Introductions Over

From Blushes Supplement 24

Jenny stumbled out of bed and blinked the sleep from her eyes. Her bottom still felt sore from the spanking of the previous evening. She stood up, turned and glanced over her shoulder, hoisting her nightie up to survey the damage, in her bedroom mirror. Still very pink, and a few tinges of purple. Mrs Mason’s handprints. She dressed, brushed her hair and walked quietly down the stairs for breakfast. The woman was already sitting at the dining table. ‘How are you this morning?’ Mrs Mason always asked. Jenny smiled back. ‘Alright, thank you.’ Despite the awful smacking late the previous evening. Still only a few hours ago although the hours of sleep had distanced it further in her memory. Mrs Mason watched as Jenny sat down, and noticed the very slight intake of breath as her bottom touched the dining room chair. They ate breakfast in silence, Jenny wriggling occasionally to relieve a dull ache in her bottom.

‘Please excuse me, Mrs Mason. I really ought to be on my way. Mustn’t be late for work…’ The landlady nodded. ‘But I think we’d better take a look at that naughty bottom of yours first, don’t you?’ And before Jenny could answer, the few breakfast dishes and plates were lifted onto the side-trolley, and the girl found herself bent face-down across the table. ‘Oh please, Mrs Mason, is this really…’ In her usual business-like manner, the woman had already lifted Jenny’s skirt up over her back and with her other hand had tugged the girl’s knickers down to her knees. She took a long silent look at the bottom bent before her. ‘Alright. You can go.’ Blushing angrily, Jenny ran for the door, nearly dropping her car keys in her haste. ‘And don’t be late this evening, young lady. Or you know what’ll happen…’

The telephone rang. Daniel Ward wanted his daily update. He personally interviewed and hand-picked all his young recruits. And for the liveliest and most self-assured he prescribed a few weeks with his Midlands branch, where his small band of trusty landladies could take the wind out of the sails of the little upstarts. ‘I gave her a pretty sound tanning, last night, Mr Ward… Yes… In the really bent-over position…’ She reported the events of the previous evening in detail. The man asked whether the punishment was having a positive effect on Jenny’s behaviour. ‘Only very slightly.’ Mrs Mason replied. ‘She’s polite and well-mannered on the surface; but there’s a lot of insolence still. And she’s always home late, just because I ask her to be in at a certain time.’

The telephone conversation continued, detail and discussion between Daniel Ward and his landlady. Later, a similar discussion would take place with other landladies in the area, all reporting back on their young female tenants. ‘Well, she’s a big mature girl, Mr Ward. I checked her bottom this morning. It can take a lot more than I gave it last night.’ Mr Ward offered his suggestions. All Mr Ward’s suggestions were mandatory. ‘Yes, Mr Ward. Tonight. If she misbehaves…’

Despite the trauma of her landlady, Jenny Blackwell enjoyed her work. The good rate of pay was an extra bonus, and the promise of a good career in future years. Each day, as she went about her work in the comfortable and friendly offices, she was able to forget about the assaults on her poor backside. Those awful embarrassing confrontations which always resulted in a knickers-down smacking, just because she was late for dinner, or because she’d uttered a cross word or two.

She took her lunch in the canteen where the food was subsidised. It was still early days, and she was still getting to know the other staff in this branch office. But as she sat and sipped her coffee Jenny’s attention was drawn to another young girl, aged about eighteen or nineteen, who had been queuing for her lunch. She stood by the till and looked around for a spare table. Most of the seats were taken, but by chance she walked over to Jenny’s corner of the canteen. ‘May I join you?’ the girl asked quietly. Jenny welcomed the companionship of someone nearer her own age. And as the girl sat down, Jenny felt a chill ripple through her senses. Just for an instant, she saw the girl flinch. Just as she sat down. Just as her bottom touched the hard plastic seat, Jenny saw her eyes. ‘Are you alright?’ The younger girl tried to smile reassuringly, but Jenny noticed a colouring in her cheeks. ‘Yes. Yes. I’m fine. Really…’ Jenny decided not to push too hard. She sat in her corner and quietly sipped her coffee. ‘Have you worked here long?’ The other girl answered politely. ‘No. Not long. I’ve been transferred here from Manchester for a month or so. Mr Ward himself thought it would do me good.’ Now Jenny was sure of the situation. ‘And do you like it here? Do you like your digs? How’s your landlady?’ The line of questions was too much for the young girl. Truth to tell she was feeling rather fragile. She tried to avoid Jenny’s eyes. ‘No. No, it’s awful. Bloody awful…’ She gave a quiet sob which only Jenny heard. Jenny reached across the table and held the other girl’s arm. ‘Does she spank you?’ Both girls nodded. ‘You too?’ At last, Jenny had found a friend with whom she could share her experiences. ‘Let’s have a chat about it later. Can I take you home in my car?’ They agreed to meet in the car-park. They would have a lot to talk about.

Jenny turned right outside the office car park and drove into the country. The nights were drawing in fast and as the street lamps of the town tailed away behind them, the two girls found a kind of safety in the anonymity of the dark hedgerows and quiet lanes. For once they were away from the power of Daniel Ward and his network. Free of his control. Together where they could talk openly and honestly to each other without the danger of being overheard. Jenny pulled the car off the road onto some commonland. She turned off the ignition, and with it, the car headlamps died. It was dark and silent. Jenny lay back in her seat and closed her eyes. ‘So your landlady spanks you, does she?’ Teresa whispered her reply. ‘Look. If I tell you all about my spankings, will you do the same?’ Teresa agreed. Both were grateful for the darkness. It would hide their blushes, and provide them with a veil behind which they could hide their embarrassment. Jenny told her story. About being put across Mrs Mason’s knee, almost as soon as she’d arrived. And then the harsher smackings over the bedroom stool. Teresa listened quietly.

‘They tell Mr Ward about it, don’t they. I’ve heard her ring him up. She tells him all about the spankings. Even tells him about my bottom…’ Jenny concluded her side of the story, and sat back as young Teresa told hers. About the first time her landlady had punished her for slamming the front door. Just a few hand smacks across the back of her bare thighs, the woman holding up the back of Teresa’s dress. And then her first really serious spanking, across her landlady’s knee, just like Jenny. And finally the events of the previous evening and the reason why Teresa had found it difficult to sit down in the canteen at lunchtime.

‘I play tennis a bit,’ she explained. ‘So I rang up the Leisure Centre one lunchtime last week, and they invited me round for a game at the weekend. I’d packed my tennis outfit and racket just in case…’ The older girl listened intently, finding the experience both reassuring and strangely stimulating at one and the same time. Reassuring to know that she was not the only one to suffer these dreadful spankings. And stimulating? Jenny wasn’t really sure she knew why she wanted to hear all about the young Teresa’s experiences at the hands of her own domineering landlady. ‘I forgot to check on the times of the buses back into town. Missed the last one. Had to walk…’ Jenny nodded her understanding. The same scenario. ‘So she spanked you?’ Teresa found it hard to remind herself of the event. ‘Yes. First across her knee, down in the lounge. Pushed my dress up and pulled my knickers right down…’ She paused to wriggle in her seat as if remembering the initial impact of the torrent of firm smacks which rained down across her bared bottom. ‘And then she pushed me upstairs. Told me to take off my tennis skirt. Made me stand with my hands on my head while she lectured me. In just my tee-shirt…’ Involuntarily, Jenny put her arms around the young girl’s shoulders. Teresa moved closer. ‘And then the knickers came down again… she said I needed a really sound tanning…’

Daniel Ward listened to the Communications Unit on his desk. A call from the Midlands Office Supervisor. ‘Sir? Norris here. You told me to keep an eye on the two girls you sent us? Well they left the building together this evening. Thought you ought to know…’ The man pressed the digits of another number and waited for the line to connect. ‘Mrs Mason? Daniel Ward here…’ First one landlady and then the other confirmed that neither Jenny nor Teresa had reached home. It was already mid-evening. Daniel Ward dictated his instructions. Precise as always, but with the usual latitude to allow his trusted landladies to decide the exact form of punishment, as and when appropriate. After all, they had many years’ experience of dealing with the little minxes. Daniel Ward had every confidence in them.

For the first time in her twenty-two years, Jenny felt a strong and almost irresistible urge to hold another girl tightly to her. Teresa responded, leaning her body towards her, enjoying the warmth of the intimacy of the darkened car, and listening to the patter of the rain upon the roof of the vehicle. Jenny wondered whether she should kiss her new friend. Wondered why she had even thought of kissing Teresa. And then shied away from the prospect, at least for the present. She stared at the windscreen and watched the streaks of rainwater. ‘My God! The rain!’ Teresa jumped as the older girl frantically scrambled for the ignition. ‘My God. This thing never starts if it gets wet…’ Sure enough, the engine turned over with a dull whine. No life in the engine. The ignition system wet. No chance of getting it started until it dried out. Jenny held her head in her hands. ‘Oh Christ. Now what? I haven’t even brought a coat…’ Teresa shivered as she realised the full implication of their predicament. ‘Oh bloody hell. Whatever time will we get back? We’ve got miles to go…’

They left the car by the roadside, and walked quickly back along the lane towards the town, praying that another motorist would be travelling the same route. Within a few minutes, both girls were soaked to the skin, the rain dripping from their hair and their clothes, the water soaking into their shoes. And no passing vehicle on the lonely road. In the semi-darkness, Teresa was sobbing, knowing for sure that this would be the final straw. Remembering her landlady’s dire warning of that very morning. ‘If you’re late for dinner tonight, I’ll tan you into the middle of next week…’ Similar frightening images were in Jenny’s mind. After the spanking of the previous evening she could hardly imagine anything worse, though she was sure her landlady had many more awful punishments in mind. The rain continued incessantly. They walked fast, still hoping that a friendly motorist would pass by and see them. Five miles to walk. And already they had both missed their dinners.

It was very, very late when Jenny finally reached her landlady’s home. Her heart in her mouth she closed the garden gate and hastened up the path to the front door, searching her handbag for her key. The house seemed deserted. No lights in any window. Perhaps Mrs Mason had gone to bed. Jenny turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door as quietly as she could. It clicked shut behind her, and without stopping Jenny climbed the stairs towards her room. The street lamp offered the only illumination. She decided not to risk turning the landing light on. Creeping as quietly as she could, she slipped along the landing, past Mrs Mason’s room and into her room. At last, her bedroom door closed fast behind her, Jenny was able to breathe a sigh of relief.

She turned on the bedside lamp and stared at herself in the mirror. Still dripping, her pretty skirt and shirt soaked and clinging to her body. And her good shoes ruined. She was exhausted, her feet and legs aching, and she was still very frightened, knowing that Mrs Mason would be so terribly annoyed with her.

Jenny began to shiver. Perhaps a warm bath would help. Once more she crept along the landing, undressed quickly, leaving her sodden clothes in a pile outside the bathroom door. And only with the bathroom door firmly closed did she start to run the bathwater, praying that the noise of the water refilling the cistern would not wake the woman. The bath was sheer bliss. Gentle bath salts which soothed her aching limbs. Warm steam to banish the chill of the cold rain. She lay back in the steamy water and ran a soft sponge laden with soap over the contours of her body. Much later, when even the bath was beginning to cool, did Jenny climb out, towelling herself dry with a large fleecy towel warmed over the bathroom radiator. She had brought her talc with her. She sprinkled it liberally over her warm pink body, running her hands over her skin. In her concern not to wake Mrs Mason, Jenny had brought her nightie with her to the bathroom, but she had left it outside on the landing while she had undressed. She unlocked the door, and turned off the light. Quietly she reached down to retrieve her nightie. She could see it, just where she had dropped it, beside her wet clothes.

Suddenly, despite her exhaustion, Jenny realised that something was very wrong. She could see her nightie. She clutched it nervously. It was wrong. The lights were all off when she had crept in. All the lights. The landing should be dark, hiding her dripping clothes… she glanced the length of the narrow landing. It was empty. She was still alone. She pulled the nightie over her head. When she next looked along the passageway towards her bedroom, she gave a quiet yell of fright. ‘Yes, Miss Blackwell. I am watching you.’ Mrs Mason was still dressed, and she was standing there barring Jenny’s escape route. And Jenny was standing there in front of her, her body still warm and pink from the bath, her nightie rucked up around her shoulders, displaying her big well-formed breasts, and… and… fumbling with fright, Jenny tried to hide her nakedness. Her breasts bobbed about as she wriggled to pull her nightie down. The woman just watched, leaning almost casually against the wall of the landing.

Jenny looked again at the menacing figure of her landlady. Obviously she hadn’t gone to bed. She’d been waiting for her to get home. Waiting and planning… and then the final bolt of sheer panic jarred through her. In her hand… shining smooth and round in the landing light, Mrs Mason was holding a cane. The girl had never even seen one before. Not a real one. Not the thin bendy variety. The woman was flexing it, letting it curve into the tightest arc only to spring back again… almost with a life of its own. Jenny backed away, wondering whether she ought to run for it.

Mrs Mason was signalling to her. ‘Come here, young lady…’ Perhaps she could get downstairs and out of the house before the woman could catch her? But then the hopelessness of the situation returned to her with fearsome reality. Where could she go to? On a dark cold night in the pouring rain? Dressed in just her pretty pink cotton nightdress? And what other job could she do? What other work could a young girl find, the job market being as it is? Mrs Mason was still waiting. Still beckoning to her with one crooked finger. Still holding that wicked-looking cane. With a little whimper, she began the long walk along the landing, towards her landlady. Towards the cane. She just couldn’t bear to look at the dreadful menacing stick. It seemed to be quivering, waiting excitedly for a firm round bottom. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind she had an image of her bottom, bared and vulnerable, and the thin cane, flexing itself so effortlessly to wrap itself around her curves, kissing all the contours of her upturned bottom-cheeks. Jenny reached the bannisters close to where Mrs Mason was guarding her only real escape route. ‘It’s almost midnight, young lady.’ The woman tapped the tip of the cane against the wooden bannister rail. ‘It’s time you were caned.’ She paused, but only to emphasise her following words. ‘Severely caned.’

Jenny was told to face the bannister. Forlornly she stared down the stairs while Mrs Mason lectured her from behind. ‘Dinner was served at seven, young lady. Five hours ago. And then you come into my house, dripping wet over my carpets and furniture, leaving soaking wet clothes on my landing… without a single word of apology…’ Jenny wondered whether any words of apology might help the situation, even now. ‘We do know who you’ve been with, Miss Blackwell. And I can assure you that your friend is having her naughty little bottom severely dealt with, right at this moment.’ She pressed one hand into the small of the girl’s back. ‘Bend right over. Get hold of the bannister rails, and don’t let go until I tell you to.’ Jenny placed herself right over the bannister, her still damp hair falling forward over her face. Perhaps if she held on really tight, it wouldn’t hurt so much. Perhaps she could brace herself against the inevitable pain. She had never been caned. Her parents had never beaten her. Didn’t believe in physical chastisement, as they called it. Didn’t think that tanning a big girl’s bottom would be of the slightest value to anyone.

Mrs Mason was tugging at the hem of the girl’s nightie. ‘You have disobeyed me, young lady. And your treatment of my home leaves much to be desired. This, I promise you, is going to hurt.’ Her nightie was lifted right up, above her waist, and tucked up under her tummy to prevent it from falling down over her bottom. Bent forward, she closed her eyes and waited. The woman still wasn’t satisfied. ‘Get right over, girl. Reach further down. Get up on your toes.’ And so she stretched further forwards, her knuckles white as she clutched the bannister rails, her legs stretched taut, only her toes touching the landing carpet. Standing by the open door to the girl’s bedroom, the landlady measured the distance between herself and Jenny’s tightly-curved bottom. Fleetingly, the cold shiny cane rested chillingly against the warm pink bottom-cheeks, so much more sensitive to chastisement now, since her recent hot bath. And then Mrs Mason raised her right arm. Jenny heard the sibilant whisper of the long thin stick as it sped towards its target. She heard the sharp crack as it kissed its way in a tight arc right across her bottom, and then she felt the sharp dagger of pain as the impact registered in her brain.

She yelled loudly, her hands released from the bannister rails, frantically soothing the sting in her tail. Mrs Mason tapped the cane against Jenny’s fingers. Put your hands back… go on… hold onto the bannister rails…’ Breathing deeply, the sting of the cane stroke still biting into her senses, the girl returned her arms to the painted wooden rails. She closed her eyes again, squeezing from them a tear-drop or two. And she clutched the uprights of the staircase, awaiting the second stroke of the stick. The impact almost knocked her off her feet. She jumped forward, and again yelled loudly. Mrs Mason watched and waited, her experienced eyes calculating the effect of the cane on the girl’s tender bottom. Two thin tramlines of crimson were now written across her bottom-cheeks. Narrow parallel lines of pain. Lines to teach the girl a lesson. A real lesson. ‘Spare a thought for your new-found friend, Miss Blackwell.’ Jenny, the intolerable pain still burning across her own bottom suddenly remembered young Teresa. Poor Teresa. In her own landlady’s house. Not very far away. Being caned. And judging from Jenny’s assessment of her earlier in the day, poor Teresa’s bottom was much slimmer and smaller than her own. A cane would really be felt across Teresa’s young bottom. Suddenly, the crack of Mrs Mason’s cane brought Jenny back to her own very real predicament, and another bolt of red-hot pain stung like a million wasps right across the very tender curves of her bottom-cheeks. She yelled ever more loudly, standing right up on tip-toe, promising her landlady that she would be a good girl.

Daniel Ward sat back in his dimly-lit office. It was very late. But he had insisted that the landladies should ring him, no matter how late it was. First, Teresa’s report reached his expectant ears. Soundly caned. Touching her toes, in the middle of the lounge. And absolutely bare, too. Her landlady had been waiting for her. Stripped her naked of her dripping clothes. Even her little bra and knickers set. And after a brief intimate drying-off with a warm towel, young Teresa was introduced to the cane. It took just six strokes to teach the slim young woman a few lessons in good manners and responsibility. A naughty young woman soon dealt with. Perhaps she would arrive for work in a different frame of mind in the morning.

And then Mrs Mason. Another reassuring call. Jenny Blackwell was older. A harder nut to crack. But no match for the experienced Mrs Mason. Nine hard strokes, applied slowly and firmly, with the girl bent well over the upstairs bannister rail. She yelled after each and every stroke. A pattern of thin red tramlines written right across her very well-padded bottom.

Daniel Ward went home a satisfied and happy man. He knew he could trust his senior staff. That’s why he paid them so well. In the hands of Mrs Mason and her colleagues, he was breeding a new era in young female executives. It would take some time. But it was an investment for the future. And there were plenty of bright young things who were willing to take up his challenge. Jenny and Teresa, and a dozen other young women, drawn from all over the country, were being trained for the future. A tough painful training. But a sound foundation.

But Mr Ward, Managing Director and sole owner of Danward, knew nothing of Mrs Mason and her extra-mural punishments. ‘I’ve sent her to bed to think things over.’ Mrs Mason had said. But she had omitted to tell her boss about the second caning applied to Jenny’s bottom that long night. As the town hall clock in the distance struck one, Jenny was still yelling. She was lying on her back on top of her quilt, her legs held aloft by the redoubtable Mrs Mason. And the landlady’s trusty cane was still visiting the girl’s upturned bottom with frightening frequency, and remarkable velocity. ‘Following orders.’ Mrs Mason said to herself. ‘Following orders.’

To be followed by the sequel — Rules of the House…