Henry’s New Girl

Story from Blushes 6

Henry Fultonby, in his fifties and a committed and contented bachelor, did not boast of doing good works, he was not that sort of person, but clearly he filled a social need. He was a good citizen who could be called on, even by strangers. Called on in those long school holidays, especially those interminably long summer ones, when Charlotte, Victoria, Jane or whoever can be just a little tiresome and a loving but increasingly exasperated mother would so like to be rid of her offspring for just a little while. In that sort of situation if you happened to hear of Henry Fultonby your problems could well be solved.

Charlotte, Victoria and Jane were of course teenage girls. And they were always girls, for Henry was certainly not interested in having his charming house cluttered with young males. But for Charlotte etc., yes he could usually oblige there — for a week, two weeks or whatever. Henry was indeed found to be a most obliging man in such matters. He was kept pleasurably busy. Naturally he did not advertise his services, nothing so sordid as that, but word of mouth proved quite sufficient.

‘Daphne says he’s awfully good with girls. And of course there’s discipline. Daphne says he’s very good at that. Sort of the old school type. She said her Monica came back a changed girl.’

‘Hmmm.’

In what specific ways Monica was a changed girl we need not for the moment inquire. Suffice it to say that Mrs Elizabeth Hartnall heard this information with most eager ears. Which was why prettily blonde Valerie Hartnall subsequently found herself, a week after the end of summer term, on a train heading out into the remoter regions of Suffolk.

‘I presume…?’ he queried, on the platform at Little Grindleham. ‘Valerie Hartnall,’ she said flushing slightly. She was wearing her blue school dress and dark blue blazer, her school straw hat set squarely on corn-coloured hair. Valerie would not have chosen to wear this outfit but Mr Fultonby had said it would aid recognition. But in any case no one else had alighted at this sleepy little station now basking in the early afternoon sunshine.

Henry smiled a nice friendly smile. He was a reassuring figure in tweed jacket and flannels. ‘Welcome to Little Grindleham,’ he said. ‘My but you are a pretty girl.’ He picked up her case and took her arm in his hand. Outside the station was Henry’s oldish Daimler. What happened next is perhaps best explained by the fact that there can always be a little confusion when one person is helping another into a car. It is matter of timing really and if the timing is not quite right things can go a bit amiss.

Although by now Henry Fultonby should have been pretty well practised at helping girls into his car. At any event as Valerie bent forward to enter Henry’s hand somehow came up under the back of that knee-length school skirt — not that it would be reaching knee-length, nowhere near, when Valerie was bending forward in this manner. The hand came up the skirt and up the backs of her black school stockings to somehow finish up with a nice grip on the silky soft flesh at the rear of one bare upper thigh.

Valerie not unnaturally emitted a sharp squeak. Henry gave a reassuring little laugh while his hand fumbled about a bit — presumably trying to disentangle itself, but it took a little time. There were tiny beads of perspiration on Valerie’s soft upper lip when finally she was seated in the Daimler. It had all been very embarrassing and she just hoped Mr Fultonby wasn’t embarrassed too, for she did want to get off to a good start.

Mr Fultonby did not seem embarrassed though as, driving off, his hand came confidently down onto Valerie’s right thigh. Apart from when Mr Fultonby had to change gear and suchlike Mr Fultonby kept his hand there. And somehow Valerie’s skirt got pushed up so that his hand was on stocking top and bare thigh. She hoped this didn’t embarrass him either, but there was certainly no sign that her new host was embarrassed in any way.

They drove for a little distance in the sunny afternoon and then Mr Fultonby said that as it was such a nice sunny day they could stop and have a little picnic which he had thoughtfully brought with him. They found a really nice place, a secluded clearing in some woods that was just right. But then, Valerie thought, as Mr Fultonby lived hereabouts he probably knew it before — he might even have brought girls here before. She hadn’t yet asked him about other girls, still being a bit shy with him even though he was so nice and friendly. Her mother had been a bit vague but did say she thought he regularly had girls staying with him.

They sat down and Valerie took her blazer off and her straw boater. Mr Fultonby remarked again that Valerie was very pretty. Her hair was like ripening corn, he said. There was not much answer to that except a modest maidenly blush and Valerie duly produced one. Mr Fultonby then also said she had a very nice figure. ‘A very nice bust,’ he said, his eyes having a really good look at it. ‘I always like to see a nice firm bust on a girl. Tell me, are you wearing a bra under that pretty uniform?’

Valerie not unnaturally blushed a bit more at this. She was wearing a bra of course. Her mother told her always to wear one now that she had quite a full figure. Otherwise the shape of your nipples would show and that was not at all a good idea. Common men and youths in the street would make remarks.

Mr Fultonby wasn’t a common man of course, he was a proper country gentleman, Valerie’s mother had said. Nonetheless, to Valerie’s further embarrassment, he was now telling her that a pretty girl shouldn’t be afraid to show her figure. And if a young girl had a nice firm pair of breasts she was much better off not wearing a bra. More healthy. Suddenly, and shockingly, one of Mr Fultonby’s hands, as he sat beside her on the plaid blanket, was cupping Valerie’s right breast.

She gasped. ‘Yes, very nice and firm,’ Henry Fultonby said. ‘So I really should recommend leaving off this bra, young lady. Certainly for the duration of your stay with me.’

Poor Valerie didn’t know what to do. She had never had a man’s hand there before and it sent real shivers down her. She was sure she shouldn’t let him put his hand there but on the other hand he was Mr Fultonby and she didn’t want to seem like a silly little schoolgirl. She was after all 16. At last, after quite a bit of squeezing and groping at that breast and also at the other one, presumably to check that they were both equally firm, he did take his hand away.

‘Yes, definitely no bra, I think, Valerie,’ Henry Fultonby said firmly as he reached for the hamper to take out cakes and things. Poor Valerie tried not to think about what he had said, or indeed what he had just done. She said thank-you for a doughnut and tried instead to concentrate on that, trying to eat it in a lady-like manner and not have jam squirting out all over the place.

She had two doughnuts and a jam tart, plus some lemonade, without having any sandwiches first, which her mother certainly would not have allowed. Mr Fultonby didn’t seem bothered about that sort of thing. He even tried to persuade her to have a third doughnut but Valerie sensibly said no to that. She said, ‘No thanks, I might get fat,’ and then was blushing again, remembering what a girl at school said. Cakes and things gave you a nice round bottom and big breasts and that was what men liked. Not that Valerie believed it, she knew that too many cakes would just make you fat all over.

Unfortunately Valerie’s innocent remark was a cue for Mr Fultonby, who had already had a good feel at her breasts. ‘I’m quite sure you’re not fat,’ he said. Then to prove this to himself he pulled back the skirt of Valerie’s school dress as she sat with legs straight out in front of her. There, suddenly, was the full length of black school stockings, the welts held taut at mid thigh by the straps of a white suspender belt. The straps crossed the fronts of creamily smooth upper thighs at the very top of which could be glimpsed tight white knickers.

With a little yelp Valerie’s hands shot automatically out to pull down her skirt but Mr Henry Fultonby firmly pushed her hands away. ‘Just having a little look,’ he assured her as his own hand took hold of one rounded upper thigh. He squeezed it in a very practised manner — but then Henry Fultonby was very practised when it came to girls’ thighs. Poor Valerie didn’t know what to do or where to look. His fingers were right down between her upper thighs, an area where a girl is very very sensitive. It was awful but also very exciting because she had never ever had a man’s hand there before.

The hand at last came away and Valerie gave a little sigh of relief. Nervously she edged her skirt back down, hoping he wouldn’t notice and tell her to stop. It did look as though staying with Mr Fultonby was going to be… well, different in some respects.

Indeed it was, for Henry Fultonby, having satisfied himself that his new protégée’s thighs were all they should be, was now talking about something else. Discipline. He was a firm believer in it and without it girls could grow up to be a real mess. Valerie nodded agreement, not too sure what he was talking about but certainly she thought that juvenile delinquents and suchlike should be properly dealt with.

It seemed, though, that Mr Fultonby was not referring to juvenile delinquents exactly, he was talking about her. Did she get properly disciplined at school? She said that they all did. Lines and things. But Mr Fultonby was not talking about lines, he said. He was talking about getting their bottoms smacked or being caned.

Valerie shook her pretty head in some bewilderment. No, nothing like that. It was a girls school of course. And, well, she was sixteen. Henry Fultonby smiled and shook his head. Sixteen was just the age to appreciate it and get the full benefit. He looked keenly at Valerie… who simply blushed a very deep red. Well it was such an awful thought, such a truly impossible one, to get your bottom smacked or caned, at sixteen. Perhaps though, she thought, he was joking?

No, Henry Fultonby was not joking. Pleasantly but firmly he told her that he certainly smacked a girl’s bottom, and he also caned that same part of a girl’s anatomy. He regarded it as his duty. Furthermore as Valerie had not had any experience of such chastisement before he thought it would be a good idea, a very good idea, if he administered a preliminary spanking to his new guest this very afternoon. In this very spot, conveniently secluded as it was from strangers’ eyes. Not that Valerie had misbehaved in any way but it would enable her to know what to expect.

‘No, please!’ yelped Valerie. It was just impossible!

But Henry Fultonby said ‘Yes please,’ in a very firm voice. And then added something else which if you were a 16-year-old girl who had never been spanked before was even more horrifying.

‘Yes Valerie. And I shall of course want your knickers down. Smacking a girl’s bottom is always much more effective if her knickers are down and her bottom bare.’

Could he really be saying this? Unfortunately he could, as any of the various girls who had stayed with Henry before could bear witness. An early ‘knickers down’ was always on the agenda. Henry stood up and taking Valerie’s hand pulled her gently to her feet. Once a girl had been acquainted with the matter of ‘knickers down’ there was no point in hanging about. Strike while the iron was hot.

To one side of the clearing was a fallen tree trunk, whose moss-covered surface afforded a convenient and quite comfortable seat. Henry had used it before. He went to sit on it now and told Valerie to stand close in front of him. Then without further ado his two knowing hands slid up under her skirt. Fingers found the waistband of her knickers and before she knew it they were down round Valerie’s knees.

‘Hold up your skirt, my dear,’ Henry said in that firm authoritarian voice. ‘High up round your waist.’

Valerie’s hands complied, without her mind fully registering it on a conscious level. She stood, trembling slightly while Henry looked, and looked with satisfaction. He had seen plenty of girls before but each one was different, each one delightful. This one seemed especially delightful. The black stockings and lowered white knickers below, and the bunched-up blue skirt above, formed a rather charming frame, complemented by the vertical lines of the taut suspender straps. The rest was softly swelling nubile girlhood. At the very centre, on the lower surface of the firmly rounded mound, a pouting pink split peeped through a sparse covering of soft blonde curls.

Valerie uttered a sort of soft gasping groan as her mind finally got a grip on what she was doing, what she was showing A second groan was stifled as Henry Fultonby pulled her forward and over his lap, taking care to ensure that the raised skirt remained well up round her waist all round. A yelp, and ineffectual struggles, as Henry’s right hand came down to clasp one slim and silkily bare buttock.

The hand stroked and squeezed… and then started smacking down. Sharp crisp smacks to the delightfully firm and resilient rump. Valerie gasped and yelped and struggled but Henry’s other arm was firmly round her upper person so the struggling could only amount to anything in her nether regions. There, long slim black-stockinged legs wriggled and kicked, and prettily bare buttocks twisted and clenched. Unmoved by all this Henry smacked on, covering and recovering the springy nude flesh until it was a uniform bright pink.

At last he stopped — but only to have a rest and to pull Valerie’s knickers on down. Down those long black stockings and off over the sensible brown shoes. Henry resumed his efforts. No longer encumbered by the lowered knickers the slim legs were now able to flail freely. In the process they were also able to open innocently but immodestly wide. Henry Fultonby, concentrating now on smacking those creamy soft thighs, had a marvellous full view of what he had earlier glimpsed. Of all that a girl has to offer, and of what indeed at this stage Valerie Hartnall would certainly not dream of offering.

But a few days with Henry Fultonby’s tender care could take their toll of even the shyest and most reluctant girl.

Valerie continued to wail and flail her pretty legs. Henry continued to spank energetically, and look keenly. The sun continued to shine serenely down on a scene which this pleasant glade, some two miles from Henry’s residence, had seen quite a few times before.

----//----

Crunching gravel, the Daimler rolled up a longish driveway through what looked like good sized grounds — lawns and shrubs and some big cedars and things. The driveway terminated in a broad semi-circular sweep in front of a pretty house, creepers climbing up its grey stone walls. It seemed like a nice place, not a prison exactly but Valerie, sitting next to Mr Fultonby, thought once more of that awful spanking she had received 20 minutes earlier. There was also the fact that she did not now have any knickers on, these having been transferred to Mr Fultonby’s right hand jacket pocket.

As the Daimler pulled up there emerged from the house a pretty girl in a short summery frock. She looked about Valerie’s age, but was dark rather than blonde, with big brown eyes and shoulder-length chestnut hair. Henry Fultonby, alighting from his car, greeted her in a decidedly friendly manner, putting his arms round her and then, it seemed to Valerie, putting one hand up the front of her short skirt. The girl gave a sort of ecstatic groan… and wriggled her bottom in what looked like a very appreciative manner. When this greeting had broken off she was introduced as Cynthia.

‘Cynthia has been with me now for two weeks,’ said Mr Fultonby, ‘so we have become quite good friends.’ Valerie, blinking, thought that she could certainly believe that.

Cynthia at least seemed nice and friendly. Helping Valerie get her things out of the car and with Mr Fultonby safely out of earshot she said laughingly, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any knickers on!’

Valerie did not answer but made a wry and rather unhappy face at this unwelcome reminder of recent events. Cynthia gave another bubbly laugh and evidently did not need confirmation from Valerie as to the state of play regarding knickers. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Fultonby always gets a girl’s knickers off pretty quick. He says it’s good for discipline. What he really means is its easier to get his hands on everything you’ve got. It can be a bit of a shock at first, of course.’

Valerie’s thoughts slid back to that friendly greeting between Cynthia and Mr Fultonby. It seemed clear that Cynthia did not have any knickers on either. And had Mr Fultonby had his hand on ‘everything a girl’s got’? She gulped. With a little shiver she followed Cynthia into the house.

It was quite a big house but it seemed that Mr Fultonby was the only permanent resident. ‘Apart from girls staying,’ laughed Cynthia. She was the only one at present, another girl, Mary, having left two days ago. And of course there was now Valerie. ‘I’m glad you’ve come,’ Cynthia said. ‘I mean Mr Fultonby can get to be a bit much for only one girl to handle.’ Whatever did that mean? Cynthia rolled her eyes and said expressively, ‘Oh, you know!’

Valerie didn’t. Any guesses did not bear thinking about.

Mr Fultonby had a housekeeper, Mrs Douglas, to cook for him and everything. And there was also a gardener, Mr Miggins. They didn’t live in but both came daily from the village, Lower Grindleham, which was just a mile away. ‘Watch out for old Miggins,’ said Cynthia. ‘He’ll do things if he gets the chance. And he knows Mr Fultonby needs him because he couldn’t get another gardener so he knows he can take liberties.’

What sort of liberties? ‘Oh you know, fiddling about; and he’ll smack your bum too although he’s not s’posed to. I mean you don’t want that from a common working-class man, do you Valerie?’

Valerie agreed she didn’t. She didn’t want it from Mr Fultonby either. She and Cynthia had been putting her things in her room which was nice and bright with a nice big double bed. Cynthia, she had seen, in the room next door, also had a double bed. At home Valerie had a single bed which naturally was quite sufficient for a girl by herself. Mummy and Daddy in the next room at home had a double bed and Valerie knew why that was. Mummy was still a very attractive woman and she knew Daddy still wanted to do it to her. You could sometimes hear Mummy’s bed creaking in a very rhythmic way when that was happening.

There had been one horrid occasion, earlier in the year, when there had been some bed creaking from the other side of the wall when Daddy had been away. When also there had been a certain visitor to the house. A man, younger than Mummy, who Mummy said was Mr Smith. Anyway he had stayed the night, supposedly in the spare room, but then later on Valerie heard that very distinct sound which had made her feel really sick. She couldn’t really believe Mummy would let that Mr Smith do it to her in her and Daddy’s bed. But Mummy had said not to bother to tell Daddy that Mr Smith had stayed — he was a friend of her friend Mrs Carrington and she was just obliging by putting him up. Mummy had given Valerie an extra £1 with her pocket money that week.

Valerie certainly didn’t want to think about any of that but was reminded by the fact that she was now to have a double bed of her own. She sat on it and it seemed nice: not too soft and not too hard. Like the Little Bear’s bed. Then she thought again of Mr Fultonby… and the apparently awful Mr Miggins. She went to the dressing table and took out her writing paper and fountain pen.

‘Dear Mummy,’ she wrote. ‘It is very nice here and there is another nice girl but I think I should like to come home early. As soon as possible. I promise I’ll be very good and make my bed and not get under your feet etc. I’d really like to come home right away.’

She sealed it up and addressed it to Mrs Hartnall because Daddy was away on business for three weeks, then put it in her blazer pocket. She would phone except obviously you couldn’t phone such a sensitive message from Mr Fultonby’s house. Cynthia said it would probably be all right for them to go to the post box but they’d better check with Mr Fultonby first. He said yes but they must be quick as it would soon be supper time. ‘Oh we will, Mr Fultonby,’ said Cynthia coyly rolling her eyes. Henry Fultonby squeezed her bottom, and then squeezed Valerie’s. And then he said they’d better put some knickers on. Cynthia said ‘Of course.’

There were two bikes in the garage which they took. Cynthia said you were always supposed to wear knickers when you went out. Mr Fultonby wouldn’t want people to think he had a disreputable house with girls there not wearing knickers. ‘Especially if you’re going on a bike,’ she said. ‘I mean men always look up a girl’s skirt when she’s on a bike, trying to see her knickers or of course even better if she hasn’t got any on.’

Valerie didn’t think that all men did that but she knew what Cynthia meant. The post box was about half a mile and when they’d posted the letter Cynthia said they could sit down for five minutes and have a chat. She said, ‘If you like I can tell you what to expect. From Mr Henry Fultonby I mean.’

It did not seem too good. ‘You’ll get a couple of pretty good canings in the first day or so. That’s in the interests of discipline, of course. After that if you’re a nice co-operative girl things will be a whole lot easier. On the other hand if you’re not nice and co-operative you can go on getting quite nasty canings until you are.’

Cynthia gave a sweet smile. ‘Actually I would have been co-operative without the canings. I mean, I like older men, especially if it’s a proper gentleman like Mr Fultonby. But I suppose he felt he had to make sure. So I got the canings anyway. Cripes, he can really sting your bum with that cane!’

Valerie heard all this with a sort of numb feeling in her stomach. The cane! Getting your bottom smacked was awful but the cane! It didn’t bear thinking about. And being co-operative: what did that mean? She didn’t ask but thought again of Mr Fultonby greeting Cynthia. Cynthia said they’d better get back.

They had supper, a pie, quite good, prepared by the redoubtable Mrs Douglas. Mr Fultonby asked if the girls would like some wine. Cynthia did but Valerie said no thank you. A smiling Mr Fultonby said, ‘It’s very relaxing, you know. And a girl’s got to learn to relax, hasn’t she?’ Then after supper he said that as Valerie had had a tiring day he thought a bath and early to bed would be in order. ‘A nice relaxing bath,’ he said. Mr Fultonby seemed very keen on a girl relaxing.

Valerie was in the bath and was feeling quite relaxed in the nice warm soapy water with bath salts and all, when suddenly Mr Fultonby came in. There was no lock on the bathroom door and he just opened it and came in. Valerie stopped being relaxed immediately and went very pink in the face while two hands shot up to cover those two pretty medium-sized breasts.

Mr Fultonby with a friendly look on his face sat on the side of the bath. ‘No need to be shy, now Valerie, is there?’ And his hand firmly removed Valerie’s hands from her bare front. The pert young breasts were revealed, slippery wet and with deep pink nipples sticking cheekily out as a result of their recent soaping. ‘Very lovely,’ observed Henry Fultonby. ‘You certainly don’t want a bra for those, my girl.’

His hand reached out and tweaked a nipple between finger and thumb. Valerie emitted a squeak. ‘No, my dear. Such lovely things need to be free, not imprisoned.’

Valerie forced herself to keep still. His hand on her bare breasts and nipples was awful, simply awful. But also it was undoubtedly arousing.

What was also awful but arousing occurred shortly after when, at Mr Fultonby’s behest, Valerie stepped dripping out of the bath, to be enveloped by that gentleman in a large fluffy white towel. Mr Fultonby proceeded to dry her, very thoroughly, with the towel busily reaching into every nook and cranny. Sometimes it wasn’t actually the towel but Mr Fultonby’s hand instead. Right up between her legs for instance. Very knowing probing fingers… One particular knowing finger went unashamedly in, like a burrowing ferret…

When at last she was permitted to put on her pyjamas poor Valerie was really sweating — and all that relaxing effect of the bath had unfortunately been largely lost.

On shaky legs Valerie went to her bedroom — with Mr Fultonby’s hand at her bottom giving her a friendly start on her way. She closed her bedroom door — and for the first time noticed that like the bathroom there was no lock. She got into bed. Gazing up at the shadowy ceiling Valerie thought of her letter hopefully speeding its way to her nice familiar home. With any luck she might not have to spend more than two days with Mr Fultonby and his awful hands and fingers.

Her mind drifted. She wasn’t sure if she dozed off or not but at some time later she became aware that she was awake and there were noises. From Cynthia’s room? The tinkling sound of Cynthia’s laughter, then silence. And then a sound which she had heard before at home. The rhythmic creaking of bed springs! It couldn’t be! But on the other hand what else would make that very recognisable sound?

Valerie put her head under the clothes. She thought of home. Somehow her thoughts went to that other horrid bed-creaking, when Daddy had been away. Mr Smith. Then she felt a sudden cold shiver. Daddy was away at the moment for three weeks. What if Mummy hadn’t only sent her here because she didn’t make her bed, etc. What if that awful Mr Smith was visiting? At this very moment, perhaps, was doing it to Mummy? If that was the case Valerie would not be leaving in two days; she would be here for two weeks… or even three…

Valerie couldn’t really believe any of this, it was too awful. She didn’t believe it. But she nonetheless found she was crying; big salty tears which were making the pillow all wet.

----//----

In the morning Valerie decided it had all been a bad dream. Mr Smith was not at her home doing it to Mummy and she also hadn’t heard the sound of anyone doing it next door in Cynthia’s room. Cynthia in fact looked very bright and perky at breakfast; she must have had a good night’s sleep, Valerie decided. After breakfast Cynthia confided that she had to help Mr Miggins in the garden. She made a face, then added, ‘Still I s’pose I’d rather not be you. I ‘spect you’ll be getting a rather sore bum.’

It was indeed Henry Fultonby’s plan to give Valerie a rather sore bum first thing that morning. She was a truly delightful creature but very jumpy at the moment. She needed settling down, breaking in, in fact, so that she came to realise that the attentions of an older sophisticated male were one of life’s pleasures for a young girl. The best thing to get her in the right frame of mind for this was a nice sharp shock. A good sharp caning, in fact, one that really stung that young and tender flesh. Once she’d had that — and maybe a couple more like it — the breaking-in process would be well underway.

Henry took his young protégée into his study, telling Mrs Douglas, who had just arrived, that he didn’t want to be disturbed. ‘I quite understand, sir,’ replied that lady, licking her lips at the prospect of what she knew the pretty young thing was about to receive. ‘You just be a good girl now, young Valerie.’

Valerie was looking truly delightful this morning in a pink-flowered summery frock. Following what had been said she had with great trepidation left off her bra. Henry’s hands had quickly ascertained this fact. It was a good sign, a sign of co-operation. She was, however, he also quickly discovered, wearing knickers when he had made it reasonably clear that in the confines of his house they were not necessary. He took them off; they were pink ones. Her long legs were delightfully bare today — although of course those black stockings and the suspender belt were very stimulating.

Henry settled himself in his favourite armchair and sat Valerie firmly on his lap. With one arm round her and the other hand caressing a silky bare thigh he proceeded to deliver his little lecture. On discipline. More or less what she’d got yesterday afternoon only a bit more elaborated in parts. With the intoxicating scent of her corn-coloured hair in his nostrils and the softly yielding weight of her thinly-clad body pressed against him, Henry could have gone on and on. But action was called for — and besides his very erect organ was getting a little crushed beneath her soft but by no means weightless bottom.

He pushed Valerie to her feet and got up himself. His desk was already cleared for action. When starting with a new girl Henry frequently liked to use his special position. It had an extra shock value for the recipient. ‘Up on the desk, my dear,’ he instructed. ‘Lie on your back and lift your legs up.’

Valerie couldn’t believe this, it must be another of those bad dreams. But in the bad dream she allowed herself to be helped up onto Mr Fultonby’s nice polished desk, then lay down on her back with a little cushion under her shoulders. Her legs were being lifted up and she was being told to grip underneath her knees. And then to keep nice and still. She was vaguely aware that in this dream, in this position, she was blatantly revealing all she’d got!

Then the cane came down, with a sickening CRA…ACK! And quite clearly it was not just a bad dream after all.

When he had finished caning her — eight good crisp thwacks to her bottom and upper thighs — Henry helped the sobbing girl off the desk and took her over his lap again. This time in the reversed position, i.e. face-down with brightly-striped bottom nicely raised. Gently he applied some soothing cold cream. This of course was a key part of the breaking-in process. The soothing sympathetic hand softly caressing… gradually relaxing… And when she was somewhat relaxed becoming gently but firmly intrusive.

Meanwhile outside Cynthia was quite enjoying herself teasing Mr Miggins. They were in the potting shed supposedly cleaning out pots. In fact Cynthia was sitting on the potting bench, one leg dangling free and the other with her foot up on the bench. Her raised knee disclosed an absence of knickers and also disclosed what lay at the very apex of her parted thighs. Namely a fuzzy-haired split peach, a part of Cynthia’s anatomy which had seen quite extensive and very pleasant action during the past night. Opposite Cynthia, sitting on his chair, was Mr Miggins, two flower pots in his hands but ignored as he gazed open-mouthed at this stirring sight.

Cynthia gave a tinkly laugh. ‘You know you really are a dirty old man, Mr Miggins.’ She opened her legs a little wider to improve the view. ‘If I didn’t have Mr Fultonby to protect me I don’t know what you’d do to me!’

Meanwhile, also, such was the excellence of the British postal service that Valerie’s letter, posted yesterday afternoon, had already been delivered to her home. It was, however, lying in the hallway, unopened, and the chances were that it would remain in this position and in this state for a little while yet. For Mummy, Mrs Elizabeth Hartnall, was not at home. A letter was at this moment on its way to Valerie explaining that Mummy had gone to stay with her friend Mrs Carrington for a few days. The Carrington’s were not on the phone but Valerie could write. She hoped Valerie was having a lovely time.

In fact at this moment Mrs Elizabeth Hartwell was not at her friend Julia Carrington’s but was in an hotel in Eastbourne. Still in bed, and protesting, but only mildly, at what her companion, male, was doing and was clearly about to do.

‘Charles! Again? You’ll wear me out!’

Charles, on top of Mummy at this moment, would have been recognisable to Valerie, if she could see his face, as ‘Mr Smith’.

As Charles commenced, with long smooth strokes, to do what he had already done several times to Mummy during the previous night he inquired about Valerie. How long was she staying at that place?

Elizabeth Hartnall gave a sensuous groan. ‘Oh… I don’t know, Charles… Ooohh! She… she can stay all summer…’

The story of Valerie’s sojourn with Mr Fultonby continued in Blushes 7 in Valerie.