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Thursday, 6 February 2020

Pretty Pamela is Very Shy

From Blushes Supplement 31
Her father had worked for the Squire for many years. In fact young Pamela had been born on the estate. Her father was a good worker, loyal and trustworthy. The salt of the earth. He had called to see the Squire early one quiet Monday morning. ‘I can’t do anything with her,’ he admitted, clutching his cap in his hands. ‘I’m sorry, sir. She’s a right handful…’ The Squire put his mind at rest. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll deal with her. It won’t reflect on you. Just make sure she attends the gatehouse at tea-time tonight.’
The venue and time were both significant. Young ladies from the estate, for some years past, had cause to remember the gatehouse, and the time. The day’s work had been completed by tea-time; the evening lay ahead; and evenings could be so very long. The gatehouse, too, was so very private, removed from the other buildings, lonely and isolated.
Pamela was a pretty girl, quite slim and quite tall. No beauty, but naturally pretty with appealing eyes. And she was very shy. Quietly and very hesitantly she crept towards the gatehouse. She stopped at the outer door and waited, finally plucking up enough courage to venture inside. She froze in the long dark passage when she saw the Squire awaiting her arrival in the distant well-lit lounge. ‘Come in, young lady. Unless you want me to come out and fetch you in…’ This time, the girl obeyed, shuffling towards him, her eyes averted from his gaze, staring downwards towards the floor. ‘Now. What is all this?’ he asked, his voice so quiet and sympathetic in its tones. The girl remained quite silent. ‘Now tell me, Pamela, please. You were smoking in the Long Barn. That was why my workers found the hay smouldering?’ There was a long uneasy silence and then she nodded, raising her eyes to glance at the tall man. ‘… Yes… It was me…’ She stopped, but as an afterthought, continued. ‘I’m sorry. Honestly I am…’ Her apologies tailed off into a sort of nervousness. The man paced quietly to and fro in front of the girl, watching her carefully, with experienced eyes, looking at her girlish shape hiding behind the tee-shirt and jeans. ‘I have every right to sack your father because of your behaviour. Do you realise that?’ Pamela shivered at the thought. ‘… Yes… sir. I’m sorry… Honestly I’m sorry… it’s not my Dad’s fault. Please don’t sack him…’
The Squire waited until her appeals tailed off into silence again. ‘Then if it is not your father’s fault, whose fault is it?’ She stared at him with big wide eyes. ‘I suppose it’s… it’s my fault…’ The man turned away from her for a moment in order to draw up a chair. He sat down. ‘You know what I must do, don’t you?’ Pamela knew. One or two of her friends had told her. But she hesitated. ‘Please sir…’ He raised his eyebrows, insisting that she explained her hesitation. ‘I’m… I’m dreadfully… shy…’ He watched her carefully, noticing the bright pink blush which had crept across her face and promised to travel down her neck and shoulders. ‘I’m sure you are.’ He looked up at her. ‘I hope you are very embarrassed at your childish behaviour.’ He patted his knee. ‘Now please come here.’
She shuffled forward, her shyness making her clumsy. Standing close by him, her be-jeaned legs almost touching his own trousers, she asked him. ‘Sir… Do you have to… to take down my… jeans…’ The Squire nodded. ‘It is absolutely necessary that you are soundly disciplined. After all, your behaviour has been so very childish.’ She stumbled slightly as she spread her slim form across his knees, the denim of her jeans tightening dramatically across her upturned bottom. He patted the roundness of her cheeks. ‘I did say that I would be taking these down…’ She stumbled back onto her feet, her face bright pink. ‘Now do as you’re told…’ Awkwardly, fumbling at zips and buttons, the youngster slowly peeled down the tight-fitting jeans, allowing them to rest around her knees. ‘Right down. Right off, in fact…’ She almost overbalanced as she tugged at the denim, pulling the jeans away from her feet. She stood before him, five foot nine inches of naughty girl, dressed now in just a blouse and a very flimsy-looking pair of knickers. The dark triangle of her sex was just apparent underneath the tight material. Hurriedly, realising where the man was looking, she crossed her hand in front of her in an attempt at modesty. She had discarded her summer sandals before the struggle with her tight jeans. Now the hard floor of the gatehouse felt quite cold against her feet, protected only by her little ankle socks.
The room was silent, though somewhere in the distance a clock chimed. In her nervousness and the fluster of the moment, young Pamela had lost all idea of time. ‘Put your hands on your head.’ Slowly, she raised her arms. ‘Come on. Right up. On your head, and keep them there.’ He waited until she was standing still, facing him. ‘Put your feet together, and stand still.’ She blushed again, realising that he was studying her, considering her body and the way she was standing. Comparing her, perhaps, with all the other girls the Squire had entertained in his gatehouse. ‘Have you ever had your bottom smacked? Really smacked?’ He asked the question so casually, and stared at her with ice-cool eyes, waiting for her reply. She tried to look away and she found it very difficult to find the right words. ‘Oh… No sir… Well, yes sir… l mean…’ She tottered slightly; losing her balance momentarily.
‘What do you mean, Pamela? Has your father ever smacked your bottom? It’s a simple enough question?’ She shook her head slightly. ‘No sir. But my mum has, just once or twice…’
He stood up, and walked around her, pausing right behind her for a few seconds. ‘You do realise that I normally take a child’s knickers down before I smack her?’ The question stunned the poor girl. She turned towards the man, dropping her arms, her fingers automatically gripping the waistband of her knickers. ‘Oh no sir. No sir. That would be… that would be awful… please sir, please…’
The Squire smiled to himself. He had always liked young Pamela. She really was very charming, and her natural shyness was so very appealing. He returned to his chair.
‘Well let’s not worry about that for the time being.’ He patted his knee. ‘Come on. Across my knee.’ She scuttled the short distance across the room towards him, again averting her gaze. She almost dived across his knee, hoping now that he would hurry up with his awful punishment, so that she could put her jeans back on and run home, and forget about this dreadful incident. She closed her eyes as she felt his hands steadying her body. Somehow, she felt so hot and clammy, and his palm was so dry and cold, where it rested on the top of her bare thigh. While he steadied her, he pulled back her tee-shirt, gently tucking it up around her bra strap. ‘They don’t cover very much, your knickers, do they?’ Pamela knew she was blushing over every inch of her skin. She could just imagine how much of her bottom was covered by her knickers; and how much was so blatantly exposed to this awful man’s gaze. She’d always thought her figure was quite slim and ladylike; but suddenly her bottom felt dreadfully big and round and wobbly; and right under this man’s nose.
He placed his slightly curved palm on top of the little tight knickers. ‘I sincerely hope this smacking will teach you a lesson, Pamela.’ He spoke in quiet measured tones. ‘Do you think it will?’ He patted the firm round bottom and extracted an almost incoherent reply. ‘Most young ladies feel they have learnt a lesson by the time I’ve finished with them.’ He thought he heard her give out a quiet sob. ‘But you’re a strong healthy girl. A good smacking will do you the world of good.’ He raised his hand and gave Pamela a firm slap across her right buttock. She gasped, her body rocking forward slightly. A little patch of pinkness appeared just below her knickers. The Squire matched it, applying a firm slap to her other bottom-cheek. Again, the smack prompted a little girlish gasp. He placed both his hand around her waist and lifted her forward slightly, making sure that her firm round bottom was properly elevated and perfectly curved, and then he continued to smack her. Poor Pamela rocked from side to side as each stinging smack arrived. She tried to reach behind her, to shield her bottom from the man’s hard smacks, but she nearly overbalanced. Each smack seemed that much harder than the preceding one, and she was soon gasping with the sting that was spreading like a nasty nettle rash across the whole of her bottom.
When at last the man stopped smacking her, Pamela was sobbing. She stayed across his knee, her eyes closed, her hair all tangled and damp. She wished she could stay there, not having to look at him; not having to listen to him or talk to him. But he then lifted her up, and told her to stand.
‘Hands by your side. Feet together.’ The voice was still so measured and even. No sign of breathlessness despite the exertion of slapping her so soundly. She stared at her feet. ‘Look at me, Pamela. I am talking to you.’ It took a determined effort on the part of the punished girl to look up at the man who had smacked her. ‘Has that taught you a lesson?’ She nodded silently. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t quite hear your reply…’ She blushed even more, her face burning, and a few little tears stinging her salty cheeks. ‘Y…Yes… sir.’
He sat and watched her a little while longer. ‘Alright. I think you’ve learnt your lesson. Get your jeans on.’ Her whole body suddenly relaxed with relief. She turned to retrieve her jeans which were still draped across another of the chairs. She dressed hurriedly, waited to confirm that the Squire had really finished with her, and ran out of the room, along the passageway out into the fresh air.
Pamela was still sobbing — not because of the stinging of her bottom, but more in anger and because of the awful embarrassment she had suffered at the Squire’s hands — when she almost collided with her friend. ‘Hey. What’s up with you?’ The question was hardly necessary, as young Anne has also attended the Squire in his gatehouse on more than one occasion. ‘That bloody, bloody man…’ Pamela screamed the words through clenched teeth. ‘I’ll bloody get him… I’ll…’ Her friend squeezed her arm. ‘Not here. Come on. Don’t tell the whole world.’ She led Anne quickly away from the yard which surrounded the gatehouse, back up into the large estate. ‘That’s his BMW, isn’t it?’ Anne pointed at the silver-grey glistening limousine parked on the side of the driveway. For the first time in some hours, Pamela found she could smile. ‘Yes. It bloody well is…’
The ensuing ten minutes were moments of great tenseness and great bliss. ‘Use this,’ whispered Anne, handing a sharp stone to her friend. Eagerly and deliberately, enjoying the roughness of the stone against the smooth panelling of the vehicle, and the way the paint cracked and split away as she scraped the stone deeply along the entire length of the car. She stood back, still clutching the stone, smiling at her handiwork.
‘All my own work!’ she exclaimed, assuming her friend was still with her. ‘Anne?’ She turned. Immediately behind her, she saw the Square. The expression on his face scared her into complete speechlessness. The man found conversation unnecessary as well. He reached out, gripping the waistband of her jeans with his right hand, lifting her almost off her feet; and with his other hand he supported her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and her breasts. Sprawling, face down, and bottom-up, Pamela was propelled back across the yard and into the open hallway of the gatehouse. She fought and kicked in panic, but her feet only occasionally touched the ground, and by the time the house was reached, she had lost both her slip-on sandals.
‘Jeans off.’ She obeyed immediately, still fearful of the man’s obvious anger. She fumbled with the zip, and quickly pulled her legs out of the denim. Suddenly, she was up in the air again, lifted again, being placed across the back of the substantial old sofa, a firm hand pushing her shoulders down so that she was tightly over, her face right down into the sofa’s cushions. Just one hand took hold of her knickers, and with one firm wrench, the fabric gave way. Pamela’s bright pink bottom was bared, totally bared. The Squire tossed the handful of fabric away across the room. He slapped the up-turned bottom cheeks, still glowing a bright pink as a result of the first smacking. ‘Don’t you dare move…’ He left the room, his long firm strides echoing in the passageway. He returned only seconds later. Young Pamela was unable to see the cane now clutched in his hand.
He looked at the girl and at her bottom, and then placed the cane on the nearby table. ‘No. This will not do. Not now.’ Taking hold of her tee-shirt, he pulled her upright, and then dragged her towards the table. ‘Get up.’ She scrambled onto her knees and climbed onto the hard shiny surface, and turned to lie face down. ‘No. On your back, you stupid girl.’ Totally puzzled and bewildered, Pamela simply sat up, her bare bottom feeling the coolness of the wood.
The Squire was once again in control of his actions. ‘I think we had better start again. Please step down here.’ He pointed to the floor, to the same spot where he had stood her, moments before, when he had lectured her before her smacking. ‘Now stand there. Feet together and hands on your head.’ She obeyed him, her little tee-shirt rising too as she raised her arms, revealing her entire body from above her waist to her ankles, for the man’s gaze. ‘To think I actually sympathised with you!’ He stood quite close to her. ‘I even let you keep on your precious knickers!’
He shook his head. ‘Well now I’m really going to teach you a lesson.’ He grasped the hem of her tee-shirt and pulled it upwards sharply, removing it over her head and arms, and then he simply reached behind her and snapped the fastening of her bra, pulling it away from her bouncy round breasts, tossing it across the room in the direction of her discarded knickers. For the first time that evening, he raised his voice. ‘Now stand still with your hands on your head.’
Pamela was too frightened to disobey. Dressed now in just her little ankle-socks, she stood there while the Squire continued to lecture her. ‘I am going to cane you, Pamela. On your bare bottom. Until I am convinced you will never misbehave again! And you will now walk across to my table, and lie down on it, face up…’ He followed her the few feet to the table, and steadied her with his hand around her arm as she climbed up to lie on her back against its cold unwelcoming surface. Innocent to the last, poor Pamela was still confused, wondering how the man would cane her if she was actually lying on her bottom. At least the coolness of the wood was helping to soothe the angry stinging blush that was still very apparent across the full spread of her bottom-cheeks.
She was still contemplating the puzzle when she felt the Squire’s big hand clutching her slim ankles and then lifting them up, high up in an arc until her toes were up almost pointing at the ceiling. In her confusion she had lost sight of the cane, but now she felt it, tapping against the very fleshiest part of her bottom. ‘Put your hands around your legs. Hold your hands together, behind your knees…’ He tapped the cane against her thigh and waited until she had interlocked her fingers and she was supporting her own upturned legs, her bottom now fully and rudely exposed in all its glory. The Squire smiled to himself, knowing and understanding her embarrassment, as she lay there, awaiting her punishment. ‘And now I am going to cane you, Pamela. I am going to thoroughly cane you…’


  1. Nice story.Shy or bold,young ladies always require a good caning.