The Club — Part 1

Story from Blushes 7. Our first sighting of the reprobates from the Guardians Club.

Across a golf course, half-hidden by tall trees and flanked by neat lawns, one of those houses that an estate agent might describe as ‘substantial’ was hosting the seventy third meeting of the ‘selection committee’ of one of the most exclusive organisations in the country, Masonic Societies not excepted.

The lady of the house was away visiting her sister in Bournemouth; the Committee had no need to fear interruptions — they were free to concentrate completely upon the ‘Candidate’ which kindly providence had provided for their delectation that afternoon.

Through the terrace windows of the sitting room at the back of the house, golfers could be seen wheeling their trolleys across fairways and taking detours through small copses and around bunkers. Distant though these perambulating figures were, the young subject of the committee’s appraisal felt for all the world as though she were on public exhibition, even though common sense told her that it was unlikely that anyone on the golf course would be able to see into the house. Yet, although the outside world was actually unaware of her presence in that most private room, the inescapable fact was that the pretty, chestnut-haired girl was on show and with ample reason to be feeling acutely embarrassed about it too!

Four chairs, on which were seated the members of the committee, had been placed at the corners of a small rug, each chair and its occupant facing into the hollow square. In the middle of the rug, and at the focal point of everyone’s attention, the girl could hardly have been dressed more provocatively, considering that each pair of eyes, as they wandered and loitered and lingered here and there about her saucily-endowed young figure, were windows onto the souls of some very lasciviously-minded gentlemen indeed!

None of those attentively-watching roués could have failed to guess that their visitor had at some time been a member of the Girl Guides, and it would not have taken much imagination to have worked out from the close-fitting skimpiness of what was left of the Guide uniform, due allowance being made for those girl-shape-enhancing alterations that had been made to it, that it’s wearer must first have been fitted out in that particular outfit at least two years, and a couple of smaller sizes ago! No Girl Guide one would ordinarily see, no matter how lustily embosomed, could have countenanced appearing in public with her breasts so lewdly uplifted and blue-cuddled; with her nipples made prominent, even without erection, simply by the closeness of the fit of her uniform blouse; as were the deliciously handful-sized young tits which this ‘Girl Guide’ thrust unwillingly yet unavoidably out in front of her. Badges on the breast pockets pulled at their stitching — as did the pockets themselves — and enhanced the out thrusting burgeoning of the girl’s firm and up-tilted titties. Buttons tugged at buttonholes and threatened to disengage on the instant, at the onset of a passage of heavy breathing. Lanyards, tags, tapes, and name panels, all were arranged in such a way as to highlight the uniform and to catch the eye, yet all conspired to lead the onlooker’s attention to those succulently out-pressing young breasts.

Pulled in snugly at the waist, the blouse led the eye down to navy blue shorts with white piping at the side seams, not entirely authentic Girl Guide rig, but once seen, enough to persuade anyone with a passing interest in teenaged female anatomy that such a change in Guides’ uniforms could only make for greater appreciation of the movement’s underlying qualities and substantially inflate ‘Bob A Job Week’ into ‘Fiver A Peek Week’ if only you could have one of the little darlings come and dig up your garden!

The shorts were a delight in themselves. Tight around the out swells and incurves of the ‘Guide’s’ impudently cheeked bum, the legs were somehow still loose where their edges gave way to bare girl-flesh at hip and thigh top and under-buttock, so that in the imagination a finger slipped up between shorts and skin might traverse the high-cut hip and slide down the cross-bum cheek diagonal and still have just enough freedom to interlope between close pressed inner thighs and seek out warmth and inviting moisture in shadowed nooks. And yet again, this finger-tempting looseness of fit around much of the edges of the shorts somehow snugged up around the girl’s plump pubic swell, the indiscreet centre seam being perfectly placed and sufficiently taut-stretched in a vertical direction as to coax a visible labial division precisely in the middle at the very apex of bare and soft-skinned thighs.

Upon this tantalisingly displayed involution, two pairs of eyes rested in between excursions up and down, while the girl’s bottom too, and the palm-tingling slap-ability of the backs of her thighs, caught the eye of those two of the committee immediately presented with the half-bared aspect of the girl’s decidedly asking-for-it bum. Ankle socks, clean and crisp against lightly tanned claves, and shined-up black patent shoes with flat, schoolgirl heels, neatened the whole presentation; those shoes, turning slightly inward at the toes as would those of a child as her confidence slipped away from her moment by moment, were what the girl’s eyes focussed upon, for want of anywhere else to look not rife with the risk of encountering an ironically smiling face, as she fought back her feeling of helplessness and framed the desperately supplicant word on her soft pink lips.

‘Please —’

‘Please, sir,’ prompted Alec, with a patient smile.

The girl stammered a ‘Sorry —’ then licked her lips with the tip of her tongue. She tried again.

‘Please sir —’ The note of humiliated pleading in her soft voice did not go unappreciated; around the room tweedy twitches and worsted stirrings in seated laps recognised the promise that the girl was beginning to show.

‘Please, what, Charlotte?’ enquired the ‘Chairman’ of these proceedings, with a benign and sympathetic smile.

‘Please —’ Charlotte hesitated, confused.

Asked directly, ‘what?’ she found that she couldn’t exactly say what.

‘P-please sir — I’m — I’m,’ her protest stumbled and lapsed into silence.

‘Think she’s tryin’ to say she’s shy, Mr Chairman?’

‘I think that’s what it is, old boy,’ murmured Algernon; he raised his voice so that the girl turned nervously towards him ‘Don’t want to show us your little titties, my dear? Eh? That what it is?’ Charlotte’s pink cheeks warmed instantly — she cast her eyes down to the floor again in consternation.

‘Not so little titties,’ said Max, unhelpfully.

Charlotte’s freshening blushes scorched her cheeks.

‘Rather nice titties, actually,’ chimed in George.

‘Perhaps it’s because she’s not wearing a bra,’ said Algernon.

‘Tut-tut,’ cooed Max. ‘Naughty little Charlotte — eh? Naughty little girl, aren’t you, hmm?’ Charlotte’s hot cheeks positively glowed with shame!

‘Vote,’ said the Chairman, keeping order, ‘as to whether or not the committee wishes to have a peep at this young lady’s tits, her protests notwithstanding.’

‘Hear, hear,’ said George enthusiastically.

‘All those in favour?’

‘Aye.’

‘Aye.’

‘Most certainly!’ declared Max.

‘Motion carried,’ said the Chairman unsurprisingly.

‘And a stroke of the strap, for being awkward,’ suggested someone.

‘Stroke of the cane, old boy,’ insisted Algernon. ‘Lovely cheeky young bottom like that? Needs the cane, that’s what I say!’

‘Ooogh!’ That’s what Charlotte said, though under her breath.

‘Vote,’ said George. ‘I vote for the cane too!’

‘Haven’t seen her bottom yet!’ complained Max. ‘I say we decide once we’ve got her pants down, that’s what I say.’

‘Let’s have ‘em down, then!’ said George.

‘Order!’ said the Chairman, and everyone shut up, whilst Charlotte’s chubby young bottom twitched involuntarily, not entirely unfamiliar with the sting of both those perfectly-designed castigatory instruments.

It was at this emotionally charged juncture that the telephone rang in the hall outside the sitting room.

‘Brief adjournment,’ declared Alec, and went to answer the ‘phone.

It was Charlotte’s ‘sponsor’ wondering ‘how are thing’s goin’, old chap?’

‘We’re — ah — still considering the matter,’ said Alec guardedly. ‘Let you know just as soon as we’ve completed our — er — deliberations.’

The caller, anxious that nothing should go wrong, insisted on bending Alec’s ear for several minutes more. Back in the sitting room, with the embarrassed girl now hiding her crimson-cheeked face in her hands, the ‘selection committee’ congratulated themselves on having hit upon so delicious a prospect as young Charlotte seemed likely to prove. Blushes! How delightful!

‘How old did Alec say she was?’ asked Algernon of Max in a half-guarded whisper.

‘Sixteen and a half — I think’, said Max, his eyes loitering around the invitingly out-curved bit at the tops of the insides of the girl’s thighs where the soft-pouting peach-cleft bridged the little opening at the very top of her legs.

‘And — said to be still quite intact,’ said George not bothering to modify his voice for the sake of the girl’s blushes.

‘‘Quite’ as in ‘almost’, or ‘quite’ as in ‘absolutely’?’ asked Algernon, pedantic as ever.

‘Quite, as in ‘intacta’,’ said George peevishly. ‘She’d hardly be ‘intacta’ if I’d meant ‘almost’, would she!’

Algernon and the others stared wonderingly at the bewildered Charlotte, who had never realised she was in — in — whatever they had said she was. All three speculated that if it was actually true, then Charlotte was a novelty such as none of them had ever supposed they would come across in a lifetime of interviewing girls sponsored by would-be members. The reasons for this shared wonderment, verging on frank disbelief, were as convincing as they are shameful to relate.

The ‘organisation’, the ‘society’, the ‘club’ if one wished to think of it as such, had at one time been called the ‘Guardians’ Club’. To outsiders overhearing those intrinsically innocuous words in a pub, they might have meant nothing very exactly but would have given an impression of a responsible and respectable organisation engaged, in all probability, on ‘good works’. To those select few made privy to the real portent of the title, an entirely different picture of the club’s activities would have manifested itself!

Potential ‘recruits’, discreetly yet eagerly sought out by established members, would all have two things in common; each would be in a position of responsibility in respect of a ward or step-daughter or at least a teenaged girl having not yet attained her majority, and all, this last to be ascertained by cunning, discreet enquiry or, if all else failed, by setting a temptation and closely watching the ‘bait’, all would have a taste for girls of exactly the same tender and vulnerable kind that they had in their care or charge. It would be put to them that the subject of their guardianship was an invaluable asset; a chap willing to share his good fortune with others — to put ‘his’ girl into a common ‘pool’ in the sense that he would be prepared to let her go off to another member’s home for the odd weekend and not ask awkward questions when she came home slightly cross-eyed and short of a pair of knickers or two in her suitcase — such a fellow, provided he was discreet, would be entitled to stake a claim on another chap’s ‘contribution’ and have her to his house for a day or two.

Because the ‘vetting’ team did their work carefully, refusals were unknown; girls who were packed off on trains on Friday nights with only the vaguest idea of where they were going or why, and equipped only with the instructions that they were to be ‘good girls’ when they got there, came home on Sunday evenings somewhat more broadly educated than when they had left.

With regard then to the three committee members whose eyes still wandered speculatively around the briefly covered little bits of Charlotte which most took their fancy — Charlotte who was still blushing profusely and worrying what it meant when they’d said she was in — something or other, only if she’d but known it she needn’t have bothered, because whatever it was, she wasn’t going to be it for very much longer — and with regard to those members doubts as to the likelihood that young Charlotte was what she was said to be, even if for not much longer — well, their caution in accepting the truth of that statement was not entirely without foundation.

Because, if one worked it out, there was a glaring inconsistency in the notion that a chap who was so anxious to get inside the knickers of another chap’s girl, that he would let his own girl, in the hands of a complete, indeed unknown stranger, to be used or abused in just the same way as he meant to take advantage of that other girl, that he would nevertheless have declined all the opportunities that having a girl of his own and all to himself must inevitably have presented him with all along. In short, it was asking them to believe that the delightful, nubile Charlotte had long been in the clutches of a self-confessed lecher, yet that same lecherous gentleman had apparently entirely overlooked the fact that she was unquestionably available and unarguably fanciable!

Well, if it was true, then Charlotte’s sponsor was a man in thousands — certainly there wasn’t one of them, nor was there any other member they could think of, who hadn’t failed miserably in the art of self-control where he alone had succeeded!

When Alec returned from his evasive one-sided conversation with Charlotte’s sponsor, he wasted no time in getting the meeting under way again — he had other things to attend to back at the school and time was getting on.

‘Right then — a vote, wasn’t it?’ he looked around and then treated the flush-cheeked girl to another of his sympathetic grins. ‘Some doubt as to whether Charlotte ought to be made to show us her titties, wasn’t there?’

The aforementioned tits self-evident in the most unconcealable way, Charlotte stood with close pressed thighs and childishly in-turned toes as the vote as to whether she should be made to render the committee visible evidence was taken and found to be in the affirmative, a tear or two slipping heavily down her cheek as she was made to unbutton her blouse, whilst the vote in respect of the punishment she was to receive for having dared to protest at being treated so humiliatingly was called for and passed. Six, after all — six strokes of the strap, on her bared bottom, and the few tears became a frightened outburst of sobbing as the instrument itself was produced from a hook behind a chair.

Charlotte’s buttons almost popped open once the first was undone, and together the girl’s firm young breasts bobbed free of the over-washed and stitch-straining blue blouse, nipples unaccountably stiffening even as they made their appearance.

‘Shorts off!’ she was told, and her blouse was taken from her, then aflame with blushes, she groped for the waistband of her skimpy little shorts and pushed and wangled and wiggled them down over her hips until her plump bottom-cheeks spilled out and thrust themselves saucily towards Alec and one of the others whilst her close little haze of blonde pubic hair attracted its own share of attention at the front. Charlotte’s shorts dropped to the floor at her ankles and all at once, there were no more secrets. Just helpless, humiliating nudity and teardrops, which fell uncontrollably onto her uplifted breasts.

‘Turn round,’ said Alec, and again, ‘Turn round.’

Shuffling steps took Charlotte through three hundred and sixty degrees, with peeps through her fingers at all four faces in turn, the men’s eyes wandering unashamedly up and down her naked body. She stumbled, her breasts bobbing, and she looked down to find that she had tangled her feet in her shorts. She stooped to untwist them but was told to take them right off; she wasn’t going to need them! She picked the shorts up and they were taken from her, so that she had only her ankle socks and her shoes to show that she had ever been a Girl Guide.

‘Pretty little thing, isn’t she!’ said Max condescendingly. No-one dissented; Charlotte’s bottom trembled as she was made to turn round yet again.

‘Hands on your head,’ said Alec coaxingly, and Charlotte had to do as she was told; red-faced she folded her hands together on her head and her tits lifted and pushed out even more. From the corner of her eye, she could see the firm erectness of her nipples and she began to wilt at the knees as she saw eyes taking in that unwitting demonstration of feminine arousal — certainly she wasn’t aroused! She was panic-stricken! Several comments were made which she was too confused to catch, but the words ‘strap’ and ‘bottom’ permeated her bewilderment.

‘Over here —’ said Alec. Charlotte turned to find him indicating a table standing to one side of the circle of chairs; the strap was on the table.

‘Please —’ she pleaded, but she was nudged towards the table and in a moment she was bent across it, hands led to fingertip holds on the far edge and her bottom elevated by something cushiony placed under her hips.

‘Oh, n-no —!’

They strapped her deliberately, no one bothering to remark that only six strokes had been decided upon, the strap visiting her jiggling, wiggling bottom perhaps two dozen times whilst she squealed and struggled but got her bum well strapped for all her frantic demonstrations. She wasn’t allowed up even then; slowly her tears cleared from her eyes and she found herself looking out of the long window across the golf course while murmurings and shufflings went on behind her. Max’s voice raised itself a little above the others claiming priority on the grounds of seniority, while Charlotte strained her will power and kept her legs wide apart in accordance with the last instruction she’d been given, her bottom singing still with the lingering tingle of the strap’s harsh kisses.

Behind her, it seemed that some measure of agreement had been reached; her hands were taken one by one and folded together in the hollow of her back, where they were held in a grip that was firm but not painful. The insides of her spread-eagled thighs flinched suddenly from a scratchy contact with rough tweed trousers.

----//----

When Alec called Charlotte’s guardian some thirty minutes later the phone seemed to be answered almost before it rang.

‘Mr Romsey? This is Alec —’ A startled squeal from the back of the house prompted him to cover the instrument with his hand; ‘I thought you’d like to know as soon as possible — the committee has decided to accept your application for membership —’ He waited for the enthusiastic gentleman on the other end to subside; ‘Perhaps we could have a chat about that when I bring Charlotte home later?’

Another squeal, distant but quite loud enough to be heard on the telephone, rather undermined Alec’s attempt to keep the conversation formal.

‘Er — yes, it is, actually,’ he had to say. He felt awkward for a moment, and then an imp of devilment nudged him into saying ‘I think she’s complaining that someone’s pinched her knickers.’

He remembered that she hadn’t been wearing knickers. Oh well — that wasn’t what she was yelling about anyway! He left it to the man on the other end of the line to make of it what he would and returned to his pretence of formality.

‘Ah — perhaps you’d let me reconfirm a detail or two whilst we’re speaking. Guardianship — she is your legally appointed ward, I think you said?’ He made a note on a pad.

‘Yes — yes, I see. Until she’s eighteen, I presume. Yes — which will be when?’ His pen hovered over the paper, then its top fell off with a plop. Alec’s eyes wandered guiltily around as he listened. At last, he made the note on the pad.

‘Oh, I see — I must have misunderstood —’ Alec ran a finger round his collar.

‘So she’s actually —’ he wrote it very small, subconsciously.

‘And a half — yes, yes — oh, no — no, I don’t suppose it’ll make any difference.’ Not now, it wouldn’t anyway.

Alec put the phone down quietly and tucked his pen back into his pocket. Another muted cry from the committee room made him start, but he kept his pace even as he went back to the others, a man with a secret now.

The Club — Part 2 will follow...