The Loft

A special post of a story requested via comments on The Village Hall. From Uniform Girls 17

‘Mr Stimford,’ her mother said reading from Aunt Clare’s letter and the name immediately set up a response, alarm bells jangling in her daughter’s head. A forgotten name but not really, just lying dormant in her mind and covered with layers of other things, other experiences, pleasant ones mostly, so that ‘Stimford’ was almost dead and buried. But it wasn’t dead and it now came back, rolling up to the surface. At first vague and unrecognised, just the alarm bell, and then, oh yes, of course. She saw him, pictured him. And that place: the village hall. And in particular the loft, up the stepladder. That dusty, dimly-lit triangular roof space.

‘Eileen! Are you listening? Or day-dreaming?’

She shook her head, bobbing the soft, short, medium blonde curls. Her cheeks were flushing, she could feel. As if her mother might know what she was picturing, might somehow know about Mr Stimford. She couldn’t, no one could know. Except of course Mr Stimford himself. Though some of the other girls might guess as it was not impossible he had taken others up alone into the loft, the storeroom for all that stuff; camping gear, sports equipment. Taken them up there and…

‘Did you hear what I said, dear? Mr Stimford. You remember, he ran the Guides or Rangers or whatever it was. You were helping him when you stayed with Aunt Clare right after you left school. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.’

Forgotten. Well, she had somehow managed to push it down out of sight. But it was there now. Every little detail it seemed. Eileen could see it all, firmly focussed. She could see on the bare wooden floor a broken tennis racket, the strings supporting dust-covered cobwebs. And draped over the racket handle, where they had been carelessly dropped, her own blue knickers.

‘Yes Mum. Of course.’ Words forced out. Yes she could remember. It was dreadful but it was in the past. Three years ago. Before her three years of college. But she didn’t want to be reminded. And why…?

She listened with mounting horror as her mother read out what she had read out before, moments earlier, but Eileen hadn’t heard, engrossed in the returning memory. It seemed that, quite unknown to her, her mother had spoken to Aunt Clare and arranged for Eileen to go there again. So nice down there in the country, Sussex. And Aunt Clare’s letter was saying of course Eileen could. And also… she would be able to help Mr Stimford again.

‘No Mum!’

‘Why ever not, Eileen?’ Her mother’s eyes sharply wide. ‘You know you were saying you were going to be at a loose end, nothing to do for a month. It’ll be a lovely break.’

‘Yes but…’ Yes, but Mr Stimford. But she couldn’t say that.

‘No buts. If you think it’ll put Aunt Clare out, forget it. She’ll love to see you. Look, why don’t you ring her up and thank her. And tell her when you’ll be coming.’

----//----

A warm, sunny June day. They had been warm sunny days last time. A year ago — she’d been eighteen. July then. Hot and sultry in the village hall, but cooling off somewhat in the evening. ‘Right, you others, you can go now. Eileen and I will store the gear away.’ They had gone off, out into the sunlit evening. Had there been looks, glances? Mr Stimford and Eileen. Mr Stimford and his pretty assistant. Girlish giggles outside. ‘What d’you bet, Monica?’

It was her first weekend, the Saturday. She had been there three days and Aunt Clare so keen to be helpful and nice to everyone had no doubt said ‘Of course’ to Mr Stimford when he had noticed the new arrival. Of course she would love to help out as a temporary assistant. And she had been a Ranger back at home so no doubt he would find her very useful. Oh yes, Aunt Clare loved to do her little good deeds. And Eileen had seen no reason why she shouldn’t oblige. Mr Stimford was all right, wasn’t he? Just an ordinary sort of man running a Ranger group. Wasn’t he?

Those sharp eyes going over her. The pretty blonde head and the nice figure, tallish, slim. But the eyes didn’t mean anything, did they? Shaking her head. No, she didn’t have any uniform with her. ‘Not to worry, I can no doubt get something together. Let’s have a look.’ And Mr Stimford had produced a tape measure.

That had been a little shock, the first shock, his hands there through her thin summer frock. At the time she had thought, well, he’s got to do it. Her waist. Then her bust. Sliding the tape up her back, up under her arms, and then round in front, over the firm bulges. His fingers briefly rubbing over the nipples, causing a little gasp to pop out. There was just the thin frock and a light bra underneath. Feeling herself trembling.

The hip measurement that followed had been worse. But he had to do it, didn’t he? And he didn’t mean it, his fingers there… and then there. She had stood still, as still as she could. Not thinking then that Mr Stimford… And then unbelievably, the whole thing had to be done again, so that Mr Stimford could be certain of his measurements, only this time she had had to take everything off, every stitch —!

He had found a uniform: a navy pleated skirt and lighter blue blouse. Also a pair of school-type navy knickers. Mr Stimford smiling. ‘We may as well be properly dressed, eh?’ He had wanted her to put these things on there and then, in his house, his front room, but he hadn’t insisted when she balked at that. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to scare her off, before he could get down to business.

Oh yes, she could remember all that, as if it were yesterday, as she walked along the lane from the bus stop. Could she say she didn’t want to see him again. Didn’t want to help? She had some work to do, reading. Or she was feeling off-colour. She was feeling off-colour. Sick, in fact. Oh God. There was Aunt Clare’s house. And round the corner, shortly coming into sight, would be it. The village hall.

Oh dear God…

----//----

‘Eileen! How nice to see you!’ But Aunt Clare had scarcely got that out before it was: ‘Mr Stimford. He was so pleased when I told him you were coming again. And d’you know what? He said he thought he still had that old uniform you wore last time.’

Eileen saw a blur before her eyes. And in the blur it wasn’t Aunt Clare and her sitting room it was something else. That dusty, dimly-lit sloping-roofed room. Her and Mr Stimford. And Mr Stimford was saying…

They were in the loft. The others had gone off and Eileen and Mr Stimford had climbed up into the loft. Up the stepladder, Eileen having to go first and not happy about that because it meant that down below Mr Stimford could look right up her skirt. Up her bare thighs and up to the tight and rather skimpy navy knickers: they were in fact a couple of sizes too small so they were tight. It was possible of course that he wouldn’t look but by now after having been with him most of the day she had not much doubt that he would. They had been on an expedition out in some woods and there had been a number of things to make her now think that those hands which had been measuring her had not been accidental. A couple of surreptitious slaps to her bottom for one thing, and then later Mr Stimford had managed to get her alone, sending the others off on a foray.

How were the knickers? They weren’t too tight, were they? Colouring, Eileen said no, although they were. But no wasn’t good enough. Mr Stimford wanted to see. And he did see. Making her lift her skirt. And then his hands going where they’d gone when he was measuring. Only even more now and now there was no skirt, just the cotton knickers. His hands over her bottom. And then in between her legs. Checking the tightness there. And Eileen with her skirt held high having to let it happen. Having to stand there. Shaking. Knees trembling. With the hands handling… everything.

Up in the loft they were supposed to be sorting the things out but Mr Stimford. didn’t show much interest in that. No, it was something else. She couldn’t believe it at first and when she did realise what he was saying she assumed it must be a joke. But it wasn’t. He was serious. His excuse was that the girls had been messing about and Eileen should have stopped them. So therefore…

So therefore he was going to take her knickers down and spank her bottom. Up there in the quiet of the dusty, warm-from-the-hot-afternoon-sun loft.

‘Come on Eileen. It won’t take a moment. But I must have discipline and that includes you while you’re here helping. You must see that.’

Eileen didn’t see it, but he did it all the same. In spite of all the yelps and protestations. Sat down on that chair and pulled her over his lap. Got her skirt up and then tugged the tight knickers down around her knees. Then really letting her have it. Belabouring her bare bottom with hard, stinging smacks.

It kept on and she got in quite a state, the hot pain in her bottom and also the whole thing, the whole shocking thing. So that she wasn’t quite sure what happened at the end, what was the exact sequence of events. Except that she found herself on the floor. Or rather on a crumpled groundsheet on the floorboards. She was on her back and her skirt was off and so were her knickers, or virtually so, in a crumpled ball around one ankle. She was sprawling, her legs somehow spread wide, and Mr Stimford… He was there too. Sitting at her side, bending over. And his hand…

His voice soft but urgent: ‘Come on, Eileen. You know you want it. A girl your age needs it after that. An 18-year-old girl…’

She couldn’t stop him. Couldn’t stop what he was doing. What his hand was at. She should stop him, or try to, because it was dreadful, even more dreadful than his spanking her bare bottom, but the result of what he was doing was that she couldn’t stop him. Not even really try. She couldn’t do anything. She probably couldn’t have got up even if the roof started caving in. What Mr Stimford was doing… Eileen could hear herself gasping… and sobbing. Sounds that were becoming more urgent, more rhythmic.

The sounds continued. Increasing in pitch and intensity. Until they finally came together into one long, desperate, wailing screech.

Mr Stimford said, ‘That’s a good girl.’ And then, ‘I hope no one heard that. You were rather noisy.’ And then a bit later, ‘OK. Get your things on. We’ll go down. You’d better go out first.’

The vision receded. She wasn’t in the village hall loft, she was in Aunt Clare’s sitting room. Aunt Clare was saying something, and of course it was about Mr Stimford.

‘He said would you go round and see him as soon as you arrived. He’s got some expedition or something planned that he wants you to help with.’ Aunt Clare laughed. ‘He does seem very keen on you, Eileen. You obviously made a big impression. But anyway we’ll have a cup of tea first. I’m sure you can do with one.’

A cup of tea! She was going to need more than that. She couldn’t go and see him, not after what he’d done. And not just that once. Four times altogether. Each time pleading with him: ‘Look, I can’t… you can’t… No…’ But Mr Stimford nonetheless making her. Making her climb up into the loft again. ‘Don’t be silly, Eileen. Don’t be disobedient A girl gets her bottom smacked for disobedience.’ But Eileen was going to get her bottom smacked anyway. And after that… ‘Come on, let’s relieve the tension. Yes, Eileen. Don’t be a silly girl. You know you… That’s better… That’s a good girl.’ And with her bottom hot and glowing, everything hot and glowing, Eileen once more hadn’t been able to help herself.

Afterwards walking back to Aunt Clare’s, on legs that had lost all their strength, sure that all the eyes of the village were focussed on her; that they all knew. If she happened to meet anyone, wanting to sink into the ground. And then Aunt Clare, always bright and cheerful Aunt Clare. Surely she must know, must be able to sense…

‘When you’ve finished, Eileen dear, I did say you’d go straight round.’ A little pause. ‘Oh by the way. You remember that loft you used to use? In the hall?’

Did she remember it! Eileen could feel the colour rushing to her cheeks.

‘Well they can’t use it anymore. The floor’s not safe. Since about a year ago now I suppose.’

Eileen walked out in a dream — though the whole thing, coming back here, had been something of a dream. But now there wasn’t any loft. She couldn’t be made to go up there. It was off-limits, unsafe. So the loft was only in the past, it couldn’t happen again. Still with its overwhelming memory but it couldn’t happen now. That awful business was in the past. And Mr Stimford? Well, perhaps he had forgotten about it. She would push it out of her mind and act as if it had never happened. He just wanted some help with the group, that was all. She could face him, because there wasn’t any loft.

Was all that logical? Eileen told herself it was, it had to be. But still as she approached Mr Stimford’s house she felt that awful empty feeling in the pit of her stomach. It was all a year ago. It was all over.

‘Hello, Eileen. How nice to see you again.’ If it was all over Mr Stimford opening his door, looked and sounded just the same. And he was looking at her in just that same way. Eileen could feel her heart pounding, and her legs as she walked past him were decidedly wobbly. It was all over, he wasn’t going to try any of that awful business. The loft. There was no more loft.

Then she gave a sudden, whimpering, gasp. Mr Stimford’s hand was at her bottom. Patting.

‘Put on any weight, Eileen? I’ll have to check, won’t I? My measure. Mmmm…’

The hand stopped patting. And took hold of her bottom. Squeezing the cheek. Eileen stumbled forward, almost falling over. No, Mr Stimford hadn’t changed. He was still the same, loft or no loft. She tried to squirm away. She was 21. ‘Please… look… I’m…’

Mr Stimford grabbing her. Backing her up against the hall wall. His face came close. ‘We haven’t forgotten, have we, Eileen? Obedience and discipline. Those are what a girl has to remember.’ The face came closer.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten that. If you have I’d better have your knickers down right away. Give that pretty bottom a little lesson. Eh?’

Eileen heard herself protesting. But not telling him firmly, authoritatively, that she wasn’t having any of that. Instead protesting in that same silly, helpless way as before. In the same way that Mr Stimford had never taken any notice of and he wasn’t taking any notice now. He was instead hoisting up her skirt, right there against the hall wall. Hoisting it up in spite of her fluttering hands, and then pulling down her pink nylon knickers.

‘Come on, Eileen. You’re still only a girl you know. And we both know what girls need.’

It wasn’t the loft, it was Mr Stimford’s sitting room. But it was the same thing. Eileen was over his lap. Her bare bottom up and her head down. Mr Stimford’s hand was splatting hard down.

It wasn’t the loft but it was just the same.

And afterwards…