George to the Rescue

From Blushes 12, the first in the delicious George Bartlow trilogy (another classic Blushes school caretaker). There is a kind of scene-setting preamble told in captions before we reach the main story.

‘If this awful man goes to the Head,’ Alison had said to George, ‘I’ll certainly be kicked out!’ That was what she had said, because of course Mr Bartlow couldn’t be expected to know that ‘kicking out’ was the kind of sanction that Mr Pinkerton would only resort to as a very last resort. His first recourse would be to that paragraph in the school’s prospectus which mentioned ‘exceptional circumstances’ in connection with the application of a cane to a girl’s bottom. Alison would, perhaps, have mentioned it to Mr Bartlow except that he was, in truth, a little — well, common — and she wasn’t sure that such people ought to know everything.

Alison knew about Mr Pinkerton’s preference for the cane across a girl’s bottom rather than the toe of a boot under it because — well, to be absolutely honest, this wasn’t the first scrape she had been in. Foolishly — though she’d thought she was doing the right thing — she’d gone to the Head and ‘owned up’. Even now, when she thought about it, she could almost literally feel those cane weals throbbing across her bum!

Other girls, too, had discovered that honesty was only a marginally better policy than keeping quiet and hoping you wouldn’t be found out. Barbara and Ruth, for example. ‘Owning up’ was a sure-fire way for a girl to end up with her knickers down!

Ruth hadn’t been able to help it, she’d said tearfully, after she and her friend had had their bums spanked and then been made to kneel with their faces to the wall whilst Mr Pinkerton paced up and down behind them.

– the girls still bare-bottomed — swishing his cane through the air and demanding to be told which of the girls had instigated the piece of mischief presently under discussion.

Mr Pinkerton had paced up and down behind them —

Ruth’s nerve had given way under threat of having her spank-sore bottom caned, and she’d ‘squealed’ on Babs.

Ruth had been unable to bear the thought that the cane might be put across her already tender bottom: she had started to cry and had told Mr Pinkerton what he’d wanted to know —

Babs’ caning had been almost as awful for Ruth as for her friend, since she’d been left outside the gym door and had to listen to Babs blubbering and sobbing whilst the headmaster’s cane ‘thwacked’ across her bottom.

Alison, therefore, knew better than to let Mr Pinkerton find out about her scrape. Whatever the price, Mr Bartlow’s penance would be the least painful, even if it was somewhat embarrassing for a girl unused to mixing with — well, rather common people —

----//----

‘Oh Mr Bartlow, I’m in such an awful scrape!’

The tone was ringingly feminine, teenaged (about 16 years of age to be exact); also rather upper class because St Helena’s was a fee-paying establishment and not cheap. George Bartlow’s ears pricked up, if one can put it that way. Girls in scrapes could frequently hold out interesting possibilities.

George Bartlow at 55 had been caretaker at St Helena’s School for Girls for some time now. It was a nice number, a very nice number. Not the biggest pay packet in the world, you understand; you weren’t going to become Rockefeller overnight but money isn’t everything, is it? It certainly wasn’t when you were bang smack in the middle of 200-odd budding and blooming maidens. Bang? Smack? The English language does at times have unfortunate overtones. Maidens? Well no doubt many of them were. George looked up from his perusal of The Sun to examine this visitor who had so precipitately burst into his snug little room.

Alison Randall, Lower Sixth. Slim and clean-limbed like a boy apart from certain notable differences evident under her uniform. The pretty face was flushed and she was breathing energetically, like a young filly which had just been taken for a brisk canter. One slender bare arm came up to brush away an errant blonde lock.

‘Phew! Cripes!’ Alison had evidently been running.

George got up from his chair and with deliberate tread moved behind her to close his door. A little privacy was highly desirable when hearing about a girl’s scrapes. He came back, to stand in close proximity to his pretty visitor. Long lashes fluttered on big blue eyes. She was quite tall in addition to being slim, as tall as George himself. He had a sudden mental picture of the long legs going right up under her short skirt, up to her regulation knickers. George cleared his throat.

‘What sort of scrape?’

The long lashes fluttered again. Mr Bartlow was quite old but he was also indisputably male. Such maleness could produce all sorts of stirrings when you were 16 especially if you were closeted with Mr Bartlow in the close confines of his little room. And you couldn’t help but recall those things that girls said about being with Mr Bartlow in his room. Imagination probably but nonetheless…

Alison shook her head to banish such thoughts and concentrate on her scrape. The scrape in fact was not unrelated to the sort of thing girls said about Mr Bartlow and being in his room.

‘Well, Mr Bartlow it’s a bit of a long story…’

‘They frequently are,’ observed George, ‘but let’s hear it.’ He reached out and lightly stroked a smooth forearm. Alison squeaked nervously.

‘Well, uh, it was the £5 that Daddy gave me for the school fund. I, uh, well, it sort of disappeared. I — I bought some chocolate and I owed Charlotte Ponsonby 50p on a bet but, well, that doesn’t add up to £5, does it, Mr Bartlow?’ The big blue eyes were wide in appealing to George about the unfortunate disappearing nature of money. ‘Anyway…’

Alison batted her eyes again. She was coming to the embarrassing bit. ‘Well this, uh, man in the town. Last Saturday afternoon. He, er, bought me an ice-cream. And then when I told him about needing £5 for the school fund he — um — said he’d give me £5 if I went for a drive with him.’

Alison reached down to scratch a knee and give herself a breathing space. Going for a drive with a strange man was of course very strictly forbidden — as indeed was accepting an ice-cream from such a person. George, waiting for the scratching to stop, had an owlish look on his face. He was also experiencing a tightness in the front of his trousers.

Alison looked decidedly embarrassed but clearly the narrative had to continue. ‘Well — I said yes. I mean I needed that £5.’ There wasn’t a tremendous lot more to tell if she got to it in one swoop and left out the details. ‘So I said I’d see him Wednesday. Yesterday, that is. I got a pass out. We went out in the country but then after he gave me the £5 I decided that I didn’t want to — er — let him do — um — what he wanted. Not the whole thing anyway. He tried to make me but I wouldn’t and I said I’d report him to the police. So then he said OK he’d tell Mr Pinkerton about me. That I’d been running around like a — like a little tart and selling myself for £5 a time.’

The big eyes were blinking again, this time with a suspicion of moisture in them at the recollection of this distressful turn of events. ‘And that’s about it, Mr Bartlow. He’s going to tell the Head unless I see him again and, you know, let him do it. I didn’t sleep a wink all last night thinking about this awful business. Finally in Miss Gregory’s class I decided that I would tell you, Mr Bartlow. And then I ran all the way.’ She gulped dismally. ‘I got the £5, he didn’t try to get it back. But he kept my knickers, though. They were my very best ones, Janet Reger silk that my Uncle Desmond gave me and I bet they cost a few quid.’

Fitting in a few details of his own to this bald outline, George felt quite aroused. It was clearly a scrape and a half — and also a great stroke of luck that the young lady had decided to bring her problem to him.

Alison gave him a little smile ‘I feel a whole lot better now I’ve told you, Mr Bartlow. You can deal with this horrid man for me, can’t you? ‘Cos if he goes to the Head, I’ll certainly be kicked out, even though those awful things he’ll say will be untrue.’

Quite so. George gave her a theatrically stern look. ‘I don’t know about this man but I should deal with you, young lady. You have behaved very badly.’

His tone was moralistic and righteous, not really going with that now considerable stiffness in his trousers. It must be admitted that the latter more truly reflected the real George Bartlow. He would do what he could to help, naturally, but he was going to want some reward for sorting it out, and a reward should be available, seeing that this young lady could not afford to have the matter go any further. George reached his arm round a slender waist, eliciting a little squeal from Alison. There wasn’t much under the thin summer uniform except Alison herself. Firm taut flesh. A little further down at the curve of girlish hips was something else: the waistband of knickers.

‘Took them off, did he?’ George heard his voice inquire.

‘What? Oh my knicks. Well not exactly. I took them off. We got out of the car and went for a walk. Then after a bit he made me take them off. Well he didn’t make me but sort of persuaded me. But after that, well I, er, I suppose I got cold feet. Oooh!’

This last exclamation was occasioned by George’s hand leaving Alison’s waist and sliding down, to grip a tight buttock-cheek through thin frock and knickers. Not the light, half-accidental feel you might give a girl you weren’t sure about but a firm confident grasp which said it was in control and which behoved the recipient to be nice and acquiescent. And Alison, after her quick yelp of surprise did submissively acquiesce. After a little squeeze George went further. He pulled her round to face him in firm frontal contact. Then taking Alison’s hips in both hands he nudged her gently from side to side, rubbing the girl’s taut belly against his excited member. Alison produced a spluttering gasp and widened her eyes for a startled moment.

George’s voice came out somewhat thick as he savoured the heady sensation. His mind was razor keen when his own interests were concerned and he had hit on a simple stratagem to take full advantage of his visitor’s scrape.

‘Don’t worry about this character, I’ll take care of him. But what we want, for me to be put completely in the picture, is one of those reconstructions like the police do. An action replay so you remember every detail. You and me I mean, Alison.’

Alison considered this and said ‘Cripes!’ She was still being rubbed gently but firmly against Mr Bartlow and she was well aware of what precise part of him she was being rubbed against. It was making her all hot and tingly, her whole body but especially certain parts: her breasts, in between her legs, also that very part that Mr Bartlow’s thing was pressed against. The other man had of course done something similar and Alison had responded in a like manner. When you’re 16 or thereabouts and your body is just blossoming out it is very responsive to such stimuli and you can’t help it. And there was also what Mr Bartlow was saying and what that could lead into. Alison’s breath came out in another sibilant ‘Cripes!’

‘Tomorrow after lessons, young Alison. You can get a pass and I’ll meet you somewhere. Because we don’t want anyone to get wind of this, do we?’

Alison readily agreed that she didn’t. Then she was gasping again as George’s two hands left her hips and came round to cup her buttocks. George had large hands and the buttocks were slim, athletic in fact for Alison ran sprints for the school, so each hand was able to enclose a whole cheek, the fingers reaching in very close to where things really matter in a girl. Alison’s breath started coming in a somewhat uneven manner, not unlike the way it had been when she arrived here after running full pelt all the way from Miss Gregory’s.

She produced a sort of gurgle as the fingertips reached even further in.

‘OK,’ said the owner of the fingertips. ‘Now one other thing. We don’t want to tell Mr Pinkerton or anyone but obviously, young Alison, you should get some punishment for this behaviour. It was highly irresponsible as well as disobedient.’ Strongly moralising words from a man who had his hands where George’s were. ‘What would you have done if he’d put a bun in your oven?’

What indeed! What George was working up to naturally was that he should deal out a little something just so Alison was kept properly on the straight and narrow. What George had in mind, as he went smoothly on to inform the trembling young Miss, was a spanked bottom. Having your bottom spanked by a man — your bare bottom obviously — does invariably make a girl stop and think. There is a decided shock element; but more to the point it is pleasantly arousing to the one doing the spanking.

George’s choice of punishment held no surprise for Alison. It was after all very much one of the things girls said Mr Bartlow did if he got the opportunity, although he had never had occasion to do it to Alison before.

‘H… Have they got to come down?’ breathed that pretty Sixth Former, big-eyed, a little later, after George had let go of her and stepped over once more to the door, this time to turn the key. It was really something of a rhetorical question. There was not a lot of doubt in Alison’s mind. George confirmed that they did have to come down.

They were the regulation ones, no fancy creation of Janet Reger such as Alison had referred to in connection with her scrape. ‘Right down to your knees, young lady,’ instructed George, ‘and then come here.’

It wasn’t the first time Alison had been spanked over a man’s lap because she usually got it when she went to stay with her Uncle Desmond, the source of the Janet Reger knickers. Uncle Desmond was actually not a lot unlike Mr Bartlow, being of similar age for one thing. He also gave you the same sort of preliminary feel up when he had your bare bum over his lap which Mr Bartlow now proceeded to indulge in. That big bulge underneath you was also very similar. Alison didn’t always quite hate being spanked by Uncle Desmond, because it could be oddly exciting and he usually gave you something, usually a pound note, when he’d finished.

Mr Bartlow didn’t give her a pound but then in the circumstances she could hardly expect it. What Mr Bartlow did when he’d finished was put his hand between Alison’s legs. Uncle Desmond never did that. Maybe he would have liked to but he didn’t. Alison was not entirely taken by surprise because of course it was one of the things girls said he did though she had never believed it. In the state she was in, what with her scrape and just having had quite a hard spanking, it was not altogether surprising that Alison proceeded to come in no time flat.

It was certainly embarrassing coming quite so quickly as she did. Well it might give the impression that she was a hot little piece which Alison wasn’t. It was just the circumstances and she hoped Mr Bartlow understood that. She felt so weak afterwards that she could hardly stand to pull up her knicks.

So at least she now knew that a lot of that stuff that girls said about Mr Bartlow was true. Not that Alison intended to tell anyone. She was really relieved that she had gone to see him and got that awful weight off her mind; although there was still this business tomorrow that made you quake a bit when you thought about it.

----//----

George made short work of the would-be despoiler of St Helena’s young ladies. Armed with only a phone number he obtained the address by posing as a telephone engineer and then that very evening drove over to the nearby town and confronted the villain. Alison’s intended seducer proved to be thirtyish and middle-class with, it appeared, a wife and family; these however were shunted off into another room when George mentioned St Helena’s. In suitably indignant and outraged tones George proceeded to put the fear of God into him. The ivory silk Janet Reger knickers were shamefacedly produced as was also, at George’s suggestion, a £10 note to give to the young lady for distress caused. George left with a flourish.

‘If I hear a whisper of this sort of behaviour again I shall go straight to the authorities, your wife, your employers, the lot. Is that clearly understood?’

With that matter successfully accomplished there remained only George’s reconstruction of the ‘behaviour’.

----//----

‘Turn right up here,’ said Alison. ‘That takes you out onto the common. That’s where we went.’

The reconstruction had started, in George’s Austin A30, an heirloom almost, on which he lavished countless hours of tender care; hours which, it must be said, belonged by rights to St Helena’s School. It was 4 o’clock on a nice sunny afternoon, ‘Along here a bit,’ said Alison, ‘and then he parked. Yes here, under those trees.’ George pulled off the track. ‘Well, he just started a bit of, you know, feeling up.’ Alison was quite red in the face. ‘He, er, kissed me too.’

A reconstruction must be carried out properly and George followed suit, with commendable vigour. Alison’s grey blazer came off, as apparently it had with the buyer of ice-creams. Her green-and-white check frock had little white buttons down to the waist and these were unbuttoned. The bottom part of the frock was soon up round Alison’s waist. As you might expect there were plenty of girlish gasps and squeals. After quite a bit of this Alison slid her mouth away from George’s to tell him it was at this point she had been given the fiver. Well, she might as well see just how authentic Mr Bartlow wanted things to be.

George duly produced the £10 note, telling her where it came from. Blue eyes sparkled. ‘Can I keep it, Mr Bartlow?’ ‘Why not?’ asked George reaching inside the now completely open frock top to unfasten Alison’s bra strap. Tucking the note in her purse Alison submitted with good grace. Pert girlish breasts appeared: not overly large but choice, apple-sized and apple-firm — like pippins. ‘Ooohh!’ A high-pitched squeal as two large male hands took rather greedy hold of both bare apples.

After a bit Alison said, rather breathless, ‘I think that was about all of that, and then we got out and walked. He — um — he took a blanket with him.’

‘Right,’ said George, his reluctance to let go tempered with the prospect of other possibilities. A blanket! Fortunately he had a rug in the boot. Alison, red-faced, refastened her bra and did up a few buttons. ‘By the way,’ said George, ‘did your knickers come off at this point?’

‘Er, no. A bit later, when he had me up against a tree.’

The tree proved to be a quite splendid Scots pine 200 yards off the track.

‘He had me up against the tree and he made me take them off. I suppose I was getting cold feet at this point. I didn’t really want my knickers to come off but as he was grabbing at them I thought I might as well take them off myself.’

‘Go ahead then,’ said George, helping himself to another little feel of the apples as Alison stood with her back against the tree.

‘Er — OK then.’ She gave a weak smile, then reached under her skirt and took them off. Regulation white. ‘He, um, put them in his pocket.’

The knickers were duly thrust into George’s jacket pocket. ‘By the way,’ he remembered, ‘I’ve got your Janet Reger ones back. They’re in the car.’

‘Really? Oh super!’ Then there was a squeal.

‘I suppose he did this? Had his hand here?’

‘Oooh! Uh, yes. Oooh! I suppose so.’

‘And then I suppose you got down on the blanket?’

‘Uh… yes.’

On George’s rug, on her back, Alison said, ‘This was about as far as it went, of course. I had then decided that I definitely didn’t want to. He got quite angry and said I was a little tart and a something-teaser. He was being quite hateful. So is that the end of the reconstruction, Mr Bartlow?’

George said he reckoned it was. Alison gazed up at the branches and the blue sky. ‘It’s a super afternoon, isn’t it, Mr Bartlow?’ Then she made a gurgling sound. ‘Mr Bartlow! Are you supposed… to be doing that…? I mean… we’ve finished.’

‘I know,’ said George. ‘Do you like it?’

‘Yes… quite… but I shouldn’t let you… I mean now we’re not reconstructing. Gosh, it’s super to get my Janet Regers back.’

‘Have you ever done it?’ queried George.

‘What? Oh. Yes; once with a boy on holiday. But only once.’

George observed that doing it just once and not any more for quite a while was not a good idea. A girl could get inhibited about doing it later.

‘Is that really true, Mr Bartlow?’ Alison certainly didn’t want to get inhibited. Mr Bartlow had very sensitive fingers. Then the fingers went away. She heard the sound of a zip. ‘Golly, Mr Bartlow… I don’t know…’

Afterwards Alison asked, ‘Did you make that up, Mr Bartlow, about getting inhibited?’

George said, ‘Not really. I mean it sounds very reasonable.’

‘Yes,’ said Alison, a little shakily ‘it does. But I certainly didn’t want to do it with that other horrid individual.’ George pulled her to her feet. ‘I think I’ll leave my knicks off and put those Janet Regers on when we get back to the car. Cripes, what if we saw Mr Pinkerton out here!’

They walked off. ‘You’re sure it’s OK, Mr Bartlow? I mean, you know… Cripes!…’

See also the sequel The Price from Blushes 13.