Buzee-Bees 2

The story from Blushes Supplement 27 continues…

There is hoovering to be done. Buzee-Bee work. In here the sitting room and out in the hallway for a start, Mr Philpot says. After that… a non-committal grunt that could imply anything. Jill, the Buzee-Bee, is anyway not conjecturing. Her head is crammed with what has happened already. There is too much in that pretty blonde head to consider what else may be in store. She reaches down to turn on the switch. Bending is not easy in this skirt, she has to bend at the knees. The skirt of Mr Philpot’s uniform. Skin-tight.

Slinky black silk. Moulding her slim-waisted but otherwise not-so-slim form. Short (above the knees) and a very tight fit — the result of Mr Philpot’s perspiration-producing manipulations with that tape measure. The dress is too tight: Mr Philpot quite likely has only a certain range of sizes and has chosen to err on the side of tightness. Unless of course it is not erring, he has deliberately chosen one a size or two too small. The short skirt especially restricts and constrains, like one of those hobbling corsets females had to wear in bygone days. The skirt would constrict even more if this Buzee-Bee had anything on underneath. Those French knickers for instance. But she does not. The knickers have been removed. All of this — the hobbling skirt, the absence of knickers — is not what is filling the Buzee-Bee’s head however. It is what has happened. What Mr Philpot has done. Those measurements. And then…

That spanking…

Right afterwards. While she was still in that awful state: her whole body throbbing, zinging, her head out in orbit. From Mr Philpot’s devastating fingers. Right away as she gasped great shuddering gasps, coming down from that peak, her orgasm, an impossible orgasm at Mr Philpot’s fingers, straight away Mr Philpot took hold of her again. The shuddering Buzee-Bee pulled down. Onto his lap. Face down, blonde head down close to the carpet and bare bottom nicely positioned over his trousered thighs. And then… simply… beginning spanking. Just as hard as he could, it seemed. Belabouring her poor bottom with devastating cracking smacks. Knocking the stuffing right out of her. Not that there was much left to be knocked out.

‘I think you needed that, young lady. Now, let me see about that uniform.’

Afterwards. When he had finally finished and she had slid helplessly off his lap and down onto the floor.

‘Come on. Get up, Miss. Uniform, and then I want some work out of you.’

The French knickers were forlornly around her knees at this stage. ‘Take those right off. Then we’ll have you ready for more spankings if it should prove necessary. Young girls these days, I find, need plenty of that. And of course the cane too.’

He said that: the cane. Somehow, though, it didn’t seem so utterly impossible as it clearly was —being caned! —because of the utterly whacked-out state she was in. Whacked — her bottom pink and glowing — and whacked out. It was all impossible, this first assignment as a Buzee-Bee, she should tell him I’m going; and I’m going to report you. But the new Buzee-Bee was instead merely struggling to her feet… and obediently slipping the knickers off. And meekly taking the black silk dress from Mr Philpot’s hand…

She switches on the plug. The hoover hums into life. Mr Philpot has gone out of the room. ‘Get on with it,’ he said. Also, ‘I’ll be back shortly.’ To do some more dreadful things? No doubt. She stumbles over the hoover cord. Her legs are still made of jelly. And the high heels don’t help. You can’t do housework in high heels but she had better not take them off. ‘Buzee-Bees wear high heels and nylons. Gentlemen clients demand smartness.’

Mrs James didn’t say what else they demanded. Just that look. The giggling from the other girl. Jill isn’t giggling. Won’t be when she gets back there. I’ll say I’m finished. Resigned. And make a complaint. She tells herself this, her brain is just beginning to operate again in something like a logical manner. But that will be when she gets back to the office. When she has finished here, with Mr Philpot. She should just leave now. March out. Or, more likely stumble out. But Mr Philpot has her coat. And her dress. And her knickers…

‘Right. How are we doing?’

Mr Philpot. He is suddenly here. The door abruptly opening. She almost falls over the vacuum cleaner with the shock. It seems as if he has only been gone for two minutes — but perhaps it is longer. Perhaps time has unwittingly sped by while her brain struggled to sort itself out. She hasn’t really got going on any vacuuming.

‘Finished in here have we?’

If her brain was working she could have said yes. Probably you wouldn’t be able to see. But the brain in the pretty blonde head is not up to that. The blonde head shakes unhappily. Swaying blonde bangs. ‘I… uh… not really.’

‘Not really! Meaning no, no doubt.’ Mr Philpot takes hold of her bottom. Through the flesh-tight silk, a second skin. His hand clasping round one taut cheek. ‘Not really? And why not really, Miss? You don’t seem to be much of a Buzee-Bee to me. Eh?’

The hand squeezes. Painfully. Fingers digging in. She gives a little yelp. Mr Philpot lets go. Strides over to the bureau. Comes back. Something glinting in his hand. Scissors. Her brain is not really working very quickly. Everything seems to take… Mr Philpot has a pair of scissors in his hand. Large cutting-out scissors. He is going to do something with them…

‘Stand up straight, Miss. And still, unless you want to get nicked.’

Mr Philpot is bending behind her. ‘Keep still.’ What is he doing…?

‘I can see a need to get at you, Miss. Instant access needed to your bottom. If you can’t get on with anything.’

A tug at her skirt. Then a crunching sound. And the feel of cold steel against the back of her knee. She yelps. Mr Philpot… is cutting her dress.

‘Keep still.’

He is cutting up the back. She can feel the cold scissors ascending. Crunch. crunch, crunch. Up the backs of her bare thighs. The cold steel biting into the black dress. ‘Aaaayyyeee… ’ Up to her bottom. No! Those sharp points… On up between the bare cheeks of her bottom.

Mr Philpot has cut the dress right up. In the centre at the back. From hem to the waist.

‘There, Miss.’

‘Aaaaooowwwh!’ It is not cold steel but Mr Philpot’s hand. In the gaping gap he has produced. In under her bare and quivering bottom. Fingers delving in between her legs…

‘Now Miss. We can get at you, eh? And this here. This is the root of the problem no doubt. Thinking about this, also young men I daresay. When you should be working.

Mr Philpot while he makes this statement has his hand right there. Where he had it in those awful measurements. Where this Buzee-Bee is still sticky wet.

‘Maybe we need a touch of the cane. Miss?’

She hears this, this mind-boggling statement. The cane! A repeat of that dreadful word. But at the same time there is the hand. Making her gasp and shudder. This equally, maybe even more so, mind-boggling hand. Doing what it is doing because Mr Philpot has unbelievably cut her dress in two. Right up to her waist.

‘What do you say, Miss?’

The hand is finally too much. The Buzee-Bee gives a convulsive squirm. At the same time the rubbery legs seem to have had enough. She collapses neatly to the floor. Well not really neatly. In a bit of a heap actually. Legs sprawling apart. The pretty, nylon-clad legs are able to do this of course as they are no longer constrained by the skirt. Which anyway has finished up around her waist. The Buzee-Bee is making sounds very much like sobbing. Her hands grab weakly at the dress which she is vaguely aware is rucked round her waist. Exposing among other choice parts her pretty pussy (she is more or less on her back.) It is that part of her that Mr Philpot is eyeing with some interest. That part which of course his hand was so devastatingly working on, to precipitate this unfortunate turn of events. He has a final long look… before the prostrate Buzee-Bee manages to cover it. And then turns. To step over to that bureau where the scissors came from. This time he is reaching behind it. For something else.

Jill, struggling to a sitting position and wondering if her legs are going to hold her if she stands up, sees it. No. She weakly shakes her head. No. He can’t. Not that on top of everything else.

Mr Philpot gives the cane a whistling whip through the air. It is a nasty looking object all right. The truly awful things that have just happened are being pushed rapidly right out of her mind. With the horrendous reality of what Mr Philpot has in his hand. He is intending to cane her.

‘No…’ she squeals.

‘Get up, Miss. Unless you want it lying on the floor. The choice is yours. But you’re getting this cane across that pretty bum.’ Mr Philpot whips it down, across a bare bit of thigh.

A strangled yelp from the Buzee-Bee. The cane has stung like a fierce hornet.

‘Are you getting up or not?’

She is. Struggling to her feet. On hands and knees (not very elegant) and then up on the spiky heels. Somehow… well being caned lying on the floor seems impossible. But… so does…

‘Please don’t.’ She has found her tongue as they say. Everything else is for the moment forgotten. In the face of this immediate horror, with already that stinging cut as a foretaste. ‘Please… I’ll do the hoovering. Ever so quickly. I will. I don’t need…’

She doesn’t need her bottom caned, is what this frantic Buzee-Bee means, but the sentence tails off into nothing. She can’t bear even to say it. Mr Philpot, though, is naturally of a different opinion. Mr Philpot, it may be said, always canes Buzee-Bees who come to his house. It might even be said that that is why he has them, why he is prepared to pay the not inconsiderable rates that the Buzee-Bee Agency charges for their services. Caning and of course other little pleasures. Oh yes, Mr Philpot is certainly in no doubt as to what a Buzee-Bee needs.

‘Get over the chair,’ he advises. ‘And let’s see how that pretty bum likes it. Had any of it before, has it?’

She is over an armchair. Over its over-stuffed arm. Face down in its soft and cosy seat. While her own seat… is up. Thrust out. And of course quite, quite bare. How else would it be… when you are bent right over in a skirt that has been cut open at the back from hem to waist?

The Buzee-Bee is making desperate whimpering sounds into the brocade of the chair seat. She has never been caned before. Of course not. Girls aren’t, not in the normal course of events. Not nowadays. Not like it used to be perhaps. No, they are not caned and they never dream of being caned. Not unless they accept a position with an outfit like the Buzee-Bee Agency. And then it has to come as a very nasty shock. Just as those other things have already come as a very nasty shock. Life at times can be awfully full of nasty…

THWAPP!…

Oh. Ohhh! She shrieks out. It is not possible. That anything can be so devastating. Devastatingly painful. Her flanks, her outraged buttocks, want to collapse into the chair. But the chair is solid, immobile and will not allow this. So the Buzee-Bee’s humming bottom is still there. In position. Haplessly offered up. For the second…

THWEACKKK!…

That muffled scream again. The now twice-stricken buttocks sway and roll. The thighs splay helplessly apart, offering a view of what lies between them: that furry nest that earlier Mr Philpot has brought to such a pitch of excitement. Right now, though, it is forgotten by its owner. The excitement is all elsewhere Oh yes…

THWAPPP!…

A third pair of white-hot tramlines to decorate those desperate pale moons. The bent-over body gives another convulsive shudder. She can’t…

‘Keep still, Miss. Keep it still. How do you expect me to hit it if you’re jerking it about like that?’ Mr Philpot sounds aggrieved. Girls shouldn’t jerk their bottoms about whilst being caned. It is most unreasonable of them. He is managing to do a very good job of hitting the target however.

THWACCKKK!…

----//----

Mrs James smiling. A polite and urbane smile. As if she can have no idea of what can take place at a client’s house. On an assignment. The new Buzee-Bee is finding difficulty speaking. I’ll go straight back and tell her, she had told herself. Tell her I’m going to complain. But… it is not easy…

It had seemed like a different world, like coming out of a bad dream. Coming out of the house — where Mr Philpot had made a final grope at her bottom — and into the dank, now late afternoon. Back to reality almost with her faithful Mini sitting there in the still drizzling rain, its somewhat worn tyres solidly on the wet gravel. Well it was coming out of a bad dream — a nightmarish dream. Except that the dream had happened.

In her blue dress again and her coat and, yes, her knickers as well. Sitting gingerly on her poor bottom behind the wheel and in her desperation to get away stalling it. Flooding the engine. Which she never did. At last it coughed and spluttered into life. She was moving; back down the driveway and out into Meadowcroft Road. Shaking all over. She could hardly manoeuvre but she was away, from Mr Philpot. And she was going straight to see Mrs James…

Mrs James in her office is smiling, her eyes betraying nothing. ‘Get on all right, Jill? Nothing you couldn’t… ah handle was there?’

What does that mean? It can only mean… with a supreme effort the distraught Buzee-Bee finds words.

‘D… do you know… what he did?’

Mrs James’s smile becomes even more charming. Is this girl perhaps an agitator? One does sometimes get them. Ungrateful creatures who when they are given the opportunity to make excellent money for doing very little can only look the gift horse in the mouth.

‘Oh dear me, Jill.’ A slightly weary shake of her head. It is blonde, like the young Buzee-Bee’s sitting opposite, but the hair shoulder-length; Mrs James is a not-unattractive woman of 40 or so. ‘Nothing very much, I don’t suppose. A little housework. And possibly a little… correction. You didn’t find that a problem surely?’

The pretty Buzee-Bee’s face flushes. Mrs James does know. And thinks it’s all right: what you have to expect. ‘ No…’ she breathes. ‘I mean yes. He… it was awful. He… can’t do… those things. No.’

Ah. The situation is made clear to Mrs James. Mr Philpot can’t do those things. Not according to this new young recruit. Mrs James is still smiling. Certain facts of life need to be made clear. Contracts. Forms which have been freely signed. And the most unfortunate consequences which can result if a girl should be so unwise as to consider breaking her contract. Or handing in notice prematurely. Or of course of anything at all in the way of complaints to outside parties.

Jill’s experiences as a Buzee-Bee will be continued next week…