Girl Training 1998

Time to leave the hallowed halls of St Angela's in search of more stories. Here is a classic from Blushes 62, uncredited (like all Blushes stories) but bearing all the hallmarks of R.T. Mason

The Domestic Training and Interchange Centre was its formal title but that of course was a bit of a mouthful and the name was routinely shortened to ‘Domestic Centre’ except in official letters and pronouncements. There was one in every town nowadays.

Southchester’s might have been a school at some time in the past: a large building with a central high-ceilinged hall and various smaller rooms. But no one seemed to know about that, people were vague about the past nowadays, certainly anything pre-1995. Whatever its past everyone knew what the Domestic Centre was now, its function.

Certainly girls, young women, who were not fortunate enough to be from Class 1 or Class 2 families knew.

And by the same token adult males who were in those social categories (Class 1 and 2) would certainly know, because they had business there. It was a State requirement for a Class 1 or 2 male householder to take a lower class (3 or 4) girl for at least six months of the year. For Domestic Training. A girl (or young woman) in the 18 to 22 age group.

Young males of that age group were required to do military training. You could also find young males in domestic service but this was nothing to do with the State formal requirement which referred only to girls. Women (Class 1 or 2 of course) would nowadays sometimes take a young man as a personal servant but it was not particularly common and was no doubt a feminist response to the domestic use of girls.

Women (in Classes 1 and 2) were of course theoretically of equal status with men and so were free to do this. And no doubt the duties of these young men were not restricted to household tasks.

But this sort of thing is not yet common and has nothing to do with Domestic Centres where the business and interchange concerns only girls. It is to Southchester’s Domestic Centre that George Canford is driving on this pleasant early evening in May.

George — 54, balding, tallish and heavy-set — has the look of an office man in his dark suit and tie. Bank officials still favour this sober uniform and George is manager of a local bank. This position automatically puts him in Class 1 category. George is very keen on girls in the 18 to 22 age bracket. Very keen on training them. It is his opinion, which he will very readily offer, that the regulations concerning lower-class (including of course Domestic Centres) are just about the best thing that has happened since the 1995 events.

George Canford has an appointment this evening to see a man about a girl. The man is an acquaintance of his, Stanley Garding. The girl is called Joanna. She is Mr Garding’s girl at the moment, he has had her for about a month. George has seen Joanna on a couple of occasions and is very keen to have her: for a week at least, perhaps longer. Stanley Garding is now, after some lobbying by George, agreeable to this. He is bringing Joanna to the Centre this evening.

Transfers of girls may only take place at the Domestic Centre.

Resident staff from the Domestic Service Department will register the interchange and record it on the Department’s computer system. A girl can be passed on to another Class 1 or 2 householder whenever her current owner wishes; as long as the transaction is carried out at a Domestic Centre and the details are duly recorded. Without this rigidly enforced system there would be no knowing where girls were or with whom they had spent time in the past. A girl can be passed on 50 times in as many weeks — or kept by only one individual during that time if he wishes.

The car park at the Centre is quite full when George arrives at just after seven. It is a Friday and Friday evenings are always busy at the Centre, with the prospect of the coming weekend and its leisure time to spend with a new girl. George finally finds a space and slides his banker’s-black Ford Starlight in. In the adjacent space a man and a girl are about to get into a maroon Chrysler Atlantic. The man, a stranger, is of about George’s own age and has a pleased expression on his face. His new girl is a pretty, soft-faced blonde, tall and shapely in the regulation white blouse and grey skirt. Very nice. She is also new to George.

Getting out he gives the stranger a friendly ‘Good evening’ and compliments him on the girl. Is she perhaps new to Southchester? As he hasn’t seen her before. The man is clearly in a good mood, no doubt in pleasant anticipation of getting the girl home and putting her through her paces. Yes, she is from Gartwood. She is also quite new, 18 and relatively untried, untrained. He grins at George and pats the pretty girl’s cheek. ‘Going to need quite a bit of work, aren’t you love?’

She is nice. George takes out his card. Perhaps they can get in touch when he is ready to pass her on? ‘Certainly,’ the stranger replies. He gets out his wallet to give George his card. ‘Most certainly.’ He grins again, then turns the girl. He pulls up her skirt, revealing long shapely legs in sheer stockings fastened with a white suspender belt; then brief semi-transparent knickers tightly containing a prettily-rounded bottom. His hand grips one cheek, jiggling it. Grinning again. ‘She’s called Amelia.’

George looks at the card as the man and girl get into the Atlantic. Harold Filbert, 15 Greenview Crescent. George knows the street but not the name. Possibly Mr Filbert is relatively new here; as a banker of course George knows a wide circle of people. And that Amelia: he’d certainly like to know her. As a result of the impromptu performance with the girl George’s penis is sticking out, semi-erect. He waits for it to subside. It’s not only this new girl of course: there is Joanna. George has been in an aroused, anticipatory state all day at the office. At the prospect of getting her this evening. Joanna … who is certainly as tasty as that Amelia.

----//----

‘In here,’ George tells her.

Joanna dutifully steps into the room. It is stark and bare, lit by a single dangling bare light bulb. The walls are bare, underfoot are bare unpainted floor boards. The only item of furniture, if it can be so described, is a plain high wooden stool. Hip-high to a girl, to Joanna. As she stands uncertainly in her shiny black medium-heel courts.

‘I keep it bare. Functional,’ George tells her. ‘It doesn’t need a lot of fancy decoration. In fact I think it’s better this way. A girl can concentrate her mind in a bare, functional room. Concentrate on what she’s getting. And I can concentrate on things too.’

Joanna gives George a nervous little glance but does not answer. His words do not really call for an answer. This is Mr Canford’s punishment room. He told her downstairs that was where they were going. And Joanna can see anyway. There is that wooden stool for bending over — and there is what is standing in the corner, something she may not have initially noticed. What a girl gets bent over for. A whippy looking rattan cane.

They have come straight from the Domestic Centre. As soon as the formalities of transferring Joanna from Mr Garding were complete. George Canford had her out and into the waiting Starlight. And then with all deliberate speed (a bank manager is not a wild driver) to 25 Cressgrove Place: the residence of George and Janet Canford. Janet is downstairs, watching TV. She is not concerned about this girl Joanna, as she has not been concerned about any of the others. (Janet Canford is also not one of those women interested in male servants, no the TV and her knitting are all the diversion she needs.) But George…

‘Well, shall we make a little start?’ he wonders. ‘Just to see how you respond.’

He wants her over the stool of course, Joanna is not in any doubt about that.

Not all men that girls go to are interested in that sort of thing because of course all Class 1 and 2 householders are required to have a girl for training at least six months of the year: that is now a State decree. And maybe some of them would rather not be bothered, they are not interested in girls. The problem, though, the problem for good-looking girls, those with sexy bodies, is that they are always taken by the men who are interested. And are passed around, if they are passed around, between such gentlemen. As far as these girls are concerned all men are extremely interested in girls. Extremely interested in the cane. Or anything else. Because the best looking girls only see men of this sort.

This is very unfortunate of course. If you are one of the good-looking ones. Joanna is unquestionably in this category. That is why George has been so keen to get her. Tall and shapely with ripe boobs and bottom set off by a delicate waist; a delicious looking brunette with thick shoulder-length chestnut hair; big brown eyes and a soft-fleshed, ripely pouting mouth… Oh yes!

She is naturally wearing the regulation Domestic Training outfit, the same as the girl, Amelia, in the car park: white blouse, blue-grey full skirt, together with the shiny black pumps. Sheer stockings are fastened with a neat suspender belt: it does not have to be white (pastel or black with of course matching knickers are acceptable) but George knows Joanna is wearing white because he has had a preview at the Domestic Centre. In the little room where he and Stanley Garding and the official took her to complete the formalities, George had a look. Jokingly remarking, ‘Just checking what I’m getting,’ and pulling up Joanna’s skirt.

This is the formal Domestic Training outfit, which a girl wears when she is taken out, or sent shopping etc, and of course when she is taken to the Centre to be traded. In the privacy of her master’s home, however, she will not necessarily wear this. He may prefer her to wear nothing at all, to go about her duties, her training, in the nude. Or equally he may have her in some other outfit he likes. Joanna, though, has been brought straight from the Centre and so she is in the regulation uniform, and most attractive and desirable she looks in it too.

Joanna looks at the stool and then the cane. And then at Mr Canford. Her tongue moistens her ripe lower lip. There is not much doubt what Mr Canford wants to do. Why he has brought her here. He wants to cane her. Men like to do a good bit of that. But they also like other things. Things that don’t make you want to hop frequently from foot to foot, or make you think you’ll never be able to sit down on your poor bottom ever again.

‘Do I have to?’ she asks in a sort of little-girl voice — although Joanna is not a little girl at all but a full-grown and womanly one. ‘Do I have to … right away?’ Giving George a hot-eyed look and then demurely lowering her gaze.

George steps closer. His face is somewhat red, his penis also semi-stiff. He has been waiting for this ever since first setting eyes on Joanna at Stanley Garding’s. Wanting to have her. ‘What d’you mean?’ he asks, controlling the emotion in his voice. His hands take hold of Joanna’s big boobs. ‘A girl’s got to have it.’

Joanna pushes her boobs out, into Mr Canford’s hands. Having your boobs played with is unquestionably better than having your bottom caned. She gives him another long-lashed look. Shaking her head. ‘Please…’ her big brown eyes wide… unashamedly pleading…

George squeezes the ripe tits. She’s got lovely tits, a lovely shape all over. ‘Didn’t Mr Garding cane you? Nice and regularly?’ He knows Stanley Garding did. And in front of friends too, not just in private in his punishment room. Stanley had caned her that first evening, in front of George and another friend. Bending her over the table in his dining room. That was partly what got George so excited about Joanna: seeing her then, seeing that lovely ripe bottom. Watching it roll, squirm. Hearing her yelps. As the red stroke-marks appeared, one after another.

 ’Yes. But … please …’ Her voice soft and sexy. Mr Canford is still squeezing her tits. She guesses he is remembering that evening. When she had to take down her knickers in front of the three of them. Get over the table, her skirt up round her waist. It was soon after that that Mr Garding told her Mr Canford wanted her. For maybe a week, maybe longer. ‘What about that Joanna eh?’ Mr Garding asked. ‘Shall we give you to him, would you like that?’ He pushed his tongue hard into her mouth. Mr Garding was on top of her. They were in her bed and Mr Garding was screwing her. She hadn’t answered, because of Mr Garding’s tongue in her mouth for one thing. Afterwards when he asked it again she said ‘I don’t know.’ But here she is. Hoping not to get this caning.

‘Yes but please?’ George Canford repeats. One of his hands slides down, to Joanna’s crotch under the blue-grey skirt. Cupping the mound of her pussy. George is fully erect now. And not quite sure exactly what he wants. A bit earlier his mind was pretty much centred on the cane. On Joanna bent over the stool with her bottom bare. That is what he should do of course: give her it straight away. A new girl should always be given it straight away. But on the other hand…

Joanna is making little sounds. Moaning sounds. And pushing her hips forward, her crotch pushing firmly into his hand. George takes both hands away and pulls her close in against himself. Against his now fully stiffened erection. Joanna groans again. Feeling his stiffness she rubs herself hard in against it. Maybe Mr Canford is not so bad. Open to persuasion. Able to appreciate that there are plenty of things besides the cane that you can do to a girl. Mr Garding did of course. Other things. But he was also pretty awful with the cane. Maybe Mr Canford…

The scent of this lovely girl’s hair is in his nostrils and her softly resilient body is pressed all the way down against him. Her yielding buttocks are in his hands. It is a powerful temptation. George is sorely tempted. But he manages to keep in his mind the advice from the Department. In the advisory booklet that all Class 1 and 2 householders are asked to study. Good-looking girls will do their utmost to avoid proper training. Using their wiles, their bodies. One should keep this in mind at all times.

The feel and smell of her is going to his head. Not to mention his throbbing member. But George Canford is a banker, with that coolness of thought essential in the banking business. A certain modicum of this quality remains with him now. George whispers in Joanna’s ear. ‘You’re a very lovely girl. But we must have the cane. Get over the stool please.’

A despairing whimper from the lovely girl. Pleadings. George tells her not to be silly. To get over the stool right away. His voice is harder. With the firm realisation that he is doing the right thing. Showing her he will not take any nonsense. That is what one should always do: show a girl at the very beginning where she stands. What she can expect. For a moment he had been in danger of letting that extremely sound precept go by the board.

The lovely girl is accepting the inevitable. That she is going to get a caning. Instead of engaging in some less painful exercise. Mr Canford’s firm voice and demeanour make that quite clear. Going resignedly over to the stool. The head of splendid chestnut hair turning only for one last plea: ‘Please… not too hard…’ But this too has a flirtatiousness about it. As if she cannot quite believe, remembering the hardness in Mr Canford’s trousers, that her big brown eyes and ripe mouth, and of course her body, are incapable of influencing events.

Seeing this George has no option. Although all those mouth-watering parts of her do have a powerful effect on him. He has no option but to give her a good belting. Pulling down the brief knickers and really letting her have it. Letting fly. On the thrust-out bare cheeks of Joanna’s splendid bottom. Feeling in his arm the solid weight of each cut as the cane bites in. Downstairs Janet Canford raises her eyebrows as the sound of frantic yelps comes down loud and clear. George does seem to be letting that new girl have it. But then he can be like that, with a new one.

----//----

‘Stand still. And straight. Like a soldier.’ George laughs. ‘Although soldiers don’t exactly look like this do they?’

Joanna is standing erect, arms at her sides, against the wall in the bare attic room. She doesn’t have a lot on: above the waist just her blouse and it is unbuttoned down the front so that her big boobs are bare; below the waist only knickers, suspender belt, stockings and shoes. The knickers are pulled down into a narrow band at the tops of the stockings.

 ’What we want now,’ George tells her, stroking his hand across the big bare boobs with their semi-erect nipples, ‘is some discipline training. Plus also perhaps a bit more of the cane. Mmmm?’

‘No! Please. Not… like that other one. No… ooo…’

It is Saturday morning. Getting on for 10 o’clock. Joanna has been up since quite early, to get Mr and Mrs Canford’s breakfast and also her own, then done some vacuuming. Last night… wasn’t so bad. In the context of that awful caning yesterday evening. Joanna had been in bed perhaps half an hour, still smarting from the belting Mr Canford had given her, in her little room which unlike the attic room was nicely furnished. In bed with her still smarting bottom and thinking that maybe Mr Canford was only interested in the cane… when he came in. To check that she was all right he said. Mr Canford in his pyjamas. Sitting down on the side of her bed. ‘No,’ she said. Making it sound, without any great effort, tearful. ‘You nearly killed me.’ And then reaching her hand out of bed and into Mr Canford’s pyjama trousers.

Things had looked up after that. It was clear that Mr Canford was not only interested in the cane. It was clear that he was not immune to her charms. He screwed her for what seemed like an hour. And came back in this morning early and did the same thing again. Making her come about six times. And forget all about the dreadful caning. Although of course now, back in the attic room. Joanna can remember it again all right. Especially with Mr Canford speaking of the cane again.

‘No… oo… Please. Why don’t we… ah… go to bed…’

George laughs and pulls her nipples. His session with her this morning has satisfied his needs in that direction: 54-year-old bankers don’t need to be doing it all the time. ‘You need discipline young lady. You can’t be on your back day and night doing that. Now then, raise your arms. As high as you can…’

A final squeeze at the big nipples and George takes a step back. Last night was really good with her. Really good. She is clearly very keen on it. But by the same token he did the right thing in giving her that good belting first thing. Giving her a sharp early taste of the cane — which equally clearly Joanna is not keen on.

Pouting her pretty mouth resignedly Joanna has her arms raised above her head. The pose also lifts the large tits with their ripe nipples which from George’s handling are sticking out like fat thumbs.

 ’Hold that,’ he tells her. ‘Stretch up as high as you can. Let’s pretend you’re tied up shall we? Your wrists tied to a rope from the ceiling. Maybe some nasty Class 5s have got you. Kidnapped you, Joanna.’

Joanna gives a little shriek but does what she’s told. Stretching her wrists up as high as she can. The thought of being taken by some Class 5 man sends a scary shiver through her. Everyone fears Class 5s, men who have put themselves outside the law, the State. Class 3 and 4 people, upper and lower working class, are sober law-abiding citizens. They don’t protest when their nubile daughters have to go to Class 1 and 2 homes to be trained in submissiveness. They don’t protest because it is the law. As they don’t protest when their sons have to do their military service. But Class 5s… They are not like that. They will laugh derisively at any law. You see them sometimes on the street: raffish-looking men contemptuously eyeing law-observing citizens. The police should move them on, or take them in, but they frequently don’t. Because the police fear them too. Class 5s are not above accosting a girl in Domestic uniform if she is out unaccompanied.

George steps close again, feeling a tingle of excitement himself at this thought he has introduced. His hand takes hold of Joanna’s thick brown bush. In some parts of the country Class 5s are a real menace. In those areas there have certainly been instances of the taking of girls. Picking them off in the street or actually taking them from a Class 1 or Class 2 home. Southchester doesn’t have a real problem with them. Not yet …

Joanna groans as the hand squeezes her pussy. ‘Ever been accosted by a Class 5?’ George asks. She shakes her head. She hasn’t, but she’s had them leering at her in a scary, threatening way.

‘They’re getting worse. Bolder. Breaking into houses where they think a girl’s been left alone. How would you like that, young lady. Being dragged off by a couple of them. They’re really mad for good-looking girls of course. Sex maniacs. Even though you like it, Joanna, you wouldn’t fancy a couple of Class 5s. My word no.’

‘Don’t!’ she squeals. It is undoubtedly true: she certainly wouldn’t fancy it with any of those dreadful looking Class 5s. ‘They c…couldn’t get in, could they? When you’re out?’

George laughs but doesn’t answer the question, ‘You’ll just have to be very good Joanna. Very, very good. Or I might as a punishment leave you outside one night. In the shed. They could certainly get you then.’

He steps back as Joanna squeals again with fright. ‘Come on, you’re not doing this exercise properly. I said pretend you’re tied up. A band of Class 5s have got you and have taken you away to their disgusting den. Turn round, let me see you do it from the back. Arms really stretched. And hold it. I’ve got to go down to see Mrs Canford. I don’t want to see you moved by so much as an eyelid. Not one hair on your pussy moved a millimetre. Got that?’

Joanna whimpers. Desperately holding the position as Mr Canford goes out. He wouldn’t leave her outside for any Class 5s to get would he? He’s only trying to scare her. Mr Canford doesn’t want to lose her. He wants to screw her… and cane her. And he can’t do that if she’s been abducted. Yes he’s only trying to scare her. And he’s succeeding.

----//----

Mr Canford is not away very long, five minutes perhaps. But it seems longer, a lot longer, when you’re in an awkward and painful position straining to keep absolutely immobile. She hasn’t moved has she? Mr Canford says she has. Sharply smacking her bare bottom. She had definitely moved, he says. So Joanne will have to be punished.

George fondles Joanna’s lovely bottom as he ponders aloud what her punishment is to be. Should he leave her outside tonight? Joanna lets out a desperate squeal. She doesn’t think she has moved, not at all. But she can’t argue or protest. That in itself could get her a punishment; the object of Domestic Training is to make a girl submissive. But not being put outside. ‘I suppose it’ll have to be the cane then,’ George says, his hand busy at her bottom. ‘Yes. All right.’ Joanna sounds almost desperate, eager for the cane.

George laughs. ‘I didn’t realise you were so keen on it Miss. You didn’t sound keen yesterday. OK, what shall we say? Fifty nice hard ones?’

But he only gives her four. And then he takes Joanna down to her room. Into her bed. In bed she is desperate and eager. After the scary talk of Class 5 renegades and also that heart-stopping suggestion of fifty with the cane (for some moments she thought Mr Canford might mean it) Joanna’s feeling of relief is overwhelming. Being in her bed with Mr Canford is all right, really good. She comes almost immediately. And then again.

She is very good, George thinks. Very good indeed. Part of the reason he feels this of course is that he hasn’t had a girl for almost a week. George had originally planned to have Joanna early in the week and had let his previous one. Veronica, go; but then Stanley Garding wanted to keep Joanna on a few days longer, to let some friends from out of town see her. So George had not had a girl for four days before yesterday. That does make a man more appreciative. But even allowing for that she is very good. Maybe he will keep her for longer, more than the week he had planned. George likes to have new ones pretty frequently but sometimes, with an extra special one…

Joanna underneath him is moaning with pleasure. Yes a very responsive girl. And she’s not faking it. An experienced man can tell if they’re faking it, and sometimes they will, to make themselves seem more well-trained, submissive, responsive to their master. But Joanna isn’t doing that, it’s clearly genuine.

When she has come again he says, ‘Maybe we should have that caning now. That fifty.’ Joanna makes a gurgling, groaning sound. It’s Mr Canford’s little joke.

George remembers the blonde in the Centre car park. Amelia. She undoubtedly looked pretty nice too. And Mr Filbert did say that when he was ready… Yes he’ll have to get in touch with Mr Filbert, to see how long he plans to keep her. George would love to have her for a week. But right now… he has gorgeous Joanna.

She had stopped moaning for the moment. ‘Tomorrow you can go shopping,’ he tells her. ‘Go into town and get a few things that Mrs Canford needs.’ He laughs. ‘You can go by yourself. You’ll probably find a few Class 5s around. You can say hello to them, can’t you?’

As Joanna gasps. ‘No! Please…’ George has another thought. Driving out in the country he has noticed a ramshackle old abandoned cottage that a group of Class 5s have taken over and are squatting in. What a lovely scary, exciting thing it would be to drive Joanna out there. And tell her he was leaving her for the afternoon. Or overnight. That would be very exciting. Very amusing.

And then he has another thought. Almost too exciting to think about. What if… he were actually to do it…?