From Blushes Uniform Girls 8
It was a rather damp and muggy Autumn afternoon. Earlier, the ground had been filled with excited, enthusiastic kids running, jumping, throwing a variety of objects, or simply horsing around. By and large, they were unsupervised. Technique was at a discount. Being there and doing something energetic was all. That was the reason, reflected Herb Wainwright, why British athletics, on the international scene, was in such an abysmal state. We got ecstatic about winning a bronze, very excited about coming fourth or fifth, even gratified if one of our team reached a final. It wasn’t good enough in his view. The Americans, the Russians, the Germans were out to win. Coming second or third was considered a failure.
That was the difference. Britain, in this present age, lacked the true competitive spirit.
Herb gazed around the near-deserted ground. Hurdles had been left lying on the track, javelins lay like cast-aside pea-sticks in the centre, nobody had bothered to remove the high jump bar. Typical, he thought. Typically sloppy. No wonder the nation was going downhill fast. Not only in the athletic sense, of course. The same sort of attitude now prevailed in commerce and industry. Herb watched as a few remaining youngsters gave up on a distant long jump and scampered towards the changing rooms. Canbury Sports Ground was virtually deserted. It was a time he liked. Now he could concentrate.
Herb Wainwright looked down. What he saw was pleasurable enough. It was, in fact, Pam Stevens’ bottom high in the air. It was a well-rounded bottom, one without surplus fat, clad in the briefest of blue running shorts. Above the shorts was a well-filled white singlet — necessitating a tightly-hauled-in brassiere on the sports field. The girl, under his direction, was practicing starts from the blocks.
Away she went once more… lungs drawing deep breaths, arms and legs pounding. Putting everything into it. That’s my girl, said Herb to himself. One day she’ll be a champion, because I know how to motivate her.
‘Good action, Pam,’ he called as the girl turned after twenty-five yards or so, and came back, breasts heaving. The singlet, damp with sweat, clung to her. ‘Just a couple more, then we’ll give it a rest.’
‘OK,’ nodded Pam. She was a rather plain-faced girl with blonde hair, but her figure was lithe and youthful. Shapely but not plump. Once more she settled herself into the blocks. Once more Herb’s gaze fastened on that lovely, uplifted bottom… the shorts stretched to ripping point. It was sheer physical beauty. Athletic poetry.
‘Marks,’ said Herb. The bottom rose higher. Oh what a delight! ‘Set…’ Herb held her there for rather too long. He couldn’t help it. ‘Go!’ he yelled.
Pam Stevens took off, but not as well as she might. For reasons unknown to her, she had been kept in the ‘Set’ position for considerably longer than was usual. That was no help when one wanted a fast start.
‘Hmmff… hmmmfff…’ as she returned. Those apple-round breasts rose and fell energetically.
‘One more,’ said Herb. ‘And this time, really go for it girl.’
‘OK Herbie…’ Pam had always called him Herbie, right from the first, when she had been only 14 years old. That was four years ago. That was when her father had died in a car accident. He had been a great pal of Herb’s. Dorrie, Pam’s mother had taken it very badly… retreating within a valium-lined shell out of which she occasionally burst into brief alcoholic excess. Herb had become kind of second dad to Pam. Not that, he had to admit, he had very fatherly feelings towards the girl once she had passed the sixteen mark and her young bottom had begun to swell like a ripe pumpkin. At that stage, Herb Wainwright had already been training the girl for a year also, since he recognised her as a natural athlete. He had always encouraged her, supported her, put his hand in his pocket when equipment or travelling expenses were required. At first, Herb’s motives had been completely altruistic. He liked the kid, felt sorry for her, wanted to help her. Then, later, when she began to shape up like a woman, Herb had to admit, there were other feelings creeping in. Desires, one might say. Lust, even. All the same, he kept himself well under control. He was content to have this shapely young creature in his charge, developing her mentally and physically, filling her with the will and skill to become a national champion. Perhaps, one day, a world champion. In short, at 38, Herb had made Pam his ‘hobby’. She was neither a daughter nor a girlfriend. Something in between.
‘On your marks…’ Pam got down once more. Oh those splendid curves! ‘Set!’ Up… up… oh even more curvaceous! ‘Go!’ Off the girl went, hindquarters waggling violently as she put everything into it. She was really powering. Herb Wainwright felt proud of her. Yes… one day he would make her a champion. But, before then, a lot had to be done.
Back she came, spiked shoes crimping into the sanded track. Pam passed her hand through her short hair. She looked a little tired. Herb was unconcerned about that. If you were going to reach the top, you had to put everything in. You had to be selfless; you had to drive yourself beyond normal limits. That was what he intended to make Pam do. She had natural ability, but that was not enough. Champions were made by giving themselves utterly and not caring by what means they reached the heights. If they were burnt-out at 25, that was too bad. Their compensation would be memories of having reached the highest peaks of achievement. That was better than stodging through life as a below-average citizen, wasn’t it? Sure it was, Herb Wainwright told himself. Strange, therefore, that his peaks of sporting achievement should have been a place in the school second eleven soccer team and a medal for being third in a house relay race. Many would have said he was transferring his own failures on to the back of Pam Stevens and, through her, seeking vicarious success.
They would not have been far wrong.
‘Right Pam,’ he said, ‘put on your tracksuit and take a ten-minute breather. Then I want you to do a time-test.’
A nerve in the girl’s cheek twitched; she bit her lips. ‘Do I have to this evening, Herbie?’ she asked. ‘I’m not feeling 100%.’
‘That’s when you have to drive yourself, Pam,’ came the instant — and expected — reply. ‘Calling on extra reserves in training is all part of the making of a champion.’
Pam Stevens pouted. She was beginning to wonder if all this grinding effort in the evening was worthwhile. Apart from what now, it seemed, was to become a regular practice. Those visits to the changing room afterwards. That had started about a fortnight ago. Herbie explained to her how he had got the idea from Bob Pritchard who used to train Jane Weatherland, the New Zealand world champion at 400 metres. He had even shown Pam an extract from the letter. It had read.
‘…in fact, the only way I could get extra effort out of Jane was to treat her like a schoolgirl. In short, if her work wasn’t up to standard, if her times were bad, I used to give her a spanking. It was amazing how it worked. Results improved remarkably. I did this with her right up to the age of 20 when, as you may remember, she broke the world record. And I’ll let you into a secret about that. I told Jane that, if she didn’t break the record on that day, I wouldn’t just spank her afterwards. I promised her a sound caning! Well, it worked, didn’t it? Why don’t you try out these methods with your protégée?’
Needless to say, Pam had protested vigorously. However, Herbie had persisted with his argument. He seemed to think it a marvellous ‘incentive’ to effort. ‘It worked with Jane Weatherland, didn’t it? Why don’t you give it a try, girl’ After all, it can do you no harm. I’m not going to be all that severe with you.’ He had put an arm around her shoulders. ‘You know I’m very fond of you, Pam. It would all be for your own good. You do want to make a name for yourself, don’t you?’
Pam supposed she did… and ultimately agreed a trial period for this ‘incentive scheme’, as Herbie called it. The first time he had conducted her to the changing rooms (long after everyone else had left them, of course), was because she had failed by three seconds to make the target he had set her in the 800 metres. In the quietness of the store-room leading off the changing rooms, Herbie had seated himself and pulled Pam over his knees. It was difficult for him to control his excitement as he looked down at that swelling bottom, still damp with the perspiration of effort. He felt the heat in his loins; told himself he mustn’t overdo it. Though he kept saying that this was all for Pam’s good, he knew in his heart of hearts this was something he had yearned to do for a long time. Looking at that young bottom in those tight running shorts, evening after evening, had had that effect on him.
That first evening he had given Pam six medium-hard slaps on her moist hot buttock cheeks. Three on each cheek. The girl had remained silent apart from little gasps as his palm made contact. She had, however, wriggled and bounced about quite a bit over Herbie’s thighs. He found it gave him far more pleasure than he thought it would.
‘OK Pam, track suit on. That’s all for this evening,’ he had said when it was over. The girl’s cheeks were flushed, she averted her eyes. ‘Wasn’t too bad was it?’ suggested Herbie. ‘But don’t think I’ll always go easy on you, Pam.’
Herbie had been as good as his word. In the following two weeks, the couple paid three more visits to the changing rooms. The slappings increased from six to twelve… and got harder. Still Pam did no more than gasp through clenched teeth, though her squirmings got more urgent. Herbie was well satisfied with this new procedure. Not only because he enjoyed handing out the disciplinary treatment but because Pam’s times were definitely improving!
‘You see,’ he said to her, ‘it’s working.’ Pam just sulked and remained silent. When she had been younger, she had naturally thought of Herbie as a substitute father. Now she was beginning to wonder. With this new intimate-spanking drill, a new element seemed to be creeping into their relationship. A sexual one. Pam was disconcerted. Her own feelings were strangely volatile. After all, Herbie was old enough to be her father.
‘Tracksuit off.’ The ten-minute break was up. Pam quickly stripped down to the minimum, then loosened muscles in her arms and legs with jerking-twisting movements. They had the effect of making her breasts dance most prettily. Herbie was most appreciative. ‘I want the same time as last evening,’ he said. Pam, as usual, would be running the 800 metres. It was her best distance. She looked worried at his instructions. Last evening had been her best time yet.
‘I told you… I’m not feeling at my best,’ complained Pam.
‘Then think of what can happen to you afterwards, my girl,’ said Herbie, giving her an encouraging grin. ‘That may help you!’ Pam’s lower lips stuck out, her eyes flashed with sudden anger. ‘Get to your marks…’ It was a moment Herbie always loved. Down the girl crouched. What a superb, young animal she was. Lithe yet shapely. ‘Set…’ Up came that taut-curving bottom, thin blue shorts clinging like a second skin. Holding it there for a few moments then: ‘Go!’
Away went Pam, strong thighs pounding and juddering, arms pumping, breasts bouncing. Stopwatch in hand, Herbie looked on with the utmost satisfaction. He was going to make this girl a champ. He really was. She had all the athleticism it required and from now on, it was going to be all in the mind. A matter of will. Being able to break through the pain barrier when the going got tough. It was his job to psych her up for it.
As Pam went smoothly past him at the 400-metre mark, he yelled out her time. It was two seconds outside what was required. Very doubtful if she would make it. He watched her straining down the back straight. Head going back, stride shortening. It was no good. The girl had blown it. At the line, she was six seconds down on her previous best. Blowing more heavily than usual, she bent right forward, hands on her knees, shaking her head. A nice view for Herbie as he approached… and announced the time.
‘I… haa… told you… hhaaa… I wasn’t up to it this evening,’ panted Pam almost angrily.
‘I don’t want to hear excuses,’ said Herbie firmly. ‘You’ve got all it requires. From now on, it is a question of mind over matter.’ He headed across the centre of Canbury Athletic Ground towards the distant changing rooms. They were now only just visible in the Autumn gloaming. A faint mist was beginning to rise. Herbie gave a little shiver. It would be nice to get back in front of a warm fire. Even if he did have no one to share it with since his wife Freda had left him some five years before. Herbie had a momentary vision of Pam sitting in an armchair opposite him — then quickly dismissed it. Absurd. The girl was young enough to be his daughter. He looked back. The girl was trailing slowly and disconsolately across the field some hundred yards behind him. But she was following. That was the important thing.
Herbie loved the ‘feel’ of those changing rooms. Their quietness at that time of day; their bare, utilitarian aspect. The mingling smell of soap, disinfectant and polish; most of all the privacy of the store room once its door was shut. As he waited patiently, Herbie removed the rubber-soled plimsoll from its hiding place in one of the cupboards.
It was time to take sterner measures…
Pam came in, looking petulant. ‘I am ashamed of you,’ said Herbie. ‘Haven’t you any guts, girl? Can’t you make yourself overcome difficulties?’
There was a shrug of drooping shoulders. Then Pam caught sight of the plimsoll and her eyes widened. ‘Oh no…’ she gasped.
‘I’m afraid so, young lady. This evening, I shall have to be more severe with you. It is the only way I can see of making you put in the required effort tomorrow evening. No… not tomorrow. That’s a rest night. On Thursday evening. Don’t forget, it’s the County Junior Championships on Saturday. That’s where you’ve simply got to win, Pam, if you’re ever going up the big ladder. And you are, believe me!’ Herbie whacked the rubber sole on his palm. ‘This is going to hurt but it’s going to make those legs of yours move faster.’
‘P-please…’ wailed Pam. She felt drained. Could she go on with this? But what a waste to chuck away two or more years of rigorous training!
‘Only six, Pam,’ said Herbie as calmly as he could. ‘But let me tell you something. If you don’t win that race on Saturday, you’ll find yourself getting a dozen. A real hard dozen!’ He was, of course, applying the Bob Pritchard technique. It would be most interesting to see if it worked.
‘Perhaps I don’t want to win that stupid race,’ said Pam. Very schoolgirlish.
‘Don’t be silly, youngster,’ said Herbie softly. ‘Do you want to waste your talent? And all the time you’ve put in so far?’
Pam Stevens knew she didn’t really. She was simply in a ‘down’ phase at that moment. Ah well, she supposed she would have to go through with it. But that plimsoll looked pretty nasty! ‘No… I suppose I don’t,’ she admitted.
‘Right then,’ said Herbie, more happily. ‘Let’s get some incentive into you. Kneel on the floor, by this chair, please Pam.’ Herbie indicated the wooden trestle he normally sat on when he spanked the girl.
‘You m-mean… on the floor?’
‘That’s right. Then I want you to bend right over the chair seat, placing your hands flat on the floor.’
‘Is…is it r-really necessary?’
‘I think it will be most convenient,’ replied Herbie, trying not to get overexcited. ‘Come along. Let’s get it over with. You know it’s for your own good.’ Oh how often Pam had heard that!
Hesitantly she knelt on the hard floor. All this was a bit much at the end of the day; after you’d been sweating round a track. But what else could she do? Either give up… or go through with it. Pam placed her belly on the wooden bench and bent over, feeling the flesh of her bottom tautening. Oh Lord, a plimsoll would be far worse than his hand! Could she stand it?
Herbie looked down with smug gratification. He really had got this girl under his control now. Was he not the Svengali of modern athletics? There she was, in the pink of condition, the sweat drying off her, clad in clinging little cotton vest and shorts, presenting a most beautifully-rounded bottom to him. Could a man of his tastes ask for more?
He gripped the plimsoll. He mustn’t use it too hard. But he must make her realise this was something special. ‘Just six,’ he repeated. Then he whacked the rubber-backed sole down on the flinching bottom presented to him ‘Yee…owww!’ cried Pam, jerking up, her hands clamping to the broad swathe of pink-red which had instantly appeared over her buttock-cheeks ‘Ooohh… oh God… that hurt…’
‘I intended it to,’ answered Herbie. ‘I want extra effort from you, youngster! Come on… back over you go…’
‘Oh plee…eeease…’ All the same, Pam bent over the bench again. ‘Not… not as… h-hard as that…’
Perhaps she’s right, reflected Herbie. That broad lump of rubber must be hell on bare flesh. He’d better go a bit easier. He swung again, but not as hard as the first time.
‘Oww…aagghh!’ Another broad band of pink-red, with Pam twisting along the bench. ‘no… oo… oh… no… ooo!’
‘Get your hands back on the floor.’
‘P-please… no more…’ Flinching, the young bottom curved again. Pam’s head was up and half turned. ‘Pleee…eease…’
This time the plimsoll fell at the lowest part of Pam’s bottom, just where it joined her thighs. It made her twist right over, legs kicking. ‘Yee…oww… no… no… no more!’ The girl was on her knees on the floor, hands stretched out imploringly.
‘Hurts, does it, Pam?’
‘Yes… ahh… yes… I’ve had enough…’
‘But it will make you try harder, won’t it? A lot harder! Come on, get back over the trestle. Only three more to come. Be brave, my girl!’
‘Oh Herbie… Herbie… how can you?’ The bottom came back and up; nates contracted in anticipatory dread.
Number four descended, sending Pam squirming again along the wooden bench. Now her clenching buttocks were red all over. I must be careful, thought Herbie suddenly. I don’t want her marked for the Junior Championships. Perhaps one more would suffice.
‘Yeee… aagghh…’ Once more Pam twisted right over, kicking wildly as she clamped her hands to her bottom. ‘Ohh… ohhh… that’s e-enough…’
‘I think, perhaps, it is,’ said Herbie, breathing rather faster than usual. ‘I’ll let you off the last one, young lady. But, don’t forget, there’ll be no let off on Saturday evening if you don’t come home with that trophy!’ Was she listening? Herbie didn’t know. The girl was crouched down, hands over her face, sobbing. My goodness, that was a very red bottom. No doubt at all his plimsoll was far more severe than his palm. He went into one of the washrooms and returned with a wet flannel. Pam was still crouching. ‘Here,’ he said, this will make you feel better.’ He pressed the cold flannel to the burning flesh… and Pam gasped again. First with shock, then with growing relief. ‘Better?’ he enquired gently as he soaked her thoroughly.
‘Yes… ahh… yes…’ Pam was sobbing again — but now with thankfulness.
‘I’m sorry I had to do that,’ said Herbie hypocritically. He now had a hand on Pam’s hot-wet bottom, not merely the flannel. He soothed her softly. Oh that lovely young, succulent flesh!
Rather to his surprise, he suddenly found the girl’s arms around his neck. Pam was still sobbing. ‘O-ohh… ohhh… Herbie I will do better… I will… I promise.’ She was kissing him on the cheek. ‘I will do better. I don’t want to let you down… really… really!’Herb Wainwright could not ever remember being quite so gratified — or happy — in his whole life!
|A little something to finish her off, with the marks of yesterday’s caning still there.|