Into the Fire 4 - Tracey Does Her Best

The penultimate instalment from Blushes 2

Something borrowed, something crimson.

‘You’ve missed a bit — over there. Do you see?’

‘Um — oh, yes.’

A spank landed squarely under one of Tracey’s buttocks, catching her on the bare bit which the shorts left for just such eventualities.

‘Ow!’

‘You’ll have to do it before you go, my dear.’

Another spank, the hand lingering on the warmth of her skin.

Pouting at the unfairness of all this lark, Tracey shoved the unwieldy old lawnmower across the grass to where a few spindly stems had defied the cranky mower’s best efforts. Glancing over her shoulder she realised that the old fool wasn’t watching for the moment — about the only time that whole afternoon that he hadn’t — and she swooped a hand down and wrenched the stalks from the ground and threw them into the grassbox. Dutifully she clattered the mower back to the paved area behind the house.

‘D’you think that’s alright now then, sir?’

Why she called him sir she wasn’t really sure, except that when you were in the Service it always seemed safer to be extra polite to everyone in case they turned out to be one of the thousands of off-duty policemen, justices of the peace, part-time civilian administrators etc. etc. who seemed perfectly entitled to smack your bum for an endless variety of petty reasons. Old Walter was one of them, as she knew from half a dozen other working excursions arranged by Charles to amuse his friend, and there wasn’t anything she could do about that.

‘Not really, my little madam, but I suppose it’ll have to do.’

‘I’m sorry sir, but I’ve done my best — all day, sir.’

Tracey’s blatant hint that it was time she was allowed to go home — well, back to Charles’ house, not quite the same as home — wasn’t awfully well received.

‘Petulant little girl aren’t you, eh?’ He looked down at her legs and her grubby shorts — Tracey could feel it coming. ‘Right, if that’s your attitude Miss, you can go and wait for me in the potting shed.’

Tracey’s defiant look vanished — there were some nasty things in that potting shed, and out of sight of his wife, who wouldn’t be able to see that far, she was likely to feel them across her bum.

‘Oh Mr Dudley, I’ve worked so hard — didn’t I get anything right?’

‘What’s that got to do with it? You’re an impudent little girl who doesn’t deserve to go home without a good, smacked bottom. Now — the potting shed my girl, or it’ll be the worse for you!’

‘Oh Lord!’ She didn’t say it until she was out of earshot, of course, but it really was enough to make you spit!

She let herself into the shed and scowled at the weatherboard planks for the lack of anything else to take it out on. She was still frowning and pouting in the same childish way when she heard his stumbling steps on the path, but not without good reason. If Mr Dudley wanted to think of her as an ‘impudent little girl’ then that was at least better than when he decided she was an ‘immoral little baggage’. Immoral baggages got their bums caned — Impudent little girls got their bottoms spanked. A fine point of difference well worth remembering, from Tracey’s point of view.

‘Well now — what have you got to say for yourself, my saucy little lady? Hmm?’

Tracey could have said she’d rather have pulled her own shorts down, thank you Mr Dudley, although she might have been a trifle too late. With lots of energetic fumbling he was taking them down anyway, along with her knickers. Her bottom swelled out over the tight elastic and got itself spanked for its cheek.

Instead she thought it might be wiser to be ‘little’ and perhaps say as little as possible. She managed it a moment later, when Mr Dudley seemed to decide that her pants were failing to disengage themselves from their lodgement at the tops of her thighs and gave them a little inexpertly-managed help.

‘Oh, Mr Dudley!’

He smiled at that, and did it again, and then he hauled her across his knees whilst he sat on a drum of weedkiller. He finished the job of pulling her knickers down and then he gave her an experimental slap, just to hear her squeal. Tracey obliged, and it wasn’t all play-acting. He had hard hands!

Tracey continued to ‘oblige’ until it stopped being a matter of obliging and became a spanking in earnest. By the time he had finished with her she felt a lot more like a ‘little girl’ than a grown-up one, not least because she was crying like a kid.

And then she had to be smuggled out of the house and off down the lane on her bike without saying goodbye to Mrs Dudley, because the old lady would have wanted to know why she looked as if she’d been crying.

Tracey wobbled off on her bike and Walter went back to the house. The first thing he did was put the kettle on, and the second was to make a phone call to Charles. Strictly speaking, Walter might have been accused of telling a few fibs — but never mind. The thing was, the girl plainly needed to be taught more of a lesson than he’d had time to. Charles assured him that he would be waiting for her in the study with a strap the moment she got back.

Satisfied with that, Walter made the tea and went to sit in the conservatory with his wife. They chatted gardening until twilight, by which time Tracey had been sent to bed with her bum strapped and both Walter and Charles had been left with the feeling that the status quo had been maintained for another day.