Story from Janus 24 by Simon Banks
A good Company wife was expected to co-operate. If she didn’t, her husband could expect to remain firmly at the very bottom of the ladder…
The room was plushly furnished, the pile of the carpet seemingly a foot thick and the modern paintings on the walls looking very much like originals. The view from the tinted picture window was of the shimmering river fifteen floors below with, beyond, a panoramic sweep of London. The man, smiling, led the young woman to an armchair which gently but firmly moulded itself to the shapely outline of her body. She crossed her legs a little nervously as he smiled again, looking down at her.
‘A drink, Mrs Mitchell? No? Very well. Now, first of all, I must emphasise, I cannot emphasise too greatly, that anything I may discuss today is in the strictest confidence. It must be repeated to no one. Not even, I am afraid, your husband.’
He would be in his fifties, a somewhat bulky figure in an exquisitely-cut Savile Row suit, his sleek round face dominated eyes that were sharp and appraising. But then they were entitled to appraise because he was Mr Rollison, a very very important person in that very large and very powerful conglomerate, Hanbury International; and she was no more than the young (21) wife of an equally young (23) and very junior (and also very new) recruit in the same organization.
Yes, Angela Mitchell accepted that Mr Rollison’s eyes were clearly entitled to appraise her just as much as they liked. In any case simply to be sitting there in that opulent office in the company of this most important person was, for Angela, more than a little overwhelming.
He sat down closely opposite and gave her another frank appraisal, this time primarily aimed at her knees. She coloured slightly. With her best grey linen suit she had on nylons and suspender belt — they had recently become rather fashionable again. She felt a moment’s panic that she might be showing nylon tops — plus bare thigh and black suspender straps. And such a display would hardly go with the image of a proper young executive’s wife.
But at the same time to tug at her skirt might make her appear prudish, and silly: a silly and inexperienced young woman. She felt even more out of her depth, and decidedly vulnerable.
The phone call had come as a shock. His secretary inquiring if she was likely to be in town at any time and if so could she visit Mr Rollison for a little chat. Angela knew it was not unknown for the wife of a new recruit to get such an invitation from one of the top men. To make the ladies feel part of the Company. But even so… She had met him before, at the reception which she and Gerry attended. But there had been so many new faces and names that neither the face nor the name really registered.
She smiled rather nervously. ‘Oh, I am very discreet, Mr Rollison. I appreciate… well, in business…’ Her sentence tailed off into nothing: she thought, I certainly sound silly.
He smiled: the smile of a man who, unlike his visitor, was sure, confident. She was very pretty, curling auburn hair cut short, a soft full-lipped mouth. And the figure too, softly-rounded: he had especially noticed at the reception the full firm backside in her tight short dress. Yes, a very attractive package: young, soft, ripe, probably inexperienced. She would be much appreciated. Would she prove receptive, though? Co-operative?
He said smoothly, ‘A wife can be a most important asset for a young man at the beginning of his career, Mrs Mitchell. She can help his career immeasurably. On the other hand…’
Angela nervously re-crossed her legs. Mr Rollison did this time glimpse nylons and black suspenders. He continued, ‘Because there is a certain area where she can be of great assistance to the Company. On the social side, I am talking about. And if she can be helpful in that way, I can assure you it is not lost sight of in terms of her husband’s advancement.’
Angela said seriously, ‘Of course I am extremely keen to help my husband in any way I can… and naturally the Company as well.’
‘I am thinking specifically of foreign visitors,’ said Mr Rollison. ‘The Company has major international dealings as I expect you know, and we constantly get foreign clients… German, French, Swiss, American. The Company entertains them of course but, well, some clients do like a more personal touch.’
He looked frankly into the pretty face, the green-hazel eyes. ‘You can understand, Mrs Mitchell, I am sure, that a visitor may wish for a lady’s company, that is perfectly natural. We do our best and we can certainly provide a professional companion, but a professional person, however charming, can never have the fresh natural appeal of a young married lady.’
Angela felt herself colouring. What exactly were these young married ladies supposed to do?
Mr Rollison obviously guessed her thoughts. He leaned forward confidentially. ‘Mrs Mitchell, I will be frank. We do get visitors who require a lady for the very basic reasons. Quite simply they require, among other things, sexual intercourse, and we do have clients who are only happy if they can have a young married lady for this purpose.’
He smiled. ‘The appeal is obvious, of course. With a young wife, such as yourself, they are clearly getting something very choice: a fresh and lovely young woman whose body has not been sampled by every Tom, Dick or Harry. And I can tell you, again in the strictest confidence, that we do have young wives who are prepared to perform this service for the Company. I hope I’m not being too frank for you.’
Angela Mitchell’s face had turned a delicate shade of pink. She nervously shifted her position. This was really awful!
Mr Rollison smiled again. ‘But I am not asking you to do that, Mrs Mitchell. I can sense that you would not find it at all easy to offer that service to the Company; and therefore you can rest assured that it will not be requested.’
He sat back in his chair. ‘However there are other pleasures to be had from a pretty young woman besides penetrating her sexually. Tell me, my dear lady, when you were a girl did you, at school or elsewhere, ever receive what is known as corporal punishment? Did you ever get your undoubtedly pretty bottom spanked, or perhaps slippered?’
Angela flushed. ‘No… certainly not!’
Another smile. ‘It is not at all unknown, you know. Let me say this then: you must surely be aware that a gentleman, well, a lady also but perhaps mostly a gentleman — that he may obtain considerable pleasure from such an act? From spanking a girl’s or young woman’s bottom? Indeed from applying the cane to it as well. You must be aware of that?’
Angela, now in considerable confusion, shock her head. Feeling distinctly unhappy she heard Mr Rollison say:
‘You are evidently a very innocent young woman, Mrs Mitchell. That of course is no problem. Not at all. Freshness and innocence are always highly prized. As long as you are agreeable, naturally. The fact is we have a certain client. A very important client. A gentleman from Zurich…’
She came out in a daze, hardly able to believe it. Mr Rollison’s suggestion… it just took her breath away. On the train home it seemed that all the other passengers — the commuters, the wives back from their shopping trips — were looking at her as if they knew. Knew that she had just had that really awful proposition put to her.
The proposition: that this man, Mr Vollmann his name was, Hanbury’s very important Swiss client, would be visiting next week and would like a companion one afternoon. He would like a pretty young married woman and in Mr Rollison’s opinion Angela Mitchell would fill the bill admirably.
‘Just a friendly visit,’ Mr Rollison had said, ‘Nothing at all to get excited about.’
With a rising sense of panic Angela had asked for it to be spelled out.
‘Oh, just the usual. I suppose he’ll want to spank your bottom and quite probably cane you as well. But don’t worry, he won’t cause any damage. It won’t leave any permanent marks, we would have his agreement on that score.’
She had just looked at him, open-mouthed.
She didn’t have to go, Mr Rollison had stressed that. Oh no, the Company would certainly not force an employee’s wife into something she didn’t want. She had the choice. But what a choice, because Mr Rollison made it clear that a good Company wife was expected to co-operate: and if she didn’t her husband could expect to remain firmly at the very bottom of the ladder.
Or, thought Angela, suddenly experiencing a tremor of panic, they might even find an excuse to sack him. Gerry had been very fortunate to get the job with Hanburys and his salary, even the starting one, was very good. Without it, well, it would be goodbye to that super ranch-type house that they’d both set their hearts on. For which they had already gone to the Building Society to inquire about a mortgage.
Sitting there on the homeward-bound train she suddenly realised she was sweating. That prospect was just too terrible to contemplate.
So the choice was stark. She couldn’t tell Gerry. Apart from Mr Rollison’s instructions not to, she could see this was something she had to work out for herself. It was Friday, there would be the whole weekend to think about it. Agonize about it. Mr Rollison had to have an answer by Monday, because he might have to arrange someone else. Someone else, clearly, whose husband would then be a favoured man.
She could see in fact that there was no real choice. She would have to agree. Grit her teeth and however mortifying it was, let it happen.
The weekend was awful, trying to act as if nothing had happened. Gerry knew of her visit to Mr Rollison but assumed it was just a courtesy call. He wanted to hear all about it, all about that very important man. She was rather vague, said it had been a very short visit. He had a very plush office, though. That at least she could safely say. On Sunday they drove out once more to look at that dreamy house.
And on Monday morning she phoned Mr Rollison with her inevitable reply.
Wednesday was the day. Wednesday afternoon when this man, Mr Vollmann, was presumably free from his important dealings with Hanburys. At least being the afternoon meant there should be no problem with Gerry knowing. She would simply be out shopping if he called.
Travelling up on the train she felt just numb. Grit your teeth and think of England, she told herself. Or that dreamy house. On this warm June day she had on a knee-length summer dress, tight at the bodice showing off her firm breasts, and with a full skirt. Also her nylons and a suspender belt again with medium high heels. That was what the older woman’s voice on the phone had suggested — a short full skirt and the nylons.
‘I understand Mr Rollison rather likes nylons on a lady.’ The voice had been calm and confidential, as if it was the most normal thing in the world to be discussing. But then if you were used to talking to Company wives who had agreed to go to bed with clients, perhaps it was no big thing.
The confidential voice had further advised against too much make-up. ‘Just a nice fresh and rather innocent appearance. Oh and underwear: nothing too exotic in that area, please. Smart but simple. White or pastel shade would be excellent, but nothing garish.’
It was incredible — but obviously Hanbury’s went to some trouble to cater to their clients’ wishes.
The hotel was an expensive one in the West End and she felt rather like some high-class prostitute going in there in the afternoon. That feeling, that her body was available for use, had already been heightened on the journey across London. She had taken the Underground rather than a taxi, which would get her there all too quickly. The tube was crowded and she had had to stand in a crush and for several stops there had been an insistent male hand, openly feeling her bottom through the thin summer dress. It had been awful but in the crush there was nothing she could do, and he had just kept on doing it to her.
So she was no longer numb but fully aware, biting her nails almost, as she rang the bell. He opened the door and smiled.
‘Ah, Mrs Mitchell, I believe?’
He was what you might imagine as a German: a squarish rather stern face with gold-rimmed spectacles and grey-blonde hair smoothed down. About Mr Rollison’s age: fiftyish.
Trying to control her trembling she went in. The plushness of the suite matched Mr Rollison’s room. He offered her a drink but she refused. It wouldn’t calm her, would just as likely make her feel sick.
They sat down, he started asking her about herself, about Gerry; told her she was very pretty, very charming. Then said he presumed she took part in CP with her husband. And his friends as well? He seemed most surprised at her statement that she had never done it before. Wasn’t it a well-known fact that the English were very keen on CP?
‘So, a real beginner, eh? That is very nice for me!’
She flushed, felt sick.
‘Shall we begin then? I am as it happens very keen on the schoolgirl scene. I would like you as a schoolgirl, Mrs Mitchell. A big schoolgirl, a Sixth Former, is that it in England? You will make a most charming one.’
He got up and went to a box on the table. Opening it he took out a navy pleated skirt, a white blouse, then a red-and-white striped tie.
‘You see, Mrs Mitchell: your school uniform. I believe it will fit. So if you will now take off your pretty dress and put these school items on.’
Angela gulped. She had never expected this — but did it make any difference? What was coming was going to be the same. She stood up. Reached for the zip of her red-flowered dress.
He watched, eyes alert, as she slipped out of it. She had a waist petticoat underneath and he told her to remove that as well. Underneath, her plain brief white nylon knickers matched her light bra and the white lace suspender belt which fastened her dark nylons. She grabbed quickly for the school uniform.
Mr Vollmann fastened the tie for her — then reflectively squeezed her breasts. ‘Very good!’ he said. ‘Excellent!’
Then he lifted her skirt. ‘I especially like your nylons and the suspender belt. Most erotic. In this school that you go to we will say they are especially required by the Headmaster for all the Sixth Form girls. A requirement simply for the Headmaster’s own pleasure, I may say!’
The hand that wasn’t holding up her skirt took hold of one suspender and snapped it against her thigh. Then he dropped the skirt and sat down on an upright chair.
‘Now Mrs Mitchell, you have been sent to your Headmaster for some fault or other. Perhaps you have failed to do your homework, for instance. The Head is very strict with the bigger girls like yourself, an 18-year-old. You could easily be 18, Mrs Mitchell, you know. Because at 18 a girl should obviously know better.’
‘He therefore intends to spank your bottom. It will of course be your bare bottom: it is always the bare bottom with the big girls. So stand close in front of me, please. Good. Now please lift your skirt. Up round your waist.’
Could this really be happening? Perhaps it was simply a bad dream… She pulled up the school skirt.
His voice in the almost flawless English. ‘Good. A little higher. That is very good! Now your Headmaster always likes to take his pupils’ knickers down himself. So now we do it.’
His hands came out, to the waistband of the virginal white nylon knickers. Fingers into the waistband, then smoothly sliding them down, to her nyloned knees. She cringed: she knew she wasn’t dreaming. The eyes glinted behind the spectacles, she knew were real live eyes — staring fixedly at her red-brown bush.
He smiled. ‘Most charming, Mrs Mitchell. Almost perhaps one could say the tail — the brush is it in English — of a red squirrel. Not quite so bushy perhaps but certainly a splendid object.’
She gasped as his hand reached out and briefly fondled it.
‘Now turn round please. Let us see, as you might say, the seat of the action.’
She turned, still holding the pleated skirt high, and presented her full round buttocks. Another gasp as his hand, slightly cold, took hold of them, fondling, squeezing.
And then the next thing she knew she was over his lap, her head down near the carpet. And his hand was first fondling her bare bottom again and then was coming down: Smack!… Smack!… Smacking sharply down onto her soft bare flesh.
It stung, each smack a sharp smarting impact but worse than that was the feeling of humiliation, of subjugation. That she was having to lie there, bare-bottomed over a stranger’s lap and allow it to happen. She thought afterwards that having actual sexual intercourse, though shaming, could not have been quite so humiliating.
He kept on spanking, his hand systematically landing on every square inch of her bottom. Then, presumably when he’d had enough, he told her to get up.
She stood, thankfully allowing her skirt to fall back down. Was it just possibly all over? Mr Vollmann’s eyes were gleaming.
‘Good, Mrs Mitchell. Very good! You have a most spankable bottom. Now we quickly move forward — shall we say three days. You are unfortunately back in your Headmasters study once more. Another fault, I am afraid. Perhaps late, or seen going out with boys, something like that. Anyway, your Head is most concerned. Obviously a spanking will not be sufficient this time.’
‘No, unfortunately for this pretty schoolgirl it must now be the cane. So please now take your knickers down and take them right off. With your Headmaster it is always the knickers right off for a caning.’
Angela stood there, transfixed, as he walked across the room and came back with a cane.
‘Come along! Quickly! Your Headmaster does not like delay. There will be six strokes on the bare bottom.’
The only thing she could think was that she had to go through with it and presumably the sooner she did the sooner it would be over. She reached her hands up under the skirt. The white nylon knickers came down; she stepped out of them, gave them to Mr Vollmann’s waiting hand. Then numbly, as instructed, she bent herself over the arm of an armchair, her face down in its seat. She felt the skirt pulled up to her waist baring her upthrust buttocks. She bit her lip, clenched her hands.
Then Thwack! A horrendous stinging pain as the cane whipped into the full meat of her bottom. It was almost unbelievable, breath-stopping. She heard herself let out a desperate gasping howl, while her bottom made frantic writhing motions. Then Mr Vollmann’s hand on the tortured rear, intimately gripping it as he pushed it back high on the chair’s arm again.
The sharp voice. ‘Keep the bottom up, please!’
A short fearsome pause, then Thwack!… it juddered into her soft flesh again. She yelled out once more, bottom squirming.
The pause again, then the third agonizing Thwack! And after that they seemed to all merge into each other, and she could no longer tell what the number was. He had said it would be six but all she knew was the enormity of the pain. Continually rising as the horrendous sting from one stroke was added to by the next.
She had thought beforehand, wouldn’t it be awful if I cry? Angela Mitchell, 21 and a married woman, being caned on her bare bottom and crying! But well before the end she was crying, hot desperate tears, but now tears seemed the least of her worries. All that mattered was the dreadful stinging agony in her rear. A stinging agony that seemed to go on and on while her backside twisted and squirmed and her thighs, at first so primly together, were now no longer so — but she had no thought for that either.
Finally, though, the cane was not coming down any more. Had she had six, or twenty-six? she didn’t know, but Angela now heard his voice:
‘That is the finish. You can get up now.’
The pain was still there, for the moment still as bad as ever but at least it was over. Unsteadily she got to her feet. Mr Vollmann, little beads of perspiration on his face, asked if she would like a drink now.
Still tearful, Angela stuttered ‘Yes’. And managed to ask if she could wash her face.
Cold water splashed on her face in the bathroom, and then back to the gin-and-tonic Mr Vollmann had ready, made her feel a bit better. Gingerly, Angela sat on the settee, acutely conscious of the state of her bottom. It still stung awfully but at least the caning was over.
She suddenly remembered she was still wearing that schoolgirl outfit — and also she had no knickers on. Biting her lip Angela glanced across at Mr Vollmann who was sitting opposite.
‘Ca-can I get my clothes on now?’
He smiled. ‘Oh really Mrs Mitchell, you are in such a hurry! Are you now ready for the next stage then?’
Angela looked… Was she hearing correctly? Surely her awful ordeal was over; he had finished…
Her unasked question was at once answered. ‘There is of course one more session for the pretty schoolgirl. You see she is a very silly girl and a few days later is back in the Headmaster’s study once more. More ill-discipline of some description, I expect.
‘And when a girl returns for a third time the Head always takes her to the gymnasium, for a session of strenuous exercise in which she is kept up to her mark with frequent application of the cane. For this session she wears only a little sleeveless vest, with nothing else.’
He stood up, went to that box again and took out a white cotton sleeveless vest.
This is the garment, Mrs Mitchell. A little vest which of course will allow complete freedom for the girl’s exercises and also, at the same time, allow very good access for the cane. So now, as you are ready, will you please take off all your clothes and put on this garment.’
‘Hello darling! Did you have a good day? Mine was great!’
Gerry, home from the office, had come bounding in and enthusiastically grabbed his wife. Angela smiled inwardly as she returned his kiss. She had some idea what his ‘great day’ might involve.
It was Friday, 48 hours after her afternoon with Mr Vollmann. So she had had 48 hours to get over it but it was still vivid, almost unbelievable, in her mind. Being spanked and then caned, and especially that last bit when she had had to take off all her clothes and put on just that miniscule vest which barely reached to her waist. And then, virtually nude, had had to do those exercises, running on the spot and stretching and bending and high-kicking, and lying on the table on her back cycling her legs in the air. While all the time at any sign of flagging Mr Vollmann’s cane whipped out at her bottom and thighs. Mr Vollmann and his simple pleasures — it had just about driven her out of her mind.
Gerry continued exultantly, ‘And I’ve got the most fantastic news! You’ll never guess: not in a hundred years!’
She would guess of course. Because she knew what his great surprise was, but naturally it would never do to tell him that. She knew because that very afternoon Mr Rollison had told her. Had told her right there in their very own flat.
He had phoned that morning saying that he planned to come over in the afternoon: he had something to tell her. A bombshell! The last thing Angela could have expected, having Mr Rollison at the flat. She did some frenzied hoovering, dusting; not that he probably noticed. He said he had come to congratulate her on her visit with Mr Vollmann. That gentleman had apparently been extremely pleased with her. In fact…
The ‘in fact’ was obviously going to be Gerry’s surprise. In fact, said Mr Rollison, Mr Vollmann was now ready to sign the very important contract they had been working on for some time. It would be signed in Mr Vollmann’s Zurich office and he had suggested that if Mr Gerald Mitchell went as part of the Hanbury’s team Mrs Angela Mitchell could accompany him. And during the course of the negotiations, which might take several further days, there would be opportunity (more than once probably) for Mr Vollmann to entertain Mrs Mitchell. Or, depending how you looked at it, vice versa.
Angela had felt herself go all hot and cold.
‘Next week,’ said Mr Rollison. ‘All the arrangements are in hand, and your husband will be informed today. So you’ll be hearing about it from him when he gets home, I daresay.’
He had smiled a rather sardonic smile and then pulled her to him. ‘Yes, Mrs Mitchell, you seem to have been quite a hit. But we really shouldn’t keep it all for the clients, should we?’
That obviously was why he had come round to the flat rather than simply telling her on the phone. Because he then sat down on their settee and pulled her over his lap. And pulled up her skirt and pulled down her knickers. And there and then in her own living room gave her a spanking. Afterwards he had laughed and told her she would soon be getting an appetite for it.
‘No, I can’t guess,’ she told Gerry.
She listened, making appropriate sounds of amazement, as he told her of the German trip. She pictured herself again in that little white vest and nothing else, doing those exercises — some of them revealing not just her ‘squirrel’s brush’ but everything else as well. And that cane: it had hurt dreadfully but now… well, there was an element of excitement to it.
Gerry was saying, ‘Let’s celebrate!’ And leading her upstairs.
Upstairs, on the bed, her knickers quickly off. Gerry on top of her, inside her…
She disengaged her mouth from his kiss. ‘Gerry: have you ever… wanted to spank a girl? Or cane her?’
‘Nope.’ He continued to thrust into her. ‘Why?’
‘Oh nothing. It’s just… This girl I know vaguely. She was talking about it. She said… quite a lot of people do it.’
Angela put her arms round her husband, squeezing him. She thought of the coming trip to Switzerland and Mr Vollmann. And there was also Mr Rollison — he was obviously going to want more. And then… other clients? She shivered. If she was going to be the good Company wife she would have to agree to whatever was wanted.The good Company wife hugged Gerry tightly as she felt a powerful sexual response begin to well up inside her.