It’s tough at the top… But it’s hard on the bottom!

Rounding out Majorette Week, here’s a lovely story from Uniform Girls 12. Wouldn’t it be nice to get Susan, Christine and Babs all together for a training session…

BALLET LESSONS

‘They’ll be finished in a minute or two’. The man next to him at the window of the dance school doesn’t take his eyes off Babs as she executes a reasonably steady pirouette, together with the other girls in the class. The window pane mists up from the two men’s breath and the Babs-watcher wipes it away with the sleeve of his mac. ‘Your girl been coming here long?’

Fred ignores the teacher’s glare from the other side of the glass and continues to stare into the studio alongside the man in the mac. ‘Six months,’ he says, his own eyes on Babs too. She is a good three inches taller than the other girls, and a much nicer shape altogether, or so he thinks. Both men watch the way her buttocks fill and stretch the high-cut dark blue leotard as she subsides onto the floor in a long drawn out “splits”.

‘She must be sixteen or so?’ says the man in the mac, phrasing it as a question.

‘Yes,’ says Fred, unhelpfully, not seeing any point in divulging information unnecessarily to his companion at the window, even though he has exchanged words with him every Wednesday evening for the last few months as they have stood outside waiting to collect their girls at the end of the lesson. Fred is grateful to have another man to talk to, since all the other pupils are being collected by their mothers or older sisters, and the looks which a man at such a gathering necessarily attracts make him feel uncomfortable. His companion, on the other hand, seems hardly to notice. Feeling that he ought to make an attempt at conversation, Fred turns to the man beside him.

‘Your girl been coming here long?’ The man in the mac continues to watch Babs’ lithe young body as she does a series of leg-stretches. He answers obliquely.

‘The older one did; came for about three years, I think.’ Babs’ leg muscles tauten as she comes up onto her toes.

‘How old was she when she started?’

‘Oh, about twelve, I think.’ Babs’ leotard has worked up between her buttock cheeks in an interesting way.

‘Oh, I see.’ Yes, that is interesting, and it’s quite nice from the front too. ‘And how about your younger daughter? How old is she?’ Fred realises that he doesn’t actually know which of the twenty or so girls in the studio is this man’s daughter.

‘Julie? Er — let me see. She’d be nineteen come August.’

Fred looks around the studio and can’t see anyone who looks even as old as Babs, let alone nineteen.

‘Nineteen?’

‘Yes —’ Babs is bending over backwards, waving her arms about artistically.

‘I see.’ Fred looks again. ‘Um — which one is your daughter?’ The other man doesn’t take his eyes off Babs, but speaks directly at the window.

‘Oh, she’s not in there. She hasn’t done ballet since she was fifteen.’ He turns to Fred with an apologetic yet unembarrassed smile. ‘It’s just that, when the girls stopped coming — well, I’d kind of got used to picking them up, and watching a bit of what was going on through this window, and — well, I haven’t quite managed to get out of the habit yet.’ He turns back to the window. ‘So, Wednesday evenings, I still come along like I used to and watch other people’s girls going through their paces.’

Babs does a bit of floor-touching with the palms of her hands, her bottom towards the two voyeurs at the window. Fred looks sideways at the man in the mac, and grins himself. Then, as he looks back at Babs’ bent over bum, an idea takes shape before his mind’s eye.

DRESS SENSE

‘Nonsense’ he says, and slaps her bottom. ‘Of course it won’t make you look ridiculous! Now stand up straight and let me adjust it round here.’

Babs wobbles on the chair as the new outfit — what there is of it — is coaxed round and over and under and into all the little places it will fit, if only it is tugged snug enough here and tight enough there, and if only the foolish girl will stop waggling her bum around and squeaking that it’s ‘Oooo — too tight!’

A hefty spank, indeed several, down the backs of her legs, doesn’t stop her wriggling but does vent his frustration.

‘Now keep still —’ She sulks but does her best, although the final adjustment brings her up onto her toes. She teeters on her high heels, muting her protests to whispered ‘Ooos’ and ‘Eeek’s. He steps back and makes her totter round and round on the chair, considering the result from every angle.

‘Are you standing straight?’ His eyes are on the tight-pulled tuck of material which dives between her legs at the front.

‘Yes —’ she says. ‘Well, I think I am —’

‘Well this is lop-sided.’ He runs a finger down under the material, over the soft plumpness of her pubic mound, amongst the silky crispness of her hair. ‘Are you sure it’s in the middle?’ She looks down, uncertain.

‘In the middle of what?’

‘In the middle!’ He slaps the side of her thigh, and she lifts that leg and rubs ruefully at the place, nearly losing her balance. He yanks the cloth tighter, up towards her waist; full labial folds spill out either side. She squeals a half-hearted protest.

‘Now it’s in the middle!’

MAKING AN ENTRANCE

‘This is Mr Collins, by the way: I dare say you remember him.’

Babs looks warily at their visitor; she does recognise him, but she can’t imagine from where. He stares smilingly at her as though they were old friends. Babs manages a wan smile in return, but Fred is already pulling a straight-backed chair into the middle of the room; she licks nervously at her lips as she sees the cane lying along the mantelpiece, just in case. Fred glances up at her.

‘Don’t hover in the doorway, child! Make an entrance!’

Babs blinks unhappily and tugs surreptitiously at the wisp of white material where it comes up between her legs, trying to cover herself a fraction more; Mr Collins’ absorbed smile seems to be directed at the very bit Babs is trying to hide. She straightens her back, pushes out her tits, holds her head up and does her plastic majorette smile, feeling the material between her legs pulling tauter as she stands taller; oh, well —

She strides to the chair, bare bum-cheeks wobbling as her heels come down, swinging thrustfully side to side as she steps out. She is blushing hotly by the time she reaches the chair, aware of Mr Collins’ eyes on her and remembering, now, those same unblinking eyes staring through the window at the dance school. She isn’t sure that she should actually step up onto the chair, and Fred is pouring a drink, so she waits, at attention, bottom pert, feet together, tits straining at the “uniform”.

She hears Mr Collins move in his chair; Fred seems to be ignoring her presence deliberately. She feels the plump bottomness behind her pushing out, knows that those eyes are there, on her bum, which is bare, and most likely about to be —

The sudden thought makes her cheeks flame again. She looks at the cane on the mantelpiece, at Fred’s smug expression; she risks a glance over her shoulder and finds Mr Collins’ eyes still on her bum — which is bare, and most likely about to be caned! In front of him! She feels unexpectedly weak at the knees —

MAKING AN EXIT

‘Now do it again, Babs, and this time do it right!’

The cane splatts around Babs’ impudent young buttocks by way of emphasis, not for the first, nor the tenth, nor the twentieth time; perhaps for the fortieth time, but no-one has been counting.

Babs is in a panicky state of gasping weepiness; her face is pink from embarrassment, from crying, and from the effort of continuing to perform complicated steps and baton routines. Her bottom is cane-marked and shivery, flinching and tweaking even when the cane is nowhere near; her “uniform” has begun to come apart at the top, where one breast has peeped its pink nipple out at Mr Collins, while the slender strip of material covering her pubic mound has done the perverse opposite to the rest of the outfit and has tightened up so much that it has all but disappeared into the moist little place between her legs. Still she tries to twirl her baton, to stand up straight with her head up, her back straight, her tits thrusting out and her bum-cheeks on insolent display. The cane splatts again, making her squeal and swerve her hips away; tears roll down her cheeks and she blubs breathlessly at the fresh sting in her bottom.

‘Don’t forget to smile, Babs,’ says Fred helpfully. ‘Come on —’ She seems almost to know that the cane is on its way again, swinging her bum aside even as it connects with her buttocks. Another gasp, and an involuntary hand clutching at her bottom, but she tries to smile, to do her majorette smile even through her tears. The strip of material pulls free between her tits; she feels it go but the cane lands again and she almost drops her baton.

Fred winks at Mr Collins, whose expression doesn’t change as the “uniform” is helped to fall apart by discreet little tugs here and there; Babs keeps up her routine, sobbing with humiliation. Bit by bit her outfit unravels itself from around her body until only her socks, shoes, belt and cap are left.

Given permission to stop, she stands tearfully exhausted on the chair, too distraught even to attempt to conceal her pubes or boobs from Mr Collins uninhibited stare. Fred flicks the cane across her stripey-crimson bum-cheeks and tells her she may get down.

She stands beside the chair in a fresh fit of weeping, rubbing at the place where the last stroke caught her, seeing Mr Collins through a blur of tears and hardly caring anymore.

‘Right, you can go to your room,’ says Fred. ‘Back here in half-an-hour for a bit more practice.’ He pats her on the bottom as she gathers up the white material of her outfit, and adds an encrypted hint as to the nature of the “practice” he has in mind for her, ‘I thought your rhythm was a bit off. We’ll have to see if you can do something about it before you go to bed.’

Wiping tears away from her cheeks, Babs walks as bouncily as she can to the door, caned buttocks waggling woefully behind her, and then she scampers away upstairs, nursing the fervent hope that Mr Collins won’t be staying to witness the humiliation of “Rhythmic Movement Practice”.

LEARNING SELF-CONTROL

Babs is home from netball, A-level homework books on the hall table, bike put away in the shed; Babs’ hands open and close fretfully, held behind her back so that a moment’s indiscipline doesn’t prompt her to reach down to her hot-glowing bum-cheeks, still marked from this morning’s caning, to rub or squeeze or to fend off the next spank. She struggles across his thigh, warm and feminine, soft yet supple, her tummy squirming down against neatly-pressed trousers.

‘Keep still now!’ says Fred threateningly. ‘Babs —’ She strives against the urgent need to wriggle her bottom away from fresh smacks, trembling with the effort of imposing self-control when her bottom is twitching and flinching almost of its own accord. She gasps for breath, her chest-heaving sobs strangling in her throat as she tries so hard to keep still.

‘Still, now Babs, still —’ Babs’ bum shudders a last time and, her body so tense that he can feel its tautness against him, she manages to make herself stop struggling. She breathes hard, little whimpers interpolating themselves into the sound of her panting; he keeps her nerves strung out with soft, teasing little smacks around the plumpness of her buttocks, cooing that, ‘That’s better, Babs. Much better,’ while she sniffles miserably across his lap.

‘Now then — let’s have these legs neatly together, shall we?’ Her knees press against each other; ‘And the feet —’ Her heels ‘clonk’ together. She bleats incomprehensible little sounds; ‘And tuck your knees under —’ Her bottom tightens into a crimson-spanked curve. ‘And now let’s have this bottom —’ he pats it, as though she might not be sure which bit of her was her bottom, ‘up, shall we? Up, nicely,’

Babs’ buttocks lift themselves reluctantly as she hollows her back. The brush of a fingertip between her legs makes her tremble, the gentle, wait-for-it patting of his hand around the under-curve of her buttocks makes her whisper a gasping ‘Please —!’

‘Still now —’ he says tormentingly, feeling a shudder of anticipation run through her. He raises his hand deliberately, brings it down crisp and hard against a firmly out-thrust buttock. ‘Keep it still, Babs —’ Babs’ bum swerves sideways; he spanks her again in the very same place. ‘Keep still —!’

‘Ooo — I — can’t — can’t —’ Another spank confirms Babs’ pathetic declaration that she can’t keep her too-well-spanked bottom where he keeps on insisting that it should be, when he persists in spanking it for it not staying still in the first place. Several more spanks dispose of the remote possibility that Babs is simply being wilful in not keeping her bum still, with a lot more landing in swift succession just to make quite certain that she won’t be able to anyway, wilful disobedience or not!

‘If you won’t do as you’re told, my girl —’ Two spanks, one for each thigh, have Babs jerking her hips across his knee and kicking her feet against the floor, ‘— you’ll go across the end of your bed for a caning! Now stop wriggling! Stop it — stop it — stop it!’

The three hefty spanks with which Fred underlines his demand are the last straw for the sobbing Babs. She heaves her head up, writhes her hips about between his legs, and squeals lustily that she ‘Can ‘t — ooo — ooh — ooo!’

‘Right then!’ Half a dozen spanks smack against her bare thighs; she squirms backwards and her knees tuck under his leg as she tries to escape the stinging slaps. He spanks her rounded-out buttocks instead, and she wrenches her bottom aside, away from the pain.

‘Right then — upstairs you go, my girl.’ He lets her swing her hips out of range but keeps hold of her hands. He pulls her to her feet, smacking at her swerving bottom, while she blubbers and yells and skitters sideways in front of him towards the door.

In the hall she stumbles over her knickers, which have fallen to her ankles, but he spanks her up each stair, pushing her before him, each spank evincing a squeal and a swerve of her animated bum.

‘Over there!’ he says, his voice filled with theatrical anger. ‘Come on! Get across the end of your bed!’ She collapses across the hard rail, legs akimbo, knickers trailing from one foot. He spanks her up-tilted bottom.

‘Arms through here!’ She is made to reach back through the rails and he yanks her knickers from her ankle; he thrusts the knickers into her hands so that she has to hold them taut-stretched across the backs of her knees. The cane rattles from behind the door of the wardrobe.

‘Now don’t you dare let them go.’ The cane curves away behind his shoulder, hovers for an instant, then sweeps round and across the helpless, bent-over buttocks…

RHYTHMIC MOVEMENT

‘No —’ She only dares whisper it, but still it is a brave refusal, even though her eyes are wide as if in astonishment at her own temerity. She hangs back, in the middle of the room, while he sits on her bed with his knees spread, waiting. She pulls at the lower edge of her short pyjama top and stands tilt-hipped, with one knee slid demurely in front of the other; the inward-dipping crease-lines at the tops of her thighs lead the eye to the triangle of pubic hair she is attempting to hide; like all her other pyjamas, these have no bottoms anymore.

‘Come here. Babs —’ ‘Or else’ is there in the way he says it, and she catches her lower lip with her teeth, irresolute. ‘I shall count to five —’

She comes at the count of ‘One,’ little steps, eyes on his, lip pouting. He puts her sideways between his knees, spanking hand cupping and patting firm bare bum-cheeks, other hand sliding up smooth-skinned thighs. A little slap up under a round buttock, and mutiny is abandoned; thighs relax their togetherness and ease an inch apart.

‘Now then — posture, my girl. Posture —’ Babs’ pert, round-cheeked bottom plumps itself out obediently as she hollows her back; her legs straighten, her calves curve tautly, her breasts push stiff little nipples against thin cotton, her tummy flattens and the dutiful raising of her hands to her head pulls the already too-short pyjama top several inches higher. Her warm pubic mound nestles snugly in his palm and a digit flexes and dabbles moistly. Her out-thrust buttocks are treated to a casually-applied but weighty spank.

‘Ooo-oooh!’ Her bum-cheeks flinch, her knees want to press together but she mustn’t let them, and her hips jerk forward onto the coaxing, knowing fingers. She swings automatically back into position, bottom pushing out and back hollowing, only to meet a second spank as it lands squarely across the other cheek. ‘Ooogh! N-no —’ she says ‘No,’ but of course her hips snatch forward against his other hand —

‘Rhythmic movement’ being thus established, it will now be simply a matter of time before Babs, encouraged by the regular application of a series of smacks to her bum, is obliged, inadvertently and almost incidentally, to humiliate herself by “coming” on the tips of her trainer’s fingers.

EXERCISES: GENERAL

‘I can’t —!’ Babs is tummy-uppermost — for a change — across the kitchen table. Her legs dangle limply over the end, white socks and red-strapped sandals on her feet, then nothing until the hem of her tee-shirt above her navel; a mist of perspiration blooms her skin and her head lolls to one side. She is exhausted, having been at her exercises for an hour already.

‘Of course you can; want your bum spanked, do you?’ Babs doesn’t want her bum spanked anymore; the trouble is, bicycling with her legs in the air, on and off for the last fifteen minutes, means that her bum has been in just the right position to catch a dozen spanks a minute when he says she isn’t doing it “properly”. Babs has no idea what “properly” means, except that whatever way she does it never seems to be “properly”. So, she can either try to get her legs up again for another bout of bicycling — and get her bottom spanked for not doing it right — or she can get her bottom smacked anyway, for not doing it at all.

‘Please —’ she pants. ‘Please let’s stop —’

‘Roll over,’ says her trainer, going to a cupboard and taking out a slim leather strap.

‘No — please don’t!’

‘Get your legs up then! If you don’t get fit you won’t be any good as a majorette.’

Babs doesn’t want to be a majorette — she never has wanted to be, since it’s all his idea that she should. He has made her work at it solidly for the past six months, however, and like it or not, she has learnt fast. He talks about her joining a club ‘sometime soon’, and about her public debut ‘when she’s ready,’ but he seems to think that might be a long way off yet. Babs still believes that he is serious — that all this “training” isn’t just something for his personal amusement; she pulls a face and hoists her legs up into “bicycling” position and begins thrusting at the air with her feet. The strap strokes its cool twin fingers across her hot-spanked buttocks and she cycles faster, then as fast as she can.

‘You’ve got to do better than that,’ he warns, the strap pat-patting across her flinching bum.

‘I can’t —’ she gasps, pink in the face.

‘You can,’ he insists, and the strap cracks loudly against both toiling bum cheeks. Babs wails and clutches at her bottom and her feet do, in fact, manage a few more revolutions per minute. He grins unsympathetically.

‘I said you could, didn’t I —’

MORE RHYTHMIC MOVEMENT

‘Lift up —’ There is little sympathy in his voice; he says it flatly, matter of fact — she’s had what she deserved, now she’s going to get something else she deserves. ‘Come on!’ and he slaps an upthrust bum-cheek with thoughtless disregard for its already-stinging tenderness.

‘N-nnugh!’ It’s supposed to be, ‘No — please — no more!’ but too much crying has left her unable to make the words come out without them sounding like weepy blubberings. She pushes with her toes against the floor, lifting her tummy an inch or so clear of the hip-high railed footboard of her old-fashioned bed.

In the semi-darkness, with only the landing light slanting through the part-open bedroom door, she sees him take a pillow from the other end of the bed and he comes round behind her and stuffs it between her tummy and the top rail.

‘C’mon —’ She spreads her legs wide, the muscles tautening, toes braced against the rug. She can see the strap if she looks back between her legs, on its hook on the inside of her wardrobe door. He is fumbling in his pocket.

‘Here —’ Something plops onto the eiderdown beside her face. She gropes for the packet, almost weeping with the humiliation of having to do it. She picks at the foil with trembling fingers, plucking with her nails, tearing along the perforation; she passes it back between her legs, between the rails. A rubbery, snappy, crinkly unrolling sound, then her pyjama top is pushed up her back so that she can no longer see through her legs because its loose folds hang down in front of her upside-down face. Hands under her hips, lifting, angling.

‘Come on, now —’ She elevates her bottom, buries her face in the bedclothes, spreads her legs as wide as she can…

EXERCISES: SPECIFIC

Babs has her “don’t want to” face on again, but he has the strap, and neither of them have any illusions as to whether Babs is actually going to do it, eventually, or not. He also has an enamelled bowl in which there is hot water and a flannel, together with a second bowl in which there is a large brown-paper bag. The bag contains half-a-pound of grapes. Some of them dark and squashy, some green and firm. He crooks a finger at the reluctant girl and she comes hesitantly to stand facing him across the bowl containing the grapes, which is on the floor.

Excellent though the ballet classes are at shaping Babs’ legs and tits and bum-cheeks, there is no reason why a little exercise shouldn’t be introduced, with the specific purpose of firming and plumping up that bit of Babs that he finds especially delightful. Babs has done this before; she unpops her shorts and lets them slide down her legs together with her knickers, while giving him her fullest, most resentful pout, which he completely ignores. He indicates the bowl between his feet. ‘In you get.’ He picks up the grapes and Babs steps into the bowl, hands hiding her pubes; she shuffles round so that her bare bottom faces him as he sits on his chair.

The bag rustles behind her; she half turns to look, her bum-cheeks tweak in anticipation. He takes out a black grape, a large, fat one, and with the pressure of a thumb, notwithstanding Babs faint bleat of protest and her lifting involuntarily up onto her toes, he eases it between the firm, full in-curves of her buttocks.

‘Squeeze,’ he says. She tenses her cheeks while his thumb keeps the grape in place. ‘Come on —’

A half-helpless, half-exasperated ‘Ooo —’ her buttocks press and her hips tilt as she concentrates her efforts on the now ovoid grape; suddenly it splits. Juice and pips squirt up and down the crease of her bum.

‘Very good,’ he says, patronisingly. He selects a solid, green grape, squeezes it between his fingers to test its resilience; he pops it into his mouth and eats it. A second green grape is picked from the stalk. He pops it between her cheeks.

‘Ooo —!’ She squeezes; the grape shoots out into his lap.

‘Stupid!’ He lands a hard spank on her rounded-out buttocks and she squirms her bum away to one side. ‘Do it again!’

He holds it there, and with a little mewing sound she squashes it as much as she can. ‘Come on!’

‘Nnnugh!’ The extra effort is enough; the grape pops, juice spatters, a pip tings into the bowl.

‘See. All it takes is concentration.’ She relaxes her buttocks and the grape plops into the basin. He picks up the warm, wet flannel from the other bowl and slips it between her legs; she wriggles unhappily but the soapy water washes away the sticky grape juice, pips and bits of green skin. He picks another grape.

‘Right then, let’s do it again —’

HYGIENE

‘Bath.’ says Fred, who can be a man of few words at times.

Upstairs, Babs waits on the chilly landing until Fred finishes talking to someone on the ‘phone; then Fred is coming up the stairs and Babs has to say goodbye to her knickers, vest and modesty while he watches her every move. She stands naked, eyes on his face, conscious of the hook on the wall behind her and the strap which hangs from it. Conscious, too, of her bum, which she keeps tucked away out of sight for fear that Fred will associate the thought “bum” with the thought “strap”, and make the connection.

‘Oh, strap,’ says Fred. Babs frowns, not wanting to be strapped, but he looks at her archly and she has to get it from its hook and hand it to him. Her bottom tweaks its plump cheeks together in nervous anticipation. Fred’s thumb indicates “bath” and Babs steps in, pink-cheeked; she gives the soap to Fred.

‘Keep still’ he says, as he soaps her all over, and she does her best as hands and soap slither over and round and under and between. Then the soap is washed off, with special attention to those places where it might linger if not thoroughly rinsed away.

‘Turn round.’ Babs knows what’s next; she looks back over her shoulder, hands on the wall. Her feet slip around in the bath while she struggles to keep her bottom thrust out for the strap, each stroke jolting panicky little gasps from her, jerking her wet belly against the cold wall, making her squeeze her thighs together as one, then two strokes land stingingly across their vulnerable backs.

‘Sit down’ says Fred.

Babs bites her lip and frowns miserably as she is made to lower her smarting bottom into hot water. ‘Christ —’ she whispers under her breath.

‘Stand up,’ says Fred, and straps her some more for “unladylike language”. ‘Sit down,’ he says again. Babs cries and sits in the bath, knees up, hands hiding her tears.

‘Stop being silly,’ demands Fred. Babs’ weeping becomes strangled gasping. Slowly it subsides. ‘Now get out,’ says Fred, looking for the Johnson’s Baby Powder.

Cool talcum powder sifts down onto Babs’ hot buttocks; Fred smooths it over the round cheeks and into hollows and crevices, while Babs stops being silly and lets her thighs float apart so as not to hinder the process. She keeps quiet, feeling Fred stirring under her tummy; she keeps still too, not wanting to add any provocation by wiggling around on top of it. Like a mouse hiding from a cat she doesn’t move and doesn’t make a sound.

‘Right then — bed,’ says Fred. A little smack urges her to her feet. Babs doesn’t look at him — she knows from the tone of his voice that she’ll very likely need a second bath this evening before she actually gets to bed.