Buzee-Bees 3

The story from Blushes Supplement 27 continues…

Not Meadowcroft Road or Mr Philpot. Not today at least. Today it is Beechwood Road. A house called Fairview. A gentleman called Mr Viney. This girl called Jill Maxby, this still very new Buzee-Bee, tries to concentrate on the road, watch where she is going, and not think about anything else. Well, crashing the poor Mini would be worse, wouldn’t it? Worse even than…

She is a still new Buzee-Bee because it is Thursday and Mr Philpot was Wednesday. Yesterday. This is only her second assignment. But of course there is an awful lot of difference between your first Buzee-Bee assignment and your second. The first one… opens a girl’s eyes. She pretty much knows the score now. As she also knows the score regarding ideas about refusing, leaving, making complaints. Forget all that, Mrs James said, smiling her nice smile. Just be a sensible girl. Think of what you’re earning, Jill. And what you have to do for it, or what our gentlemen clients wish to do, well, it’s nothing very much. Is it? That was what Mrs James who didn’t have to go out on assignments said.

‘And I’ve got quite a number of gentlemen who I’m sure are just dying to have you visit, Jill. Tomorrow… I’m assigning you to our Mr Viney. A very nice gentleman.’

This is Beechwood Road now. Looking much like Meadowcroft Road did yesterday. A drizzly rain is falling again for one thing. Also it seems a similar sort of road with big, expensive houses. The sort of houses where the gentleman owners can afford to have the Buzee-Bee Agency send a girl round. She shivers, peering out. This one…? No, it is called Greenaway. Jill has her thick coat on again today. Under it is not her blue dress but a uniform. Not that uniform of Mr Philpot’s though, that skin-tight dress that he so devastatingly cut up to the waist: that was Mr Philpot’s own uniform. What she has on today is the Buzee-Bee Agency uniform, worn on assignments to gentlemen who prefer a girl to come in uniform. It is like a maid’s uniform but unlike Mr Philpot’s it is full-skirted. So there is no need to cut the skirt if a gentleman wishes to get at a girl’s bottom. The bottom which is in brief, black silk knickers which go with this uniform dress. Nylons of course and a black suspender belt. And of course as well the black high heels which are not especially good for driving in, just as they are not ideal for housework either.

Fairview is further on. When she is beginning to think perhaps it doesn’t really exist, or is not on this road, she has got the address wrong and can go back to the office. Or can just drive off… but it is here. In here. Not a gravel drive this time; tarmac. The shiny wet evergreens are the same as yesterday though. This Mr Viney…

A bit older perhaps. When he opens the door. He looks all right, an ordinary looking gentleman, casually dressed. But then Mr Philpot looked all right. And was all right — until he made her take her dress and slip off. And simply yanked her knickers down.

‘Let me take that coat. Not a very nice day at all.’

The heavy, protective coat is off, whisked away. She stands straight in the maid’s uniform. Trembling. On her high heels and in the tight-bodiced, full-skirted dress, its hem well above her knees. While Mr Viney inspects. Approves?

‘You’re new of course. I’ve not had you before.’ They are now in the sitting room. It is all like yesterday, the room very similar to Mr Philpot’s. Mr Viney won’t have a tape measure, though. He doesn’t need to measure her. At least not for a uniform. But he might still… just want to measure her. She is trembling, she can’t help it. And her voice… sounds funny, squeaky. When she has to speak.

He wants to know and she has to tell him. Yesterday. Yes, it was her first assignment. ‘And did you get on all right? Was that gentleman satisfied… ah… with your work?’

Her squeaky voice answers. Mr Viney has sat down. She is still standing. In front of him. On the high heels. And the shapely nyloned legs that she knows are going to start getting all wobbly very soon. Mr Viney has a very frank look.

‘And did he, that gentleman… use the cane?’

She opens her mouth. A funny sort of sound comes out. Like a croak. She nods. Mr Viney’s voice is not croaky. It is soft and measured, with his upper-class accent. ‘Yes. Of course. Naturally. In fact, Jill, I already know something about that. Your Mrs James. Speaking on the phone. Do you know what she said?’

The Buzee-Bee with the wobbly legs can only shake her head. It is going to be something awful.

‘She said, your admirable Mrs James, that I should be sure and cane you. She wanted to be sure you had another dose today. To get you, as she put it, properly acclimatised. What about that?’

There is nothing much to say. Except perhaps: I think I need to go to the bathroom. Her knees are wobbly all right now. Some croaky words do come out. ‘Please. I don’t… need it… Please…’

Mr Viney shakes his head. ‘All girls need it, Jill. Certainly Buzee-Bee girls need it. And very certainly if they haven’t got off to a very good start. Would you take your knickers off, please?’

He is going to cane her right away. An empty, nauseous feeling in her stomach. Also… there is now an urgent need to go to the bathroom. Or she’ll be wetting herself. A croaky whisper.

‘Right away, Miss?’ You’ve only just got here. Go on then, but don’t take more than two seconds.’

That is all it seems like before she is back standing in front of Mr Viney. She didn’t really need to go: it was just nervousness. Or to be more precise stark panic.

‘Have you taken them off?’

No. Shaking her head. There was the frail hope that perhaps Mr Viney… hadn’t meant it?

He frowns. ‘Really, young lady.’ Getting to his feet now. His voice is harder. ‘Take them off right now then. And then get up on this table. Lie on your back with your legs up.’

It takes some moments for this to sink in. The horrible meaning of these words. She is doing what she has to do about her knickers: hands up under her skirt and sliding them down. And off: Mr Viney said off. While gradually… his words take on meaning in her head. No. No! Not like that.

Standing helplessly with the black silk knickers in her hand and weakly shaking her head again. Her voice a croaky whisper. ‘No… please… not like that…’

‘Yes, Miss. I think so.’ Mr Viney is taking her arm. To guide her towards the table. Her feet, the high heels, half stumble. ‘In the circumstances. Come on. Up you get.’

It is a normal height table. With a cloth on it. She is going to faint… or something. A little gasp comes out. Mr Viney’s hand has found her bare bottom. Up under the short full skirt. Her bare thighs above the stocking tops and her bare bottom up above. She squeals. He is lifting her… with his hand more or less between her legs… she squeals again… and grabs for the table. The cloth slides away as she tries to grip… but Mr Viney is there. With that hand. Which is now unequivocally hard up between her legs…

Only when he has got this Buzee-Bee as he wants her does Mr Viney let go. When she is properly on her back on the table, getting a good view of the ceiling. Her legs raised, bending back above her. Mr Viney is telling her to hold the raised legs, behind her knees. Yes, the Buzee-Bee is in position as he wants her. Shivering and shaking from that hand which has let go but she can still feel it. Sending shock waves through her like a bare electric wire. The shocking hand, like Mr Philpot’s shocking hand yesterday, for the moment drives everything else out of her head. Just for the moment. And then… she is able to properly appreciate the position she is in. Upside down, her skirt fallen away so that the previously hidden parts — her hips, her upper thighs, most of all her most intimate parts — are fully, freely, on view.

‘Hold it like that. This is a really excellent position for administering a caning. The target area is ideally placed.’ Mr Viney sounds almost like a scientist conducting an experiment; a man in love with his work. He is also a man who is gazing appreciatively at this up-ended Buzee-Bee’s private-most parts. With not one detail left to the imagination. Sensing this horrendous fact the upside-down girl slides a hand down, from her knees to the area of primary interest. To place the palm of her hand over it. But Mr Viney is not having any of that. Perhaps not surprisingly. Well…

‘No! Both hands holding your knees, Miss.’ He removes the hand, pushing it back. So that what she desperately wants to cover is once more fully and blatantly on view. But Mr Viney seeing, awful as it may be, is not of course the only matter of concern. No. There is… what he now has in his hand. Yes. A cane.

‘Hold still, Miss…’

Oh Christ!

SLAPP!

Oh Christ. A desperate gasping howl. The dreadful cane has sliced in athwart the tight-stretched upturned undersides. The ripe undercurves of her buttocks that are now facing the ceiling. That one hand again comes away from her knee. The freed leg swinging up, as if she is doing some upside-down cycling. Mr Viney catches the leg. Pushes it back down.

‘Keep in position, Miss. We need discipline. I could have you up here all afternoon, you know.’

He takes aim again. There is a benchmark now: the angry double stripe transversely bisecting the cheeks just beyond that nest of hair. The springy bamboo rises… and falls.

SLAPP!

Parallel to the first one, perhaps an inch above it. With the frantic howl she is writhing, lurching. But hanging onto her knees. The throbbing hot pain is everywhere but her head is clear. The two breath-taking stingers have indeed served to clear her head of that fainty feeling. Mr Viney’s words remain shining bright: I could have you up here all afternoon…

THWAPPP!

Yes she can hang on. After the frantic yelp as it lands, gritting her teeth. Whimpering. Just hang on. Otherwise…

SLAPPP!…

She does hang on, this desperate Buzee-Bee. And Mr Viney only gives her six. Only.

‘For the moment,’ he tells her, putting down the cane. ‘That will do for the moment.’ His eyes keenly inspecting his handiwork. And everything else. That nest. His hand reaches out.

‘Yes. That wasn’t too bad, was it? And I thought you did quite well. After what Mrs James said. Yes, perhaps we are learning.’ His hand is stroking over her hot flesh. The upturned, caned buttocks. ‘No, don’t move. Just stay as you are for the moment. Keep hold of your legs.’

She has started to slide over onto her side. He has finished. And his hand… has slid off of the hot crests of her buttocks. Down in between. That nest… ‘Keep still — just relax. Feeling better now, is it…?’

Mr Viney is stroking the nest. The nest of moist curls that has been there in full view, inches from the recent desperate action. She makes a whimpering sound. Mr Philpot did this of course. This awful thing that Mr Viney… is now doing. He did it before he caned her. When he was measuring. Standing with her legs apart and Mr Philpot… Mr Viney… is now doing the same thing. As she lies upside down holding her knees on the table. Her bottom still hotly smarting and now… another whimpery squeal. The fingers have opened her up. She shudders. Her hips are moving. Her red-striped buttocks squirming. Mr Viney’s low voice… as his knowing fingers work…

To be continued…