Dimbledown Damsel

My favourite kind of R.T. Mason story (I’m making an assumption here as it’s uncredited) — a small English town, seething with outwardly respectable dirty old men, a pretty girl helpless to resist them but also stimulated by their attentions, the worsening of an already bad situation for her, and some rather lovely pictures to match the story. From Blushes Supplement 18.

A pleasantly warm June evening. The quiet hamlet of Dimbledown drowsy after a day of sun — though some would say it was equally drowsy when there was no sun to be seen. The weatherman had said it would stay this way for the weekend. The seaside would be nice, Angela thought. At the weekend. Weymouth or Bournemouth, for instance. Lying on the hot sand getting a tan and no doubt being admired. Mr Marjoram perhaps might take her, if she sort of suggested it. Or Mr Hosking. Maybe even her own Mr Lovage. Lovage the Chemists: Our Own Herbal Remedies. Though they would all want something in return. But then they would want something anyway.

She wriggled her bottom on Mr Marjoram’s chair. Or perhaps it was Mrs Marjoram’s. Mrs Marjoram was out, as she always was when Angela visited. As probably she always was when one of the other girls came round. Mrs Marjoram was understanding, it seemed. Likewise Mrs Lovage and Mrs Hosking. Angela wiggled her tail again. A well-upholstered tail. Succulent, Mr Marjoram called it. He said it was the best in the village and better than he’d seen on any of the holiday girls at Weymouth or Swanage. That was perhaps flattering but it also seemed to mean that Mr Marjoram wanted to be at her all the time. With that strap; a tawse, he called it.

Sometimes when he put that across your bare bum you thought you were going round the twist; out into orbit.

He should be here by now. It was not like Mr Marjoram to be late when Angela came round. He was usually waiting; eager to be at her. Angela wiggled her bum again. It wasn’t that the chair was hard, it was… She stood up. Rubbed at her bottom. Her poor bottom was sore, that was the trouble. And the cause of that was Mr Lovage. Earlier in the afternoon. The cane.

He shouldn’t have done that. Not when she was coming round to see Mr Marjoram this evening. That was supposed to be the agreement: that you didn’t get it more than once a day. Mr Lovage had known and anyway Angela had told him, yelled it out. But he just went on and took her knickers down. Pretending not to hear or understand or something. Maybe it was the summer coming on, the hot weather inflaming him. But it meant that Angela still had a sore bottom now and here she was at Mr Marjoram’s with naturally that gentleman all hot to use his strap when he came in. Was she going to tell him he couldn’t, she was too sore? Mr Marjoram wouldn’t want to hear that. And of course it was his evening.

Angela sat down again. Gingerly. Maybe Mr Marjoram had been called away, and couldn’t get home. Then her bottom would have a chance to recover. For Mr Hosking of course. Because tomorrow, Friday, it was Mr Hosking. Angela thought again about the seaside. If she wanted to go at the weekend she had better tell Mr Hosking to be careful with his cane. If she wanted to wear her swimsuit on Saturday, say. But right now… then she heard the front door. Mr Marjoram presumably. Oh cripes.

Yes Mr Marjoram. ‘Hello, Angela dear. I was held up. That Mrs Protheroe. Mmm. What a lovely outfit. New?’

Yes it was new. Angela, standing now, giving her recently caned bottom a break, and thereby showing off the short plum-coloured skirt and pink blouse set off by a pale grey sash at her waist. All in silk — or artificial silk at least.

‘Lovely short skirt,’ observed Mr Marjoram, quickly in at close quarters. ‘You girls nowadays. Much shorter and you’ll be showing your pretty bums to everyone in the street.’

‘Hey!’ His arms round her. Holding the supple waist with the other up under the crisp silk skirt. To Angela’s silky thighs, above the white silk stockings. Glowing living-and-breathing girl-flesh. ‘Mr Hosking?’ inquired the eager Mr Marjoram. ‘Or have you been up to London?’

Angela’s good-sized tits squashed up against Mr Marjoram’s jacket. She was waiting for his hand on her sore bum. ‘Nobody takes me to London,’ she complained in a pouty voice. London could in fact be even better than the seaside.

That left Stan Hosking as provenance. S. Hosking: Modes and Outfitters. Had Stanley got any extra special favours for such an acceptable gift? Arnold Marjoram, with the spicy feel of well-built, 18-year-old girl in his hands and all down his front, paused a moment to consider. Fair dos all round was the agreement. Himself and Hosking and Lovage. And their three girl employees. And you couldn’t have one getting an advantage, just because he could supply girls’ frillies.

‘Hey!’ His hand on Angela’s bottom. Ripe young flesh in a diaphanous containment of whispery French knickers. Ripe young flesh that had only hours before been subject to the cane. ‘Aaaooouuuh!’ Mr Marjoram had a firm grip on a cheek. ‘That hurts!’

Why did it hurt? She had to tell him. Arnold Marjoram immediately jumped to the conclusion that it had been Mr Hosking. An extra caning, a caning out of turn in connection with Angela’s new outfit. ‘It wasn’t,’ she squealed. ‘It was Mr Lovage. I told him he shouldn’t but he just went ahead.’

Mr Marjoram was not at first disposed to believe this, convinced that Stanley Hosking had been allowed an extra go at Angela in consideration of these splendid new garments. Mr Hosking hadn’t, Angela protested. In fact she hadn’t been given them, she had bought them from him, though at cost price, and Mr Hosking hadn’t tried to insist on a caning as a consequence. Finally accepting this, Mr Marjoram turned his annoyance on Mr Lovage. What did he think he was doing? He, Arnold Marjoram, had a right to get Angela in a pristine state, her bottom untouched by cane or strap or anything else during the previous 24 hours.

Angela said she certainly hadn’t wanted Mr Lovage to do it. He had just done it. Mr Marjoram said it was pure anarchy and he hadn’t thought Stanley Hosking had it in him to behave in such a way. They would have to have a general meeting and really sort Mr Hosking out.

Angela said Yes. In all this Mr Marjoram had let go of her, in order to concentrate on the iniquities of Mr Lovage. Now it occurred to him that he was wasting time in going on like this. Angela could only stay a certain while before her mother would be wondering where she was. This waste of time was of course all George Lovage’s fault.

‘OK, get those things off,’ Mr Marjoram said briskly.

That meant the strap. ‘Look… Mr Marjoram. I don’t really… I mean not after Mr Lovage. He really hurt.’

Mr Marjoram was indignant. ‘Come on. It is Thursday. If I’m cheated out of my Thursday I shall lose out twice.’

That was a point. But still. ‘I shouldn’t have to have it twice in a day,’ whined Angela. Unbuttoning her blouse nonetheless. Her thrusting tits underneath held in the cups of a brief satin bra. Blonde Angela had a sturdy but stunning body, the best of the lot, Arnold Marjoram thought. Though when he was engaged with Mr Hosking’s Monica or his own Valerie he could well believe either of those young ladies was the best. They were undoubtedly all three very choice (that was how they had got their jobs), but proximity and availability did make that certain difference.

Angela glanced at the window. Mr Marjoram’s garden outside and beyond that the centre of civilisation known as Dimbledown. It was a secluded garden but nevertheless a girl had her little apprehensions. Those shrubs could be harbouring nasty peeking young boys. Or anyone. ‘Can we close the curtains?’ she enquired. Before anything else came off. Well, her stated reason for being here, if asked, was helping with the housework. Though Angela’s outfit this evening might not indicate this. But taking things off…

Mr Marjoram drew the curtains. Angela removed her bra. Pink-nippled protuberances, bobbing, trembling, free. Glands that a number of local youths dreamt of getting their hands on, but didn’t. A well-brought up girl does not allow any messing about by young lads. Oh no. Messrs Marjoram, Lovage and Hosking were naturally a different story. A girl has to be sensible.

Somewhat flirtatiously Angela slid down her pretty red skirt. She couldn’t help the flirtatious bit, a girl’s natural instinct, but at the same time was hotly aware that if things went as they normally did she would not be acting that way much longer. A girl does not flirt her bottom when a nasty leather strap is biting into it — or for that matter the cane favoured by Messrs Lovage and Hosking. No.

Just her knickers and stockings and suspender belt now. And the white heels. A very nice sight for a man to have in his house on a summer’s evening with his wife discreetly out visiting. A very sexy pair of lacy French knickers. ‘Pull ‘em up,’ he told her. ‘Nice and tight.’

Angela making a face but doing it. The flimsy material up into the cleft of her bum to sharply delineate the twin cheeks. Mr Marjoram’s hand there, at the under-curve of tightly stretched silk. She gave a yelp. A girl is highly sensitive in that region and not just as a result of the cane. Ignoring the yelp he prodded a finger in the hot, moist tunnel between the tops of Angela’s legs. She yelped again. The finger rubbed against the ceiling of the tunnel. Reflectively back and forth. A low ‘Don’t…’ from the stimulated girl. Getting you all hot and bothered wasn’t fair, not if he was going to do that other. It made it ten times worse. She squealed. She was getting wet. The finger came out.

‘OK. Get them off.’

Angela all shaky. The knickers sliding down the quivery thighs. She didn’t want the strap. She didn’t. She never wanted it, but today… after this afternoon. This whole thing. The three of them. She hadn’t known it would be three of them, not when she started with Mr Lovage. She wouldn’t have agreed to it even from him except that in this awful dead place, bloody Dimbledown, you otherwise wouldn’t get a job.

‘I really don’t want that strap,’ she moaned.

Standing in just suspender belt and stockings now. Mr Marjoram only grunted. And grabbed her bum again. Angela’s bare bum now. Bending down to examine it. The traces still of Mr Lovage’s cane. She shivered at his hand. Her bottom that Stanley Lovage had bent over the table in his back room. She moaned again. As Mr Marjoram’s hand went in where it had been before. Only now the hot bare flesh. Slippery wet.

‘Getting all excited, Angela dear? The thought of the tawse, eh?’

Moans. Squeaks. Mr Marjoram was doing things. Things that made Angela grit her teeth. Her bottom rolling. A whinnying neigh from between the clenched teeth. Hips working, her legs weakening. ‘Aaaooohhh!’

His hand coming out and sharply smacking. ‘Get it for me then, Angie.’

NO! But stumbling over to the chest. The drawer. Where he kept it. Wailing. ‘I don’t wa… want it.’ Much worse now he’d got her all… like this.

Handing it to him. The tawse. And then on rubber legs up the stairs. Into the little room. Where he always did it. The little single bed.

Desperate breathy pleadings now. The more she thought about it the worse it seemed. It was always awful. You might imagine you might get used to it, after this time, but you didn’t. They liked to hurt you. All three of them.

‘Come on, get on the bed.’ Marjoram’s tawse, like an angry bee, stung Angela’s rear. She squealed and got up on the baby pink bedcover. Mr Marjoram had the pillow, to go under her hips. To raise her bum nicely up. Bloody Christ. ‘Get down. Hands behind your back.’

‘No!’ An urgent yelp. Squirming her bared bum. Just as…

‘Aaarrraagghhh!’

Right across where Mr Lovage’s cane had stroked. ‘Nooo…’ Angela’s bum giving a convulsive jerk, her legs splaying apart like a frog’s. Her hand down to grab at the surging pain. ‘No…’

‘Aaarooouuhhh!’

Another. This one partly across her hand. ‘Get your hand away then. What are you thinking of?’ Angela was thinking that she couldn’t take it, that was what. Not just yelping but making a sound awfully like crying. She couldn’t help it. Wet on the cover. Dribble or tears. Or both. The strap splatted down again.

‘Get your hands away, Angie. You’ve learnt better than that I know.’ He aimed one low down, where her legs were splayed, so that the leather curled in, the tender inside of the upper thigh. A girl was extra sensitive there. Angie’s howl confirming. Also her jerking bottom. A lovely sight, the swelling, bright pink flesh against the slim, pure white suspender strap.

‘Hurt does it?’ Arnold Marjoram inquired mildly. The soft thighs had snapped together on the stinging flesh. An unintelligible sound into the now rumpled bedcover. What did Mavis Marjoram think when she found the bed in not quite the pristine state she had left it? Arnold perched on the bed’s edge. The strap was now in his left hand.

‘Open your legs. Let’s see where that one went.’

The pink bottom clenched, unclenched. The knees reluctantly parted. ‘Ah…’ His hand. ‘Aaaoooh!’ ‘Stings, does it?’ Fingers slid up to where they had been earlier. Gaspy squeals greeting their presence. Knowing fingers. Opening her. ‘Like this, do we, Angie? Make it feel better?’

‘Nnnngghhh!’

The fingers busy. ‘Naughty girls like this. Although they shouldn’t. Gets them all hot and excited, eh? And then what, Angela. Mmm?’

His voice low and soft. Angela groaning into the bedspread, hands clutching handfuls. As his fingers kept at her. ‘Then we’re going to have more strap, Angela. A lot of really hard ones. What naughty girls need. When they let Mr Lovage cane them when he shouldn’t.’

Desperate shrieks.

 Shrieks filling the little bedroom but not to be heard much further. Shrieks fading as they rolled out into the rest of the otherwise empty house and quite gone when you were out in the neat garden, or the street which ran along into Dimbledown’s not very active centre. An empty, dusty street that, some 30 minutes later, saw Angela Perkins emerge from the front gate of the Marjoram’s property. In that new and pretty outfit that she had worn, not particularly for Mr Marjoram’s benefit, but for general admiration. A girl likes to be admired. Flaunting her bottom just a little bit. But Angela wasn’t flaunting it now. Her breath still gaspy, her face pink and puffy. Mr Marjoram had been… diabolical.

Really diabolical. Angela stumbled slightly in her high heels. Her legs seemed not sure where they were going. Indeed her whole body had an uncoordinated feel to it. He had really belted her poor bum. After bringing her to the very brink, every nerve yammering with excitement. Angela’s feet made another half stumble. Bloody Mr Marjoram. And tomorrow…

A quiet squeak of brakes. A small car had come to a halt beside her. Who…? It was Mr Pritt. Pritt’s Family Butchers. His round face smiling at her. Angela didn’t really like Mr Pritt. Something about him. The window opened.

‘Get in, Angie. I’ll give you a lift.’

She didn’t want a lift but Mr Pritt said he had something to discuss with her. Something important. So she got in next to him. Pulling the short skirt down as far as it would go. Mr Pritt patted her leg and grinned. ‘Been visiting then? Arnold Marjoram?’

It was none of Mr Pritt’s business. And anyway she went there to help with the cleaning and suchlike. Not that she should have to inform Mr Pritt. He grinned again. And pointed to something on the front shelf. ‘Know what those are, Angie?’

A pair of binoculars. Angela could see that. Then her heart missed a beat. Oh Christ. That window. But Mr Marjoram had drawn the curtains. Mr Pritt said, ‘I’m surprised you have to take your clothes off to help with the cleaning. You’ve got a lovely figure though, Angie.’

‘Something I should like to see more of,’ he added, as she sat there, numb. Then, ‘It’s a lovely evening. Let’s go on the common.’

Finding words Angela blurted, ‘No. I’ve got to get home. My mum…’

The hand on her leg again. ‘Your mum won’t want to know about Mr Marjoram, will she? Or Stanley Hosking. Or your Mr Lovage for that matter.’

Oh Jesus Christ. Feeling sick in her stomach. ‘Look…’ she said. ‘Look what?’ Mr Pritt asked. And Angela didn’t really have anything to say.

‘I really do have to get home,’ she bleated.’

Mr Pritt said, ‘Yes. In a little while. But first let’s see some of the lovely summer countryside.’

He drove out and parked the car. They walked out to a secluded spot. Angela with her eyes darting here and there, afraid they would come on someone walking their dog or something. Well what was she supposed to be doing here with Mr Pritt? Mr Pritt who had a car rug under his arm.

If anyone had happened by a little later they would have been in no doubt what Angela was doing. Or rather having done to her. On Mr Pritt’s car rug. She couldn’t stop him, with what he knew. Just had to let him do it and forget the consequences — or hope for the best at least. And he wasn’t going to want just this once. So that would make four of them. Altogether. Mr Pritt with this. And the other three… Angela’s bare bottom on the rug still felt painful. Especially with Mr Pritt’s weight on top.