Valerie

Story from Blushes 7. The continuation of Henry’s New Girl.

THE NEW GIRL MEETS MR MIGGINS

‘Hey! No touching, Mr Miggins. Anyway your hands must be quite filthy messing about with those pots.’

In the potting shed in the corner of Mr Henry Fultonby’s extensive gardens Cynthia Harlow was still sitting on the bench with one foot raised high to display the full extent of two slim and shapely legs, but as she spoke she pushed her skirt firmly down between the tops of her thighs thus closing off from view what Mr Bert Miggins had been raptly gazing at and indeed what he had now, lurching forward, attempted to get his hands on. What to be frank, Cynthia had been deliberately displaying to Mr Miggins’ aroused eyes, namely that very essence of her young girlhood, that split peach, adorned with soft brown curls and with its outer lips parted by her spread-legged posture to reveal delectable and quite irresistible coral pink inner parts. All this, quite bare due to the absence of knickers, was now abruptly covered up by the skirt.

But the chances were that this most delicious part of Cynthia would soon once more be revealed and indeed made available. For she calculated that Mr Miggins was now sufficiently on the boil to be prepared to open his wallet and pay for certain esoteric pleasures. Naturally, though, a girl did not want hands which had come straight from cleaning out old plant pots to be in contact with that most intimate of parts.

Hot-faced, Mr Miggins went to his sink and made a big show with soap and water, and then with a reasonably clean towel. Breathing somewhat like a panting dog he came back to Cynthia who made a quick inspection of the scrubbed hands.

‘I don’t know that I should let you,’ she pronounced coyly. ‘And also you shouldn’t want to do such things.’

‘Come on, young Cynthia,’ urged the aroused gardener. ‘You know you love it.’

Cynthia would not admit to ‘loving’ it, certainly not to Mr Miggins, or indeed to that new girl Valerie or to Mr Fultonby who in any case were not privy to the fact that she permitted such intimacies from the gardener. But it did give her a nice tingle of excitement letting a member of the lower classes get his work-gnarled hands on her. The thought of what Mummy would think was really quite a turn-on.

‘How much’re you going to give me?’ she inquired sweetly. It is an unfortunate fact that some girls can get to know the value of what they’ve got at a very early age.

‘A pound,’ ventured Bert Miggins, though not too hopeful that this would get him very far.

‘You’ve got to be joking, Mr Miggins; you won’t get much of a feel for that I can tell you, I am not one of your common village girls, you know.’

‘Two pounds for the whole works then. With me ‘and, I means.’

Mr Miggins had better mean only his hand, he certainly would not be allowed anything else. Anything else could only be permitted to a proper gentleman, e.g. Mr Henry Fultonby. But yes, for £2 Mr Miggins might be allowed quite extensive manual manipulations.

‘Let’s have it first,’ Cynthia stipulated, aware that if she waited until after Mr Miggins had had his pleasure he might easily claim to have no money on him.

Two one-pound notes were handed over. Clutching them, Cynthia lay back on the bench and drew both legs up with raised knees spread in an abandoned manner. Mr Miggins, bending over her, pushed Cynthia’s skirt back to her waist and slid an eager hand between silky thighs. Cynthia emitted an urgent gasp. Fingers explored and entered and then commenced a very expert massage. In no time at all Cynthia was grunting rhythmically and rocking her crotch against the busy fingers.

A visitor from Mars, say, might be excused for asking why it was that Mr Miggins was paying for something which would seem to be at least as much for Cynthia’s enjoyment as for his own — but that, happily or otherwise, is the way it can be with desirable young ladies. Cynthia’s orgasm was not long in coming, for she had a short fuse when expertly handled and though Mr Bert Miggins might be a common gardener, nevertheless in certain areas he knew exactly what he was doing. Perhaps that is they mean by having ‘green fingers’.

When she was finished Cynthia pushed Mr Miggins’ hand away. But Mr Fultonby’s sturdy retainer was not yet ready to call it a day, complaining that he had not had his full £2’s worth. He would, he said, finish up by giving Cynthia a little spanking.

She protested but not too desperately as he moved to his chair and pulled her over his lap. Having your bare bum spanked by a member of the proletariat was also a turn-on, even though it could hurt. Cynthia wriggled and yelped, feeling Mr Miggins’ throbbing bulge pressing urgently against her soft belly. The hand kept coming crisply down; and then by way of variety slid firmly in between her hot thighs.

She gave a strangled yell, and immediately started thrusting rhythmically against the hand in much the same way as she had five minutes earlier when on her back on the bench. Cynthia climaxed, for the second time, just before Bert Miggins reached his own satisfying conclusion.

----//----

Meanwhile, in the house, Henry Fultonby had also just finished his first disciplinary session with the new girl, Valerie. The cane vigorously applied to her pertly pretty 16-year old bottom and then what, if you weren’t used to it, was an equally breath-stopping massage afterwards. With a dismissive smack to her bottom, Valerie was told she could go outside until lunch time; she would probably find Cynthia somewhere out there. Quite devastated by what had happened, Valerie was only too eager to go. At least she would be away from Mr Fultonby.

They met on the lawn, Cynthia feeling nice and sprightly, thank you very much, and Valerie decidedly the worse for wear. Cynthia asked brightly about the caning which she knew the new girl would have had. ‘When you’re not used to it, it can really make you feel sick, I know.’

Valerie did feel sick. They sat under a magnificent copper beech tree. In the distance Mr Miggins was now to be seen dutifully trundling his wheel-barrow. Everything looked quite idyllic and it was really difficult to believe that those horrendous happenings had just taken place in Mr Fultonby’s study. Considerately Cynthia offered to rub Valerie’s bum for her. It would ease the soreness, she said. But Valerie said no thanks.

‘I ‘spect he’ll give you another one, before tea or just after,’ Cynthia said helpfully. ‘The softening-up process, like I said.’

‘Softening up for what?’ asked Valerie.

‘Oh you know: it! What every man wants from a girl. Beasts, aren’t they? Not Mr Fultonby of course, he’s not a beast. But most of them. Mr Miggins for instance. Mr Miggins has very beastly instincts.’

For the moment Valerie wasn’t too worried about Mr Miggins and his instincts. It was Mr Fultonby. ‘What about Mr Fultonby; what does he want?’

‘It. I told you.’

Valerie’s eyes widened as understanding dawned.

‘Yes,’ said Cynthia. ‘But like I say I wouldn’t call it beastliness with Mr Fultonby. He’s really super. You’ll like it. Why, haven’t you done it before?’

‘No!’ gasped Valerie, who truly hadn’t done it before; she hadn’t even thought very much about doing it. Like Mummy said, as she conveniently forgot her own little lapses with ‘Mr Smith’ and others, doing it was for marriage and should definitely be kept for your husband.

‘It’s very good for you,’ stated Cynthia. ‘Stops you getting spots or anything else. Yes, a girl should really be doing it by sixteen for her health. It’s a natural function; Mr Fultonby will tell you that.’

Valerie could well believe Mr Fultonby would tell her anything to get what he wanted. And anyway she didn’t have spots, her fair skin was quite free of any blemish. Cynthia’s was too but what did that prove? With any luck Mummy would respond in a day or two to her plea to come home. But before then…?

They went into lunch, a salad prepared by Mrs Douglas who asked brightly, ‘Had a good morning, girls?’ Henry Fultonby greeted both his young guests by squeezing their bottoms, then said something to Cynthia which Valerie didn’t catch. Cynthia licked her lips in a sexy way. Over lunch Mr Fultonby said he wanted to see Cynthia afterwards. Valerie, recalling what had just been said outside and also that sexy look of Cynthia’s, felt her face colouring. Was Mr Fultonby going to do it to Cynthia again?

Whatever he was going to do at least it wouldn’t be her and so she was spared a bit longer from another awful caning. Mr Fultonby said Valerie was to help Mr Miggins. When their host left the table for a moment Cynthia rolled her eyes in a most suggestive way. Afterwards, before going off with Mr Fultonby, she managed a whisper, ‘Remember: Mr Miggins has got very beastly instincts!’

Valerie gulped out that surely he couldn’t be worse — or even as bad — as Mr Fultonby, gentleman or not.

‘You’ll probably find Mr Miggins in the potting shed, I shouldn’t wonder,’ advised Mrs Douglas.

It was over in a far corner of the grounds screened by some shrubs. In less than 24 hours at Mr Fultonby’s establishment Valerie had noticed the potting shed but had had no reason to go there before. A nice secluded little hidey-hole for Mr Miggins where he could do more or less what he wanted. Like, as we have seen, get his hands on his employer’s young ladies. Now, after his lunchtime sandwiches, Bert Miggins was seated comfortably in his chair puffing at his pipe and serenely contemplating life — including the morning’s encounter with Cynthia — when Valerie knocked at the door.

He got smartly to his feet. The tentative nature of the knock made it unlikely to be anyone other than the new girl — whose acquaintance Bert Miggins had not yet made though he was eager to do so. Yes indeed! ‘Come in!’ he welcomed, a large and rustic-looking spider confronting a delicious young fly. ‘Come in, Missy. You must be our new young girlie.’

Valerie explained that she had been told to help. She stood hesitantly just inside the door. Here she was alone with this man who according to Cynthia had ‘very beastly instincts’, while she for her part was free of knickers under her dress — a fact which Mr Miggins could be very well aware of.

Bert Miggins was indeed aware of this, for Mr Fultonby always insisted on the ‘no knickers’ rule when girls were about the house. He licked his lips: she was another very tasty specimen. You had to hand it to Mr Fultonby, he certainly knew how to find girlies.

There was only one chair in Mr Miggins’ hideaway — perhaps designedly so. He told Valerie he would have to explain what had to be done. He sat heavily down again on that one chair. And then told Valerie to sit on his lap.

Valerie went red. ‘Thank you,’ she stammered, ‘I… I can stand.’

‘Come ‘ere,’ growled Mr Miggins in his most aggressive tones. ‘You does what I tells ‘e and no ‘oity-toity nonsense, or Mr Fultonby’ll ‘ave ‘is stick to that pretty bum again.’

Unwilling to contest such an argument Valerie moved unhappily forward. Bert Miggins pulled her onto his lap — at the same time holding up her dress at the back. It was therefore Valerie’s bare bottom which made intimate contact with Mr Miggins’ somewhat work-grimed flannel trousers. She gave a startled yelp. This was dreadful! Mr Miggins pushed and pulled, getting her just right — so that the considerable bulge which had rapidly appeared in the front of his trousers fitted nicely to the declivity between bottom cheeks and tops of thighs.

‘Please!’ pleaded Valerie weakly. It was all a bit overwhelming. At close quarters like this Mr Miggins had a very strong odour of pipe tobacco which if not entirely unpleasant did rather take your breath away. In addition to this there was what was happening — whatever it was — beneath her bottom. And in addition to that was the fact that Mr Miggins had straight away cupped two large sinewy hands round Valerie’s pert breasts, protected as they were, if protected was the word, only by the thin material of her summery frock.

Mr Miggins was saying something about plant pots but Valerie’s head just wouldn’t take it in, what with everything else. His hands were really squeezing her breasts and Mr Miggins was sort of rocking about. Then he abruptly pushed her to her feet, getting up himself as well. Still clutching her tightly from behind he propelled Valerie the two steps to the work bench. His hands left her breasts for a moment to reach for a flowerpot and put it in Valerie’s hands. These pots had to be cleaned out, it seemed. Valerie’s head was still spinning round and round and it seemed that Mr Miggins’ voice had a breathy excited edge to it now.

As Valerie took hold of the pot Bert Miggins’ hand went behind her and did something to the zip of his trousers. And then some other fumbling action in the same area. Red in the face, he again came tight up against Valerie’s back where her dress was still up round her waist. Leaning over her, describing the pot cleaning operations, Mr Miggins’ hands seemed to be everywhere, almost it seemed in front and behind at the same time. He seemed to be rocking himself against her again but Valerie’s mind was still not working properly, almost as if the powerful tobacco odour had narcotized her, and she just wasn’t sure what was happening. Then it seemed Mr Miggins made a sort of groaning sound and after that he let go of her and went over to the corner of the room where a sink was.

With her mind clearing now, Valerie realised her dress was all rucked up at the back. She pulled it down, conscious that her bottom was bare. As she did so she felt she was all wet and sticky. It was hot in the potting shed and she must have been perspiring, she thought. She carried on cleaning out the pots as Mr Miggins had showed her. Miraculously he seemed to have suddenly stopped all that groping and rubbing up against her.

----//----

In Henry Fultonby’s bedroom the heavy curtains were drawn against the bright early afternoon sunshine but a slight gap in the centre near the top allowed a narrow shaft of light to enter, splitting the soft gloom. The ribbon of light crossed above the broad bed, where figures could dimly be seen in measured rhythmic motion, to produce a bright pool of light on the far side. The patch of light moved slowly with the earth’s rotation but at 2.30 or thereabouts, when Valerie was being instructed in horticultural duties in the potting shed, it was impinging directly onto Henry’s bedside table. Thus by chance brightly illuminated on the polished rosewood surface were a small jar and a little foil packet, broken open. Next to the table on the floor, but out of the bright beam of light and therefore not to be clearly seen, were a girl’s crumpled summer dress and a pair of white high-heeled sandals. Also some items of male apparel.

A girlish giggle from the centre of the broad bed. Then a likewise girlish voice: ‘When’s Valerie going to get this treatment, Mr Fultonby?’

Henry Fultonby did not stop what he was doing. ‘Don’t you worry about Valerie, if you please, young lady.’

----//----

THE NEW GIRL LEARNS WHAT LIFE IS ALL ABOUT

Four o’clock and the sun was still high in a cloudless blue sky over Lower Grindleham in the county of Suffolk. The two girls were once more lying on the grass in the shade of Henry Fultonby’s splendid beech tree but the rest of the garden, shimmering in the heat, seemed deserted.

‘Old Miggins should be watering those plants,’ pronounced Cynthia. ‘Look, they’re all wilting.’

‘No, I don’t think you’re supposed to water them in the hot sun,’ said Valerie. ‘It’s too much of a shock. You wait till the evening and then do it. That’s what my father told me.’

Cynthia considered this information for a moment. ‘I bet old Miggins doesn’t water them in the evening either. Lazy old sod. He’s only interested in one thing. Did he do anything particularly beastly to you in the potting shed?’

Valerie’s memory of events in the shed was a bit hazy. He had certainly made her sit on his lap and had squeezed her breasts in a not very nice way. And then at the work bench…

She broke off her thoughts to listen to what Cynthia was saying. Describing what Mr Miggins had tried to do to her. Got her up against the work bench and pulled her skirt up at the back. She didn’t have any knickers on, of course. Valerie listened in increasing horror as Cynthia went on to describe in graphic detail exactly what Mr Miggins had then attempted. She now saw her own experience in a new light; as if someone had suddenly wiped away mist from a window. Mr Miggins’ hands, which had seemed capable of being both in front and behind Valerie at the same time… And that stickiness… Valerie felt suddenly sick.

‘Of course I pretty soon made him cut that out,’ stated Cynthia primly. ‘But that’s what a lot of these men like Mr Miggins are like. Wanting to do all kinds of things to nice middle-class girls. You have to be on your guard.’

Valerie felt like weeping. ‘Should soon be teatime,’ said Cynthia. ‘I’m starving.’

‘D…d’you think that I… could have a bath?’ queried Valerie doing her best to keep her voice firm.

‘Why not? Anyway tea might be a bit late if Mr Fultonby’s taking a nap.’ Cynthia gave a coarse laugh. ‘Resting after the enjoyment of his pleasures.’

Valerie certainly did not feel like pursuing that line of discussion. She got up. ‘I…I think I’ll have a quick bath. I feel all… all sticky,’ she finished weakly.

‘It is sticky with all this heat,’ Cynthia agreed. She lifted her skirt, flapping it up to her waist. ‘But I’m also starving. Doing a certain thing makes me really hungry.’

After tea, when Cynthia certainly showed a very healthy appetite, Mr Fultonby said he wanted to see Valerie again. Cynthia gave another eye-rolling performance behind his back. In his study Henry said, ‘Time for another little disciplinary session I think, young lady.’

Valerie protested that she hadn’t done anything. Henry smilingly agreed that this might be so but the discipline was required for general improvement and was not aimed at a specific fault. ‘Over these next few days you’re going to need it quite regularly, my dear. After that, well, we’ll see. But don’t worry, it’s quite normal.’

Don’t worry! All Valerie had to hang on to was the desperate hope that Mummy’s letter might arrive tomorrow saying that she could come home and all this awful business would just be a bad memory. She clutched at this thought whilst she did as Mr Fultonby told her. Not up on the desk on her back this time, but almost as bad if not as bad. Kneel on a leather-covered stool, about 14 inches high, and put her hands down on the floor and then lower her body until her head was down on the carpet as well. Valerie was upside down with her bottom high in the air. Mr Fultonby flipped her dress back so that it fluttered down about her head. Cringingly she knew that her high-arched buttocks were quite bare.

Henry reached out his hand gently to stroke the pale moons which still bore marks from the morning’s caning. A choice young lady with a delectably choice bottom and Henry really could hardly wait for the full enjoyment of her. Indeed it had been the excited arousal generated by his morning caning of her which had necessitated calling Cynthia to his bedroom for that extra afternoon session. According to that young Miss, Valerie was somewhat shy at the moment and that did seem to Henry to be a reasonably accurate assessment of the situation. But shyness, as he knew from much experience, could be overcome and then the pleasure was that much the greater. The cane was an extremely effective agent in overcoming shyness. The cane followed by a nice show of affection for the distressed recipient.

And so in the pleasantly cool confines of his study Henry proceeded to apply his long thin rattan; to those firm pale globes and to the upper rear surfaces of the slimly rounded thighs. Nice fresh red stripes to go with the darkening ones of the morning. The delectable bottom jerked and bucked, not at all happy with what was happening to it, while from the blonde head down on the carpet came unhappy sounds. Sharp shrill yells and cries, and sniffling sobs. Henry’s study had naturally seen and heard all this, or something very like it, many times before.

With the rattan’s work completed Henry pulled Valerie to her feet. The flowered dress fell back into position to cover that smarting bare bottom and at the same time reveal the tearful face. Henry drew the exquisitely distressed girl to him. Arms went round the shaking slim shoulders. Firm young pointed breasts, confined under the single thin layer, squashed deliciously against Henry’s shirt front. One hand slipping down to gently play with those quivering rear quarters, Henry uttered words of comfort and solace.

----//----

Later that evening over a game of scrabble, Cynthia asked, ‘How’s it going?’ Mr Fultonby was in his study doing some writing. Valerie knew what Cynthia meant, not the game but the caning. She made a face. Her bottom still hurt horribly and she knew that for two pins she could burst into tears again.

Cynthia said, ‘Let him know that you’re ready for it, then he’ll stop caning you all the time. When he comes in to say goodnight give him a nice big sexy kiss. Stick your tongue in his mouth. Then he’ll get the idea.’

No doubt Mr Fultonby would get the idea but Valerie could not possibly see herself doing that. She had never kissed anyone like that, not man or boy, and the thought gave her goose-pimples. And besides she wasn’t ready to do it. Mr Fultonby was not unattractive, for an older man, but the thought of doing it, even if it did stop the canings, was quite outside Valerie’s orbit. Her only hope was that Mummy’s letter would arrive tomorrow. She couldn’t tell Cynthia that, though; she might tell Mr Fultonby.

‘I couldn’t possibly do that,’ Valerie said, meaning put her tongue in Mr Fultonby’s mouth. ‘And I don’t want him to think I’m ready to do it because I’m not.’

Cynthia shook her head. ‘When you’ve had a few more canings I bet you change your mind. Anyway, doing it is what life is all about, isn’t it? And you are old enough!’ Smiling, she reached over and squeezed Valerie’s knee. ‘Would you like me to rub some cold cream on your bum? I’ve got some in my room.’ Flushing, Valerie said no thanks.

Mr Fultonby did come in to see Valerie later, coming into her room with a cup of cocoa when she had just got her pyjamas on and was about to get into bed. He said he had looked in to see if she was all right; then he made Valerie take her pyjama bottoms off again. For a moment she thought she was going to get her third caning of the day but that didn’t happen as Mr Fultonby said he wanted to inspect Valerie’s bottom. He sat on her bed and made her get over his lap, face down, as he had after that caning in the morning. Mr Fultonby ran his hand gently over Valerie’s bare bottom, stroking it. And then he did what he had also done in the morning after the caning — put his hand between her legs and took hold of her.

Valerie started crying. Not that what Mr Fultonby was now doing hurt because it didn’t, but it was just too awful having his hand there and on top of everything else it was simply too much and all she could do was cry. As she cried, Mr Fultonby’s voice, soft and understanding of young females, told her to be a good girl and open her legs nicely. It was quite devastating what he was doing but it was also a relaxation from all the tension and Valerie couldn’t help herself; she started reacting to it, her hips automatically rocking against Mr Fultonby’s hand. She couldn’t stop herself and that made it even worse and made her cry even more. She was sobbing and gasping as Mr Fultonby brought her to a climax.

After she’d finished he stood her on her feet and put his arms round her. ‘There, that was what we needed, wasn’t it?’ Mr Fultonby said. Valerie just went on sobbing.

Mr Fultonby made her drink the cocoa he had brought and somehow she managed to get it down without choking. After that he helped Valerie into bed, then bent down and kissed her on the mouth. She remembered what Cynthia had said. Stick your tongue in his mouth. Valerie didn’t do it but instead Mr Fultonby did it to her. Pushed his tongue between the soft trembling lips and right into her mouth. Valerie didn’t resist, but for a moment thought she was going to choke just like with the cocoa.

----//----

Valerie intended to get up early and get the post but she slept soundly — perhaps her body feeling it needed rest after all the excitement — and she was only woken at 9 o’clock by Cynthia bursting in shouting, ‘Hey! A letter for you, lazy dog!’

It was from Mummy all right, Valerie could recognise the writing. She grabbed it with trembling hands and tore it open. The words were at first a blur, her eyes reluctant to focus after the abrupt awakening. Then it cleared. Her mind put the words together. Valerie’s heart started thumping. She re-read it.

Dearest Valerie,

Just a note. I don’t know if you have written by now but as you see from the address I am not at home but staying with Mrs Carrington. I really felt I needed a short break, to relax. Anyway I expect you are having a really super time with Mr Fultonby who I believe has another girl staying, is that right? If so I expect the two of you can have a really splendid time. As regards Mr Fultonby I am writing to him separately to see if he would mind having you for three weeks. I really do need a rest, darling, as I said, and I am hopeful that Mr Fultonby can oblige. I understand he is usually very accommodating in such matters. Quite a Godsend actually.

Mrs Carrington is not on the phone, dearest, but you can of course write and I shall look forward to that. Be a good girl for Mr Fultonby, won’t you, and do just as he tells you. And I’ll look forward to seeing you in three weeks.

Love and kisses,
Your very loving mother.

It was impossible; quite quite impossible! The words again became blurred, this time because Valerie’s eyes had filled with tears. The tears brimmed over and started trickling down her cheeks.

‘What is it, Val?’ asked Cynthia sitting down beside her on the bed. Blubbering, Valerie managed to convey the horrendous news. Cynthia pushed her back onto the pillows and came down on top of her. ‘Don’t cry,’ she commiserated, and a pretty pink tongue came out to delicately lick away the salty tears from Valerie’s face.

‘But now you’ll have to be nice to Mr Fultonby,’ Cynthia told Valerie between licks. ‘I mean you can’t take that sort of caning for three weeks.’

Valerie’s distress, confronted with this bleak prospect, became decidedly worse.

Henry received his own missive from Mrs Hartnall by the same post and perused its contents with considerable pleasure. He would, naturally, be delighted to oblige, as he always did in such circumstances. Shortly afterwards he had a word with his delightful Cynthia and from that young lady learnt of Valerie’s distress. It seemed the unhappy girl had been hoping to be summoned home immediately rather than hear of this proposed extension to her stay. Henry assumed a thoughtful air — while his hand absent-mindedly fondled Cynthia’s bare bottom. Some further thought was accompanied by continued bottom fondling, an excellent stimulus to the mental processes. Finally Henry made a ‘hmm’ sound which might indicate a decision had been made, and gave the bottom a conclusive slap.

‘Send Valerie to see me, would you, Cynthia dear?’

The girl was evidently shocked and distressed and it seemed to Henry that the proper course of action was encompassed in the time-honoured saying: Strike while the iron is hot. ‘Strike’ in this instance could be taken very literally.

A smiling Henry informed the pretty young girl of the contents of her mother’s letter. He would naturally be only too happy to oblige. Valerie looked as if a fresh flood of tears would appear at any moment. ‘Among other things,’ said Henry, ‘three weeks will provide a nice extended period for your training — if that proves necessary of course.’

‘Now then,’ he went on in brisker tones, ‘I rather think it’s time for another little session, don’t you? Get up on the desk, my dear; on your back. Then lift your legs up and grip your knees, as you did yesterday.’

Henry fetched the cane and, following the old adage, duly struck. Six nice crisp cuts to the up-ended bottom. There was a stimulating show of quite extreme unhappiness from the youthful recipient.

An hour and a half later, after his coffee, Henry delivered a second dose of the same medicine. Six more. Another very arousing display of distress. As Henry Fultonby saw it, that old saying would better have been: Strike, strike and strike again while the iron is hot.

With the second dose well and truly delivered he sent Valerie out into the garden to sit and contemplate her unhappy lot. After ten minutes of such contemplation Cynthia was told to go out and have a quiet word.

‘You know what I mean, Cynthia. Tell her she doesn’t have to suffer.’

‘I already have, Mr Fultonby,’ said a bright-eyed Cynthia. ‘But I think it will be different now she knows she’s here for three weeks. I think it will sink in more.’

Valerie was sitting morosely under the beech tree. She didn’t answer but made some sniffing sounds when Cynthia flopped down and asked how she was.

‘Well, you don’t have to have it, Val. He doesn’t cane me all the time.’

There were more sniffs and then a quiet, hesitant voice said, ‘It’s really awful, you letting Mr Fultonby do that.’

‘Who says so?’ demanded Cynthia. ‘I’m sixteen, you know, I can do it legally if I want.’

‘What about your mother,’ asked Valerie. ‘I bet she’d kill you if she knew.’

‘My mother can’t talk,’ Cynthia replied spiritedly. ‘She does it with whoever she wants. One time at a party at our house she did it in my bedroom on my bed! With this man. I opened the door and there they were and I had to shut it again pretty quick. While my father was downstairs pouring the drinks. That’s what mothers do, Val. I bet your mother’s just the same.’

Valerie said her mother didn’t do that but as she said it the whole thing crystallised in her mind. Those horrible thoughts she had had the first night here. Three weeks was how long Daddy was going to be away. All at once Valerie was quite certain that Mummy wasn’t with Mrs Carrington, she was with that Mr Smith somewhere. Letting him do it to her. For three whole weeks presumably.

Cynthia said, ‘I bet your mother does, if you knew. They all do it, whenever they get the chance. When our fathers are out of the way, at work or something. And then they tell us we must be so good and pure and not even think about it. But why shouldn’t we do the same as them?’

Valerie had stopped sniffing, the pain in her bottom and indeed her whole general misery much less intense with the excitement of this new insight. And really, if Mummy could be beastly and abandon her just so she could do it with Mr Smith, perhaps Cynthia was right. Perhaps she should do something to pay Mummy out — and at the same time avoid Mr Fultonby’s sickening cane. She gave Cynthia a wary look.

Cynthia said encouragingly, ‘It’s not against the law, you know. You should be doing it. It’s what life is all about when you’re grown up.’

Hesitantly Valerie asked, ‘What… what is it like? Doing it, I mean.’

----//----

‘I don’t want to be caned anymore,’ Valerie stated, doing her best to control the emotion in her voice.

Mr Fultonby smiled. ‘I don’t suppose anyone wants it, Valerie.’ It was still morning, about 12.30, and Henry was intending to strike once more before lunch. And then continue striking through the afternoon and evening.

Valerie said, ‘What I mean is, I want to be like Cynthia. Whatever you… you do to her. But I don’t want those canings all the time. Please.’

She couldn’t actually bring herself to say any more than that but Mr Fultonby seemed to get the message. He put his arms round Valerie in an affectionate way. She knew what to do now and, knowing about Mummy, she was ready to do it. She kissed Mr Fultonby; a real grown-up kiss, pushing her tongue firmly into his mouth. It felt funny all right but also sexy. Valerie didn’t know anything about such things and just trusted to instinct. She pushed her tongue in as far as it would go and then slid it in and out. This seemed to be the right thing for she could sense Mr Fultonby getting quite excited, his hands really gripping her and then one hand going down between her thighs. She opened her legs to allow free access because obviously there was no sense trying to hold back now as she had made her decision. Actually Valerie found she was getting excited herself — all wet between her legs for one thing.

Valerie wondered for a moment if Mr Fultonby would do it to her right there in his study. On his settee perhaps? But after getting her all excited like that he stopped and said it would be better if they continued after lunch. For one dreadful moment Valerie thought that might mean another caning first as he hadn’t actually done it yet, but Mr Fultonby, rather red in his face, said no. So that was all right.

----//----

They went into Mr Fultonby’s bedroom right after lunch. He had a big double bed, like everyone else it seemed. It felt funny, being in bed in the afternoon, and also not having any clothes on, not even pyjamas. Valerie was scared, quite naturally, it being her first time, but it turned out OK. It hurt a bit of course but you expect that the first time. It was a tight fit but Mr Fultonby managed. Mr Fultonby got very excited indeed, grunting and groaning. He didn’t take long to finish which was just as well as it was very tight and also hurting. And as Cynthia said, the first time was bound to be tight but after that you were opened up and ready for it.

While Valerie was in Mr Fultonby’s bedroom getting her initiation into what life is all about, Cynthia and Mr Miggins were in the potting shed again. In that cosy sanctuary Bert Miggins was again opening his wallet as Cynthia, once more, told him firmly that you certainly could not expect that sort of thing for free from a nice girl. It was getting to be quite a drain on his resources and he thought that he might have to cut back on something — perhaps his tobacco. And there was also that other girl. Valerie. Once the two of them got talking together Bert knew she’d want paying for it too. Still, that was life and, like a child in a sweet shop, he found such delights impossible to resist.

We believe we predicted this would happen, didn’t we, in Blushes number six? Well, there’s no telling some people — at least she has the grace to blush for letting herself get into this position — or was it him who put her into this position? One can never be quite sure in these cases, can one?