris was delighted at his secretary’s efficiency. She never forgot the little things that he told her were so important. Intimidation, especially with new girls, was vital when it came to ensuring their professionalism in a highly competitive business. Bernard Welsh models had the best reputation of all the agencies for punctuality. Boris was proud of this and had his own unique method of maintaining that reputation.
‘Zend her in Yeanie, yah?’ said Boris reaching for his fourth packet of SuperKings.
He heard the timid little knock with some satisfaction.
‘COME!’ bellowed Boris in his best Managing Director’s voice, power and authority oozing from the single word.
The door opened slowly and for a moment Sally stood bemused. Her big blue eyes opened wide, straining to penetrate the densely smoky atmosphere that could only have been cut with a chain saw. Eventually she began to blink, slowly at first and then more rapidly as the acrid smoke insinuated into her optical system. She could see him, but only just. He was a large, almost ghostly figure protected from the world by the bastion of an enormous semi-circular desk. Tentatively she stepped into the office, feeling small and apprehensive —somewhat akin to the fly after receiving an invitation from the spider.
‘ZIT!’ said Boris. ‘Yah?!’
Like an obedient puppy-dog Sally sat. She perched on the very edge of the chair neglecting to sink back into it, partly because of nervousness but mostly because she could only just see over the top of the desk.
‘Ah, Zally iz it, yah?’ said Boris, puffing even more rapidly on a SuperKing. ‘Vhy are ve late for z’intervoo?’ A small puff of smoke hurtled across the desk towards her like a blue tumbleweed.
‘I… I… well you see… I got lost, Mr Welsh. It’s the first time I’ve been to London and I… well…’ Her small voice became smaller and smaller, tailing off at her own inadequacy into nothing.
Boris adjusted his spectacles and stubbed out the SuperKing.
‘Ve carnt not be late for z’modelling, can ve? Yah?’
‘Oh no sir!’ said Sally. ‘I wouldn’t be — I really wouldn’t. I’d be ever such a good model if you give me the chance…’
Boris contemplated his huge waistcoated belly for a few pregnant moments, staring intently at the shiny fob-chain that looped around the middle button and disappeared like some golden umbilical cord into a large deep pocket. He looked down at her menacingly from under his glasses.
‘Zo,’ he said, ‘ve haf to learn z’meanink of dizciplin, yah? Ve car not be late for z’model yobs, yah?’
‘N-no, Mr Welsh,’ stuttered Sally, hoping she had said the right thing at the right time. It was so difficult trying to understand his funny accent. She didn’t want him to think she was stupid, so she just kept nodding and smiling whenever it seemed appropriate.
For about five minutes he lectured her on discipline and punctuality, cramming about three words into the usual space of one. Sally concentrated intensely, but the heavy accent combined with the blindingly quick delivery made it very hard to understand even half of what he was saying. Sally wasn’t to know that it made little difference because Boris had the habit of repeating everything three or four times and then once for luck. Still, she tried extra hard because this was really, really important. It was her big chance to be a model in London and she desperately wanted to create a good impression.
‘… ve have z’reputation and all z’girls are goot…’ He was glowing hugely with pride and rocking the big chair up and down as he spoke.
Sally nodded and smiled, slowly realising that he wasn’t really such an ogre. He was actually rather sweet. Sitting even further forward, she was fascinated by the rhythmic rocking of his chair. It was almost hypnotic. She watched, but didn’t listen. Every sentence was punctuated by puffs of smoke which seemed to explode all around her like the anti-aircraft shells in those old war movies which she had seen late at night on television. He just went on and on…
‘… zo, vhat are ve going to do about zeez problem vhich you haf, yah?’ said Boris in conclusion.
Sally hadn’t really heard him and was not quite sure what he was referring to. She was still fascinated by the rocking of the chair and the absurd spectacle of Boris’s large belly rising above the level of the desk like some great whale surfacing for air and then submerging, only to rise again moments later.
‘P-p-pardon…?’ stammered Sally, feeling somewhat guilty at being caught out. She need not have worried. Boris was set on a course of action and what Sally thought didn’t really matter.
‘You ztand, yah?’
This time Sally did understand what he said and obediently rose to her feet. She started to feel a little bit apprehensive.
‘I zink zat ve haf z’dresz off, yah?’
He was beaming at her again and confusion compounded the jumble of thoughts already darting about in her mind. Not having any photographs was a big disadvantage in starting a modelling career and naturally an agent would also want photographs. She never dreamed she would be asked to remove her clothes. Still, she reasoned, she might have to take absolutely everything off for some jobs.
Slowly and uncertainly, Sally undid the top button of the simple white cotton dress. She risked a quick glance at the still-rocking Boris. He was smiling broadly and watching her from under the rim of his spectacles. She bit her lip. She wasn’t too sure about this. Reluctantly she finished unfastening the dress. There was a dull clunk from somewhere behind her and Sally was momentarily distracted. Dismissing it from her mind, she stepped shyly out of the dress.
The red light in Jeanie’s office had once again illuminated. It had come on at exactly the same time Sally had heard the dull clunk: Boris had activated an electrical circuit to the light when he had thrown a concealed switch at the base of his desk. The clunk had been the sound of a sturdy bolt, pulled into position by a powerful electrical solenoid and efficiently locking the door from the inside.
Boris watched with undisguised interest and beaming delight as Sally stood in modest white bra and panties. She was looking intently at the floor and he noticed a slight flush on her cheeks.
‘Goot, gooot, Zally… fantastisch, yah?’ he enthused.
Embarrassed by his open appraisal, Sally mumbled an inadequate and incoherent ‘thank you’.
‘You come round z’desk, yah?’ he instructed.
Heart pounding and very hesitantly, Sally rounded the big desk to stand doubtfully in front of Boris. One of his very large and podgy hands grasped her firmly on the right thigh, about halfway up. He squeezed it and then began stroking the full length of her limb from the back of her knee to the soft underswell of the bottom.
Oh dear, what was she to do? Sally bit her lip. For the moment she did nothing. She couldn’t. Indecision gripped her and her head started to spin. Her eyes darted wildly about the smoky office as if searching for an escape route. Butterflies lurched about in her tummy and her mouth became dry.
‘P-p-please, Mr Welsh… please…’
The clammy fingers were already delving under the elastic of her panties and kneading the warm flesh of her bottom-cheeks. She tried to wet the dryness of her lips with a parched tongue. Little prickles ran up her back and her face became hot and flushed. Not one person in the whole world had ever touched her like that. Her friend Angela had told her about boys who did this to you and it always led to one thing. Angela said that it was really, really nice and Angela had done it lots of times, but… but…
‘Goot, goot,’ she heard him say. ‘Z’arze iz goot, yah? Now ze brusties…’
He was still beaming and the hand was still kneading her bottom. She wasn’t sure she understood. He couldn’t mean her… her bust… surely not!
‘Wizout z’photos ve haf to zee z’brusties, yah?’ His voice sounded impatient.
Again Sally bit her lip, hard. Oh no, now there could be no doubt. She would have to take her bra off. She hesitated; trying to decide if it was right and proper to do what he was asking. She had no one to advise her. It was her decision. She looked at him nervously, her fingers still toying impotently with the clip behind her back.
‘Ve murt have z’bra off, yah?’ His impatience was more obvious. ‘Ve car not do z’modelling vork without zeeing z’brusties…’ He was waiting.
Closing her eyes tightly, Sally unclipped her bra.
To Boris’s delight the loosened bra revealed two of the perkiest little breasts he had ever seen. They were like perfectly ripened pink plums. He wet his lips as if anticipating some harvest festival treat.
‘Yah, yah!’ he beamed. Two ‘yahs’ from Boris was a rare compliment, but Sally scarcely heard him. She was mortified at being almost… well, naked in the presence of this man. Her lip trembled. What if he wanted to do… to do… She thought of her friend Angela and wished for a moment that she had had the same experience with boys. No, no… he couldn’t want that. He couldn’t.
‘Ve vill take you on z’agency yah? But ve haf rules. You will obey z’rules yah?’
Relief almost flooded Sally’s entire body. She wouldn’t have to… to… well, she wouldn’t, would she?
‘Oh yes, Mr Welsh,’ she blurted. ‘I would, I really would obey the rules!’
Giving her soft bottom a final squeeze, Boris let go and levered himself to his feet. He towered hugely over her He had stopped beaming.
‘Goot,’ he said. ‘Goot. Ve haf z’first lesson, yah?’
‘Lesson?’ Sally puzzled aloud in a tiny voice. ‘Lesson, Mr Welsh?’
He took her firmly by the arm and marched her across to the chair she had just vacated. To Sally’s surprise he let go of her and sat down. Just for a moment she dared to look directly at him. He seemed very serious and there were little beads of perspiration on his forehead.
‘Now you get over z’knee, yah? Ziz iz z’discipline. All z’girls on z’agency haf z’discipline vhen they break z’rules, yah?’
Sally wasn’t quite sure that she had heard him correctly. Surely he couldn’t mean that he wanted to spank her! She noticed that he was patting his knee. He did want to spank her!
‘But I… I’ve never… I mean… well, I haven’t ever…’ The soft stammer was almost as fast as her heartbeat which had suddenly become very noticeable.
‘If you are on z’agency zen you obey z’rules.’ His voice had raised quite a bit and… oh dear, he was getting angry. Perhaps she had to do what he wanted. Perhaps it was the only way. She took a deep breath.
‘Come!’ Boris snapped impatiently.
Sally bit her lip. She had to do it. She just had to!
Boris started to beam again and he had every reason to as the warm, appealing body settled itself across his lap. One of his podgy hands appeared as if by magic on the upper curve of the slender thighs.
‘Goot,’ said Boris. ‘Ziz iz goot, yah?’ He patted the soft, knickered globes. ‘Now ve haf z’discipline. Ziz iz necessary for z’naughty girls on z’agency who are late, yah!’ He adjusted Sally’s hips so that her sweet bottom was just a little higher and her face practically touching the floor.
She stared at the maroon carpet and gasped. The waiting was simply awful. All she could think of was that she wanted to get it over with. As quickly as possible.
Boris gave the soft, chubby offerings a hard pat. They undulated rapidly.
‘Yah! Yah!’ exclaimed Boris with enthusiasm.
Sally squeezed her eyes tightly shut and caught her breath. The silence that she could hear was soon dominated by her own heartbeat. Then, before she realised what was happening, he had pulled her knickers right down to her knees.
‘No… no Sally cried. ‘You can’t… you can’t!’
‘Ve must carry out z’discipline in z’proper vay, yah?’
He gave the naked pink cushions another hard pat as if to test their resilience.
‘Oh!’ said Sally breathlessly.
Hardly had her voice died away when Boris spanked her for the first time. The loud crack of hard hand meeting soft bottom reverberated through the large office, filling the silent space and electrifying the atmosphere. Sally barely heard it. Supercharged needles of pure fire ignited her bottom and raged through her senses.
‘Oh please… oh… ohhh!’ wailed Sally.
Boris looked down at the sharp red hand print on the girl’s right buttock. Then he spanked the left one even harder. Just as quickly a matching shape appeared, quivering at first and then sharpening as the whimpering girl sagged across his knees.
‘Oh no… no…’ she sobbed softly.
For the third time Boris’s hand slapped sharply into the beautiful, girlish buttocks, landing exactly between the two marks. Instantly fusing them into one.
Sally bit her lip, stifling the unhappy little moan that had started to escape her open mouth. By now the stingy fire had spread, throbbing and pulsing its way through her entire bottom and upper thighs. Even her body was starting to tremble.
‘Oh please, Mr Welsh… please…’ she wailed. ‘It hurts…’
‘Ve must have…’ — SMACK! — ‘z’proper discipline if…’ — SMACK! — ‘ve are to model for…’ — SMACK! — ‘z’ Bernard Welsh Model…’ — SMACK! — ‘Agency…’ — SMACK! — ‘all z’girls…’ — SMACK! SMACK! — ‘are alvays arriving on…’ — SMACK! SMACK! — ‘time.’ — SMACK!…
Boris was getting into his usual rhythm. Encouraged by the glowing, plump, cute little bottom he spanked happily away, the pink mounds jiggling delightfully with each firm impact. He licked his lips. The perspiration on his forehead had turned to pouring sweat because of his enthusiastic exertion. Boris did appreciate a nice bottom — especially a red one!
Across his lap the delicious nude body was wriggling and squirming in an attempt to remove its hot seat from the firing line. It took most of Boris’s strength to hold it down with his free hand.
When the main target area looked nicely scorched. Boris turned his attention to the slim, silky thighs. The first smack on the right one was particularly hard, causing a dull pink blotch to slowly appear.
‘Owwww… owwww…!’ cried Sally. ‘Oh please stop… please stop, Mr Welsh. PLEASE…!’
He smacked the left thigh equally hard. Poor Sally almost catapulted off his lap in agony.
‘Oh no… no…’ she sobbed. ‘I won’t ever be late again, Mr Welsh. I won’t… I promise I won’t!’
Boris paused for a moment and stroked the long creamy columns, testing their firm warmth with an even hotter palm. Two large beads of sweat trickled down his forehead, hung for a moment from the shaggy eyebrows and then plopped saltily on to Sally’s raw bottom. He mopped his brow.
‘Goot. Goot,’ panted Boris. ‘Ve are learnink z’lesson, yah?’
Sally undulated her hot bottom in discomfort.
‘Oh yes, Mr Welsh. I certainly won’t ever be late for modelling. HONEST!’
‘Yah,’ said Boris. ‘Zis iz goot, yah?’
He stroked the chubby red bottom and patted it gently.
‘Zen ve finish z’discipline, yah?’
‘Oh yes, Mr Welsh… yes please!’ Sally pleaded.
‘Goot,’ said Boris. SLAP! He spanked the right thigh again. SLAP! And then the left. SMACK! His hand bounced off the more resilient right buttock. SMACK! It flattened the left.
‘Owwww… oh!’ yelped Sally. ‘I thought…’ — SLAP! — ‘Owwww…’ — SMACK! — ‘it was…’ — SLAP! — ‘ohhhh…’ — SMACK! — ‘finished…’ — SLAP!…
‘Yah. Yah!’ said Boris. He was alternating his attention and spanks between the firm, smooth thighs and the soft, hot bottom. Young Sally certainly had delightful charms and Boris gave them his full appreciation the only way he knew. Almost mesmerised he continued, watching the red bottom react after each slap. His hand was scorching.
Poor Sally had stopped sobbing. The spanking ceased to hurt her. She still felt the hard smacks and slaps, but now she hardly noticed them compared to the baking heat which seemed to cook her bottom and upper thighs.
Relief flooded Sally’s senses, momentarily drowning the awful stinging. She was hauled to her feet and left to struggle the modest knickers back over burning flesh. By the time she had finished, Boris was back on his throne. Already, little blue clouds were rolling lazily across the desk top as he puffed rapidly on another SuperKing.
When she had finished dressing, Sally elected to stand in front of the big desk instead of sitting in the low chair. Standing had two advantages. One, she could see Boris much better and two, there was no unnecessary pressure on her sorely smarting bottom. She shuffled uncomfortably as he looked at her with undisguised enthusiasm.
‘Zo!’ he said at last. ‘Z’discipline iz very important for all z’models, yah? You learn z’lesson. Goot?’
‘Er… er…yes, Mr Welsh.’ She looked down with embarrassment. ‘I suppose so…’
He opened one of the desk drawers and extracted an embossed leather wallet and a small bottle.
‘Now,’ Boris beamed. ‘Ve must pay z’expenses, yah?’
He handed her a crisp £20 note.
‘I d-d-don’t have any change, Mr Welsh,’ Sally stuttered.
‘Pah!’ Boris said. ‘Buy z’ice cream, yah?’ He chuckled at his own joke then handed her the small bottle. It was cheap Japanese perfume.
‘You vill smell like z’flowers now, yah?’
Boris was in rare good humour. He was beaming from ear to ear and the SuperKing was billowing smoke like a power station chimney stack. Sally coughed.
Boris stubbed out the SuperKing and searched for another.
‘You must go to z’doctor wiz z’cough, yah?’ He thumbed the Dunhill into life and looked at her.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘ve make z’appointment for z’test photos, yah? You vill come to zis office nex’ Monday at vun-zhirty.’
Sally looked extremely agitated. She shifted nervously from foot to foot.
‘Er… yes… I mean no…’ she started. Boris noticed that her hands were gently rubbing her bottom. Sally hesitantly raised her doe eyes and looked at him. She was finding it difficult to reply. Everything was so confusing. Her bottom had smarted like billy-oh when he had spanked her, but now she felt warm and comfortable. She seemed to glow all over. He was smiling at her and she found it impossible not to like him. He was just like a kindly uncle. Perhaps he was an ‘uncle’ to all his girls…
‘Goot,’ said Boris. ‘Zen we make it qvorter past, yah?’ He laughed again and there was that strange clunk as he pressed the switch at the base of his desk.
The red light went off above the door in Jeanie’s office. Her eavesdropping finished, she returned the intercom switch to its normal position, quickly locked the door and scurried down the stairs. She was halfway down when Boris ushered Sally out of his office.
After the girl had gone, Boris quickly tidied the desk as part of his leaving ritual. He noticed that he had left the intercom on. He flicked the switch to its off position.
‘Zo…’ Boris said aloud to himself. ‘Yeanie haz been listening through z’intercom. Tomorrow ve shall zee about ziz, yah?’He carefully locked the door and shambled down the stairs and into the street. He was still beaming.