From Uniform Girls 5
The Welly Throwing and Treasure Hunt did not appear to be very well patronised, Martin Reed noticed, but as usual at the Melton Abbas Summer Fete, there were long queues at the Bottle Stall. It rather amused Martin to think that most of the old dears who stood in line and bought their 50p or £1’s worth of tickets probably only consumed a glass or two of sherry around Christmas time. Yet they were all eager to win that litre bottle of Scotch or a bottle of Champagne. Much more likely they would end up with a bottle of ketchup or tonic water!
Martin became rather bored. There was not much talent about. Either shrieking kids or OAP’s. It was always the same at these do’s. Still, all in a good cause, he supposed. What was it this year? Restoring the church clock, he thought. He sank down under the leafy shade of a beech tree and unscrewed the thermos flask he had brought with him, pouring a fizzy mix into the plastic screw-top. It was iced gin and bitter lemon. In his opinion, you couldn’t beat it for refreshment and relaxation on a warm summer’s afternoon.
Martin drank deep, replenished the container, and propped his thermos against the tree. Soon his eyes closed. Faintly, in the distance, he heard the local Silver Band begin to strike up. Rather discordantly. It was all very familiar and somehow reassuring. Martin Reed had been coming to this Fete since he had been in his teens, now he was in his late thirties. His eyes closed and his mind began to rove. As usual into an area of sensuality.
Pleasurably he recalled a rather pornographic story he had once read which concerned what can only be described as a ‘Fantasy Fete.’ There were all the usual side-shows, but with a difference. For example, in the Raffle you didn’t win a large basket of fruit but the girl who sold you the ticket; at the Aunt Sally stall you threw custard pies at naked girls tied to wooden posts. There had been ponies there, too, he recalled. Lovely, lissom creatures harnessed into small carriages. You could hire them for half an hour at a time and the temporary owner was handed a horse-whip before setting out. There had been many similar bizarre events at that imaginary Fete. It had been a most enjoyable story and stimulatingly erotic. Even now, Martin felt the warmth of it spreading to his loins. Insects buzzed nearby, grass and leaves hissed in a light breeze. Martin became drowsy. Soon he was dozing, then, a little later, fast asleep.
He awoke with mouth half-open and a dry throat. Had he missed them, he wondered. If he had, that would be damned annoying. They were the chief reason he came to the Fete. A glance at his watch reassured him. He had only been asleep for half an hour. It was not quite half past three and they weren’t scheduled to be there until four. Martin poured himself another beaker of his mixture and gulped it fast. It occurred to him that it was not very sensible to quench one’s thirst with alcohol. On the other hand, it was Fete Day and he rather enjoyed getting half-sloshed. It relaxed him and encouraged him to be more pleasant with those to whom he would not normally give the time of day. In short, it eased many of Martin’s frustrations and inhibitions and made him a somewhat more pleasing personality.
He was not exactly popular in the village. He lived alone in the tiniest of cottages which his mother had left him, working for a nearby manufacturer of farming equipment.
At about quarter to four, he got up, placing his thermos in a rucksack he had brought with him. He wandered towards the entrance and was just in time to see the coach arrive. Even that gave him a kind of thrill since he knew it was filled with pretty teenage girls — ranging in age from thirteen to eighteen. Along each side of the coach hung banners. MELMINSTER MAJORETTES, it announced in bright red letters. They were a team of local youngsters who attended most of the Fetes, and similar festive gatherings, for twenty miles around.
Martin lurked around, trying not to appear too interested, watching the girls descend from the coach. There was quite a bit of giggling from some of the younger ones but those who seemed to be sixteen and upwards were taking the thing more seriously. More professionally. After all, they were about to give a public performance.
Almost greedily, Martin Reed drank in the sight of the uniform each wore. He could not analyse why it affected him so much, yet it did. He found it incredibly sexy — all the more so since those who wore it were so young.
First of all, were the white lace-up boots of almost calf-length. He always thought that these would have been much enhanced by high heels. Four inch ones, for preference. However, the impracticality of that was obvious, for the majorettes marched and counter-marched on grassy ground that was often soggy.
The lithe young limbs were kept bare. Martin loved that. How delightful it was to see that delicate flesh quivering as they moved! Each wore a very short, pleated skirt of a pale purple colour. Martin loved that colour. Again for reasons he could not understand, he had always found it erotically exciting. Some of his earlier sexual fantasies had involved women who wore knickers of this colour (usually french knickers) trimmed with white lace. Beneath this skirt, a girl wore very tight-fitting, brief white panties. Very titillating, Martin thought, for the skirt was always flying up with the leg movements and those panties were practically on display all the time. Front and back. Martin sometimes wondered if the organisers of this show were as innocent as they seemed. Did they know what such sights could do to men, both young and old? Since the organisers, as far as he could gather, were all women, he could only suppose they were innocent… simply thinking of their young performers as pretty little things. The ideas that males could actually lust after them (rather than be impressed by the precision of their marching gyrations) would have been abhorrent to them. Above the skirt was a simple white, long-sleeved blouse. Naturally, these blouses were filled in a variety of proportions. Always most attractively, anyway. What surprised Martin was that some of the youngest-looking girls often had the biggest boobs. Perched on the top of each head, was a peaked purple cap with a white band. Some hair flowed freely, some was pinned up, some was fastened into a pony-tail. Martin’s preference was for the pony-tails.
All wore an identical uniform, but the Drum Majorette was garbed in addition, in a purple cloak. She, of course, carried the baton, twirling it and throwing it as the mood took her. Never dropping it. At least, as far as Martin could see. Without doubt she was Martin’s favourite. Her name was Christine Drake and he had discovered she was eighteen years old. Sadly, he realised, the girl probably wouldn’t be there next year. They didn’t go on after eighteen, he was aware. Probably thought it was too girlish; might become over self-conscious. This Christine had straw-coloured hair which was tied in one of Martin’s favourite pony-tails and her eyes were large, blue and virginal-looking. She was taller than the rest, probably five feet eight inches, he reckoned, and she had a well-proportioned (but not over-proportioned) figure. The figure of a natural athlete.
It would not be going too far to say that Martin Reed had an adoration for this burgeoning young woman. Yet, he knew, it was one he must keep hidden from her and the world in general. He could just imagine the mocking laughter (or perhaps look of revulsion?) if he had ever dared approach her and suggest a date. Their twenty year age-gap would, he realised, make him seem an old man to her. Yet… oh yet… Martin didn’t feel old at all! Damn it, he was only thirty-eight and, in his opinion, not exactly unattractive. Why was it then, that he found it so difficult to get on with women? Why was it so many seemed to find him positively obnoxious. It was a cruel world! Martin slipped behind a tent, secretly poured himself another beaker of gin and bitter lemon, sunk it, and felt slightly better. He must not mope on a lovely day like this. Soon the Melminster Majorettes would be parading. He must get into an advantageous position as soon as possible. Martin began to move to the roped-off area.
This ‘advantageous’ position was one that Martin usually tried to occupy. It was in a small, grassy dell at one end of the area. Reclining in that, one got a most revealing upward-looking view of proceedings. Best of all, it was not at all obvious to others that you had got such a view. If they had, some of them might have considered you a lecherous bastard. To hell with them! The girls were there on show… so why shouldn’t he look all he wanted? It was just that, one year, some old trout nearby had asked him if he’d got a daughter on parade.
‘I’m afraid not,’ he replied. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘You don’t ‘arf look interested, mister,’ she had replied with a leer in her voice. Her cold, feeble-looking eyes had looked him up and down contemptuously.
Martin had felt suddenly mentally naked, all his innermost thoughts exposed to the world. He still hated that old woman for she had more or less ruined his afternoon. Thankfully she was not to be seen around any more. Doubtless, ‘passed on’, as they say.
The Silver Band moved in alongside the parade area; spectators gathered. Sousa’s March was struck up and — oh joy to behold! — in came the prancing girls, Christine at their head, skilfully wielding her brass-knobbed baton. Lovely young thighs rising and falling, skirts tossing, panties displayed. Lovely little swelling V-mounds. Then, when they turned… up… up… up… went the limbs… one could glimpse those bouncing-quivering buttock-cheeks, so scantily covered.
The girls moved in three lines of six each. Eighteen in all, plus their leader. Oh adored leader! Martin’s heart ached at the very sight of her. She was the cynosure of all his longings — yet so unattainable!
Now they were moving diagonally, weaving in and out of each other. For a little while, Martin concentrated his gaze on one of the younger members who happened to be particularly well-endowed. A button on her blouse had snapped and juddering white cleavage could clearly be seen as she moved. The girl herself seemed quite unconcerned. Maybe, thought Martin, being so young she was unaware of the effect she could be having. Though the way girls were these days, that seemed unlikely. Perhaps, almost instinctively as females, they were just being deliberately provocative to the likes of him. Even the divine Christine. No… not her, Martin told himself. There was a kind of purity about that girl. He could not imagine her having naughty thoughts or acting wickedly. She was a goddess amongst girls!
Martin wiped his brow. He was feeling both hot and sticky. Probably he had drunk too much, he reflected. So what? This was a holiday, wasn’t it? The lovely youngsters came high-stepping towards him again. Nearer… nearer. Was Christine actually looking down at him? Did her eyes show some hint of recognition? No… it could not be. Martin looked up and saw the delicately quivering fronts of her soft white thighs… then came the swirl of her purple cape… a flash of white panties… a glimpse of rolling buttock-cheeks… then she was gone. Her obedient troupe wheeled and followed her back down the parade area. Skirts lifting, heads tossing. Oh yes, they made a delightful picture. A picture of clean, innocent girlhood.
Unless one was as lecherous-minded as Martin Reed.
Mums and Dads, Uncles and Aunts, were applauding. The band was now playing excerpts from ‘My Fair Lady.’ Martin applauded, too. Enthusiastically. ‘As good as the Guards,’ he remarked in a voice louder than he intended.
‘Come off it,’ said a rough male voice alongside him. ‘More like the Guides, don’t you mean?’ Martin turned angrily. The young man who had made the remark was stubbing out a cigarette, grinning. He winked. ‘I know your sort,’ he said. ‘Like their knickers, don’t you?’
Martin found himself flushing furiously. That bastard had scored a bull’s-eye! For a moment he had an urge to go over and strike out. But the young man was surrounded by obvious mates. They could easily rough him up. Now — or later. He turned his face away, feeling the frustration. Just like that old woman had done, this swine had ruined his afternoon. He had suddenly lost all desire to look at those parading delights.
Martin got up and half-stumbled away. He was seething. The trouble was, what the young man had said was true!
Behind another tent, Martin finished off the rest of the contents of his thermos flask. That did not make him feel any happier; simply maudlin. He almost felt like crying as he made his way home to his small, lonely cottage.
Oh Christine! I have let you down, he told himself…
Oh Christine! I shall never see you again.
You will now become a delicious memory in an old man’s recollections…
Martin Reed finished what was left of the gin bottle when he got home. He was not seeking enjoyment, simply oblivion in a harsh, unrewarding world. A world without the comfort and compassion of women. A world into which Christine would never — could never — enter. Except in his dreams.
Another Fete was over. The Melminster Majorettes had returned to Headquarters and Mrs Tisbury was reporting to him.
‘All well, Ma’am?’ he enquired rising from his desk as the severe looking, grey-uniformed figure entered.
‘Not exactly, Captain Reed,’ came the reply. ‘I am sorry to have to tell you that Christine Drake, our Drum Major, dropped her baton.’
‘Good Lord!’ Martin was astounded. He couldn’t remember it happening before. There had been minor faults, of course, with all of them. But nothing like this. ‘That’s rather serious. Let all of us down.’
‘Quite so, Captain,’ nodded a beady-eye Mrs Tisbury. ‘I think stern measures are needed on this occasion.’
‘Yes… yes… I’m afraid I agree…’
‘Would you like me to deal with the matter’ enquired the virago.
‘No… no… thank you, Mrs Tisbury. I think this a matter which comes within my jurisdiction.’
‘Whatever you say, Captain Reed. Of course,’ she looked a shade bleak, thought Martin. Disappointed even. Understandably. ‘I’ll send the girl into you, then.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Tisbury. Kindly do that.’ The Chief Administrator of the Melminster Majorettes inclined his head graciously. The uniformed figure clicked her heels, turned and departed. Ahh… what a wonderful thing military-style discipline was.
Five minutes later, there was a knock on the door of Captain Reed… and, upon receiving permission, Christine Drake entered. She was still in the uniform which she had worn that afternoon at the Fete. Her pale features were tense, but there was a look of resolution about her.
‘You sent for me, sir?’
‘Yes Christine,’ answered Captain Reed gravely. ‘I understand from Mrs Tisbury that you dropped your baton this afternoon.’
Christine seemed to flinch. ‘That… that is true, sir. I am so sorry to let you down.’
‘I am glad of that, Christine, at least,’ said the Captain. He looked impassive but his eyes were bright as he surveyed the tall, young girl standing before his desk. ‘You realise, young lady, that this cannot go unpunished.’
Again the girl seemed to flinch. ‘Y-yes, sir…’ she answered in a whisper.
‘There have been times,’ continued Captain Reed, ‘when I have had to spank a number of girls for indiscipline. Bad marching, cheekiness, that sort of thing. So has Mrs Tisbury. However, this is rather a different kettle of fish. You are a leader, Christine. More is expected of you. Thus any failure must be the more harshly punished.’
‘O-ohhh… sir… it was just a slip…’
‘Don’t start making excuses, Christine. When you accepted the position of Drum Major — an honoured one — you were aware of your responsibilities. Were you not?’
‘Yes… yes, I suppose so, sir,’ nodded the girl.
‘Very well, then,’ said the Captain. ‘You will be punished to the extent of those responsibilities. I am going to cane you, Christine…’
‘Oh no, sir… please… please… no…’
‘I am afraid so, Christine. This is not something I wish to do. Believe me, I wish the whole situation was otherwise… and you had given your usual sparkling performance this afternoon. As it is, I am afraid, that discipline must be maintained. Surely you understand that?’
‘Mmmf… mff… I suppose s-so… sir…’ Christine was already sobbing. Mrs Tisbury had warned her what to expect but now that Captain Reed had announced a caning she knew there would be no escaping it.
‘Very well, Christine,’ said the Captain, standing up. ‘I trust you will take your punishment in good military fashion. Obediently… and courageously.’
He opened the drawer of his desk and took out a regulation school cane with a hooked handle, hearing a gasp from the culprit before him as he did so. ‘You, Christine,’ said Captain Reed, ‘will now bend across my desk, lift up your skirt and lower your knickers. I intend to give you eight strokes with this cane. If you are slow to obey, or make any fuss, I shall increase the number of strokes. Now, come along my girl, do as I say!’ The cane whistled sharply through the air.
‘Oh sir… sir… this is awful!’
‘Maybe,’ agreed the Captain, ‘but under the circumstances, it is just.’ He saw the girl flushing… hesitating. ‘Come along, come along, young lady. I’ve seen plenty of bare-bottomed majorettes before now. How is it, do you think, that we have the highest reputation in the County?’
Christine Drake did not seem inclined to reply, she was half-bent over the desk before her, pushing down the tight little white panties she wore. Captain Reed stood behind her, flexing the cane as he watched that soft, bare white flesh being exposed. The panties dropped around Christine’s ankles.
‘Bend right over,’ ordered the Captain. ‘Grip the far side of the desk. And grip it tight, Christine, you’ll need to.’ Before him a young bottom curved tautly. The flesh of it twitched and quivered nervously. He tapped it lightly and that twitching and quivering intensified.
‘O-oh… please… sir…’
‘Eight…’ said the Captain emphatically. He raised the cane and brought it lashing down. He did not spare himself. Discipline was discipline. There was a terrible gasping-shriek from the girl as she twisted right over. He just had time to see the slim, twin-tracked weal he had raised before he was favoured with the sight of some most intimate delights as limbs kicked wildly. Resolutely, Captain Reed strove to keep his composure. This was a matter of duty. He must not be diverted. ‘Get back over my desk, Christine. Quickly, girl! There are seven more to come.’
Oh… u-urrf… oh… urff… oh that h-hurt so…’
‘Indeed?’ Captain Reed’s eyebrows went up. ‘That is what punishment is all about, Miss.’ He watched with the greatest satisfaction as that reluctant, bare bottom was presented to him once more. The soft nates kept on clenching with dread. Unhurriedly, he raised the cane again and whiplashed it across the youngster’s bottom. Oh those gasping yells! Oh those frantic squirms! He really was getting through to her. So much the better. The girl would be a darn sight more careful in future. Fancy dropping the baton in public! Whatever was the world coming to? It was only in little enclaves like the Melminster Majorettes that any proper level of discipline was being maintained. ‘Back again, Christine,’ he rasped. ‘And keep that bottom square!’
He measured that shapely young bottom. He raised the cane slowly, then brought it down, hard and fast. It whistled shrilly; it seemed to bury itself deep into that soft girlish flesh, to leave yet another vivid, encircling weal behind.
Once more, Christine Drake was contorted with pain. Crying out, twisting and kicking, frantically clasping her hands to her bottom in an effort to stem the pain. Captain Reed looked on dispassionately. He was only doing his duty, after all.
And there were still five strokes to come.Perhaps he thought, as he measured the girl’s bottom yet again, I shall have to comfort her a little afterwards. To explain the need for discipline. To apply cooling cold cream to her burning weals. Yes… that might be advisable. Once more the cane was raised, to come whistling down relentlessly.