Mr Balcher Strikes Again

From Blushes 36, the second in the Mr Balcher trilogy following A Ritual Caning in which young Sharon Smithfield suffered from the diabolical attentions of both Mr Pearling and his cane and the caretaker Mr Balcher and his tube of Ralgex.

Our little functional room. Mr Pearling’s room: the sign says Mr Pearling on the other side of one of these facing doors, the one next to the chest. The room is as before: the same simple functional furniture most noteworthy of which is of course the splay-legged wooden horse. That horse which reveals and is central to this room’s primary function. On closer inspection, though, not all is unchanged. The notice board on the wall. At the top it still says: Sharon Smithfield: 11 o’clock and Janice Maybury: 11.30. These notes should have been wiped off now, they are clearly redundant, referring as they do to appointments of two days ago but by some oversight — or it could alternatively be described as downright idleness on the part of Mr Balcher within whose purview wiping of notice boards falls — it is not. Below these appointments the note of Sharon’s evening visit of that same day — Sharon Smithfield: 8 o’clock — has been scrawled over but again not properly wiped off. Mr Balcher does seem to be going from bad to worse. His routine duties simply at times ignored as he pursues what interests him around this place. And what interests Mr Balcher tends to be centred on one thing. Those appointments refer to two days ago. There have been others since which perhaps have been marked up on the notice board in the corridor outside. And there is today. Now. Sharon Smithfield again.

She is here, sitting on the horse. Chewing her soft lower lip in a reflective, thoughtful, and it could well be apprehensive, manner. The fact that she is sitting on the horse would at least indicate that she has not been caned or birched in the very recent past. Otherwise she would choose to stand rather than, as it is, perching on that shapely rear. Which is neither clad in the clinging plastic knickers that Mr Pearling likes to make girls wear nor is it in the skin-tight cotton shorts, thinner than thin, that he prefers for a caning. Sharon is wearing ordinary, if rather brief, pale blue nylon knickers. And a loose T-top.

It is 2.05 pm. Sharon has naturally checked the notice board but, as we have seen, everything up there is out of date. She has an appointment with Mr Pearling this afternoon but Mr Pearling said 2.30. That is what she clearly remembers but just before lunch Mr Balcher came sidling up and said it had been changed; it is now at the earlier time of 2 o’clock.

Of course Mr Balcher tried to make a meal of it, trying to grab her as he delivered this information and indeed succeeding in getting his creepy hands on Sharon’s tits. Fighting him off and with the vivid memory of that awful stuff he put on her two days ago, she did not question it. But now she is wondering. She should perhaps have checked. The trouble is that you don’t want to go to Mr Pearling unnecessarily. He won’t be grabbing at your tits and all the rest but Mr Pearling will not be happy if you are wasting his time. ‘Can’t you understand when you are given a simple message, Miss? I think we’d better have a double dose, don’t you?’

But perhaps she should have checked anyway. Because there is this other thing: what she is wearing. Mr Balcher also said, ‘Informal dress. That’s wot ‘e said.’ Then cackling and managing to get her two wrists in one hand, and his other hand sliding up the front of her thighs to the crotch of her knickers. ‘Jus’ these ordinary knicks ‘ul do. That’s wot ‘e said.’ Hotly struggling to get away from his hand right there, immediately after he had groped her tits, Sharon was not concerned as to whether Mr Balcher could have simply made it up. Not then. But she is thinking that now. Mr Pearling never gives a punishment in ordinary knickers. Never. She should have gone to him and asked. And then she could have got Mr Balcher in trouble if he was telling lies. But on the other hand…

It is 2.05. Mr Pearling wouldn’t be five minutes late. And so… The door opens. The unkempt form, the stubbly face, and unmistakeably the wary, watchful eyes: yes it is Mr Balcher. Closing the door carefully behind him. Sharon grits her teeth. Mr Balcher must have tricked her. The bast…

He grins at her. ‘Sharon: ‘ere we are then.’

‘You said…’ she blurts accusingly. ‘You said Mr Pearling said… Look…’

‘Wot did I say?’ Mr Balcher cocks his head on one side. ‘I don’t know as I recall. But you girls are always gettin’ things muddled up. An’ I know why. Cos all you can think about is wot you got there between those pretty legs. Eh… eh…’

Sharon ignores this typical horrible remark. ‘You… I shall tell Mr Pearling. And what did he say? I bet he didn’t say wear this.’ She turns towards the door. ‘Oh… I’ll have to change. You’re just…’

Grinning Mr Balcher is standing in front of the door, waiting to grab her. The other door doesn’t really go anywhere except into what is strictly Mr Balcher’s territory: the boilers, and his little room. That room where he got her up on the table and put a blob of that awful stuff in her.

‘You shouldn’t be so awkward, young Sharon. Try an’ be a bit more frien’ly like. I could prob’ly get you off some o’ they punishments if I wanted.’

Sharon makes a scornful snorting sound. That is ridiculous: it is Mr Balcher who does his best to get her into trouble. She is attempting to get to the door without a close encounter with Mr Balcher. But it is not possible. His big hand homes in on her tits.

‘It’s true. Look at that Emma. She’s not in ‘ere all the time ‘avin’ ‘er bum whipped. An’ that’s cos she come to me, frien’ly like, an’ ask me to do wot I could. An’ I ‘ad a word wiv Mr Pearling. An’ e said yes orlright Balcher, I’ll see about that.’

‘Get off.’ She is struggling away from his hands. What he says is ridiculous. But it is true that Emma doesn’t get a lot of punishments, or doesn’t seem to. Not like herself or Janice say, but then, perhaps that’s because Mr Pearling likes to punish only the prettier girls, or then again, perhaps it’s because Sharon and Janice are younger than some of the others, both being not yet nineteen. ‘Get off,’ she gasps again. ‘Let me go…’ But Mr Balcher is not letting her go. He has got a firm grip on her now, she is squeezed hard up against him, unwillingly breathing in that odour that you get at close quarters with Mr Balcher: a mixture essentially of old pipe tobacco and infrequently washed clothes and person. It is an odour that can be overpowering and as well Mr Balcher has got her top yanked up at the back and is groping her bottom. And in addition there is the inescapable fact that Mr Pearling is going to come in and find her unsuitably dressed. Mr Balcher’s mouth is close to Sharon’s ear.

‘You take note, my girl. An’ be sensible.’

Sharon manages to get her face free from the smelly old jacket. Her voice is desperate. ‘Look… let me go… I’ve got to get changed… And then… maybe…’

‘Come in an’ see me then? ‘Ave a nice cuppa tea. An’ a nice frien’ly chat.’ Mr Balcher’s voice is eager while one large hand is still mounding her bottom in the skimpy nylon knickers. Which are not the right knickers for Mr Pearling. Awful Mr Pearling and awful, awful Mr Balcher. But Mr Balcher doesn’t want to cane you, he isn’t allowed to for one thing, and when you’re in the middle of one of Mr Pearling’s canings — a double dose — and you think you’re dying and there’s nothing you wouldn’t do to get out of it… It will be a double dose if Mr Pearling finds her in here dressed like she is. Mr Balcher has tried to get her into his room before. For ‘a nice cuppa’. Only it won’t be for just a cup of tea, Sharon knows that. But if he could do what he says… She doesn’t believe it but it’s true about Emma. And now… if only she can get out now. It won’t take five minutes. Mr Pearling must be coming at 2.30 like he said. And if she can just get those nasty skin-tight cotton shorts on… well, at least it will only be a regular caning; not a double or even a double double.

‘Yes. OK!’ she yelps. Anything to get out now.

But time has already slipped by and also Mr Balcher is not keen to let go of her immediately. When he’s cornered one of them and got a good grip on her, his greedy hands on the choicer parts, there is a strong disinclination to let go. He is anyway not concerned if Sharon does get a double dose from Mr Pearling. He will make an excuse to wander back through in the middle of it. The sound of Sharon’s anguished squawks and the sight of her red-striped bottom will, as usual, be highly stimulating. And it will serve to concentrate her mind further. To prevent any backsliding now she has finally said yes. Not of course that Mr Balcher does have any influence with Mr Pearling — not a positive influence as he claims though he can get girls into extra trouble — but they usually reach a state when they will clutch at any straw.

So when he does finally leave off it is because it is almost 2.30 and he knows Mr Pearling’s entry is imminent. Sharon, looking in despair at the clock, feels like weeping. Her tormentor, with the air of a man who has important duties to perform, is going over to the chest to check its contents. Helplessly Sharon adjusts her knickers which have been partially dragged down by Mr Balcher. Right on time Mr Pearling enters. He looks hard at Sharon’s attire.

‘Everythin’s orlright ‘ere, Mr Pearling,’ Mr Balcher the trusty and hard-working janitor announces. Mr Pearling ignores him.

‘Can you tell me exactly why you are dressed in that manner, Miss?’

Sharon’s mouth opens and closes without making any sound apart from a little squeak. She could tell on Mr Balcher but he is still here and would stoutly deny it. And Mr Pearling would anyway ask why she has chosen to listen to rubbish which completely contradicts well-known regulations. As she stands dumb he yanks up her top and sees those pale blue knickers underneath.

‘Eh, young woman? What is the meaning of it?’ Mr Pearling’s eyes are angry and he’s bad enough when he’s not angry. Sharon’s dress is a direct challenge to authority. Girls are made to wear the tight plastic see-through knickers as a reminder that they are under strict control, that Mr Pearling directs their lives. And likewise the skin-tight cobweb-thin cotton shorts which are his preferred wear for a caning. In this ordinary T-top and those equally ordinary knickers there is no control, no sense of submission.

‘Right, my girl. We will see if you can’t be taught a lesson. I was in any case wishing to draw to your attention the number of times I have had to deal with you recently.’ He has the punishment ledger open and thrusts it in her face. ‘Look… look…’

Mr Pearling snaps the book shut and puts it down. Mr Balcher by now has sidled out. Sharon is alone with Mr Pearling. Who has gone to the chest and taken out a nasty-looking tawse.

‘Pull them down, young woman. Get those things down. We’ll start you off with a dose of this.’

Mr Pearling is going over to sit on the horse. He is going to strap her over his lap. That tawse can be just as bad as the cane or the birch and indeed with the way Mr Pearling is obviously feeling — intent on teaching her a real lesson — it could well be worse. ‘Come on!’ he barks. ‘Get them down and get over here. This instant!’

Oh Jesus! Sharon’s hands fumbling at the brief knickers which only minutes before Mr Balcher has been grabbing at. ‘Pl…please…’ she wails. As she steps forward with her knickers finally down round her knees. Sharon is thinking again of Mr Balcher. If he really could get her off this — even get her off some of the whippings — it would be worth anything.

Getting down over his lap. Mr Pearling angrily jerks up her top. There is Sharon’s bottom bare above the lowered pale blue knickers. These seem to have a similar effect to a red rag with a bull. He grabs them further down until the knickers are hanging forlornly over one ankle. Then grabs Sharon by the scruff of her neck.

‘Right, young lady. Let’s give you something that you’ll feel for once, shall we?’

He can’t do it any harder than one or two Sharon has had in the past. That is what she thinks… until he whips that tawse down across the centre of her cringing, quivering nates.

SPLATT!…

The sound is like a rifle shot. Echoed by an almost instantaneous piercing shriek. Sharon’s body is automatically jerking, jack-knifing. It is only the hand gripping her neck and a handful of brown curls that prevents her rolling straight onto the floor.

‘Feel that did you?’ Mr Pearling does not wait for an answer.

SPLLATT!!!

The second is just as bad. No, it is worse, landing as it does partially across the throbbing line of the first stroke. ‘Nooo…!’ Sharon gasps. ‘No more…’

But there are more. Oh yes. Mr Pearling gets a firmer grip on Sharon by pulling one of her arms behind her back and gripping her waist. And then he really gets going. Rifle shot follows rifle shot. The room echoes and re-echoes to the sound of this gunfire and the counterposed anguished shrieks. It goes on and on. And when at last Mr Pearling pushes Sharon off his lap it is not because he is finished but merely wants a change of position. The shaking, wet-faced girl is to be on the horse now. Lying on it. On her back with her legs in the air. Don’t worry, Mr Pearling will see she doesn’t fall, he has hold of the raised legs in one hand. While with the other:

SPLATT!… and SPLATT!… and SPLATT!…

Halfway through and with excellent timing — though this timing is not so remarkable when it is remembered that the door has a keyhole — the unprepossessing figure of Mr Balcher slips quietly into the room. Some essential duty requires him to cross into the other corridor. He takes his time in his tiptoed traverse of Mr Pearling’s room. All eyes of course on this truly invigorating spectacle. My word! It is clear that Sharon will only need a gentle reminder of this to ensure there is no reneging on what she has finally agreed.

Yes. Twenty minutes later he is slipping back into the room again. Mr Balcher has his broom this time, just in case and for theatrical purposes only, but he knows, from keeping his eyes sharply open, that Mr Pearling has just left. He has finished with Sharon. She is still here. Trying to make the major effort that is required to get her clothes on and leave. It requires an almost super-human effort to do anything: even stand up. Sharon is nude apart from socks and shoes. The last part of her punishment has been carried out with a birch and in the nude, bending over the horse. It is now at last over and Mr Pearling has left and she has somehow to dress and leave herself. And here from somewhere is Mr Balcher…

Talking to her. His voice sympathetic, consoling. Mr Balcher of course is only after what he wants, he is not really concerned. He is naturally grabbing again with her having no clothes on, and Sharon is in too much of a state to resist. And almost certainly he can’t do what he says, exert influence with Mr Pearling. Sharon knows he can’t, not really. But nonetheless… Mr Balcher is saying a time. And she is saying… OK.

----//----

‘No! You said just come in for a cup of tea.’

Mr Balcher wants Sharon to take her knickers off. Now she is here, in his little room, it is not quite the same. It is not the same as being over Mr Pearling’s horse or upside down on it on your back and knowing you’ll do anything for the faintest chance of getting out of this. Being here in Mr Balcher’s stale-smelling little room which contains various bits of discarded furniture, not least of these items being the threadbare sofa on which Sharon is now reluctantly sitting with Mr Balcher. There is also the table, a reminder of that awful thing he did two days ago. (‘On’y my little joke,’ according to the perpetrator). But it is this sofa which is of more direct concern now to Sharon. It is clearly where… Mr Balcher’s room is also very hot, too hot. Because it is next to the boilers. And there is of course Mr Balcher. All over her. Grabbing. ‘Get off,’ she says for the twentieth or hundredth time, but naturally he doesn’t.

‘If you’re too ‘ot, Sharon, take your knicks off. Be nice an’ cool roun’ your Fanny Adams. Look I on’y want to smack your bum a bit. A little bit o’ fun, that’s all.’

‘I think I’d better go,’ she says. That thought is not nice, it is horrible. Mr Balcher smacking her bare bottom. But if that were all he wanted. It would be horrible… but not the end of the world. Is it possible…?

‘Look I better go,’ she repeats. But doesn’t. Partly because Mr Balcher has a firm hold of her. He is trying to get her knickers off himself. ‘Get off. You’ll… rip them.’

‘Well then. You do it.’

‘Look. Oh. Please…’

Inevitably perhaps the knickers come off. He gets her over his lap. Smacking her bottom. And of course also messing about. Grabbing. Feeling. It was a mistake to agree. Of course. Not that she did really agree. It was…

‘No. Look… You’re not… NO!’

Sharp squeals. Yelps. Sounds that have been heard before in this little room. Mr Balcher grunting. Girls always like to say no. It makes them feel better.

----//----

Mr Balcher perusing a list of names. He has a stubby lead pencil in his hand and it comes up to his mouth. He licks the tip. Against various names on the list there are roughly pencilled asterisks. With great deliberation Mr Balcher applies the moistened tip of his pencil to the paper. A careful asterisk is drawn against a previously un-asterisked name.

While at the same time, by chance, although it is not wholly chance, Sharon Smithfield in the room she shares with two other girls is chewing her lip as she anxiously looks at a calendar. Counting days, dates.