In the Pink!

From Blushes Supplement 14, a sequel to Seventeen & a bit.

Charlene was sweating. That was not surprising, any girl would be sweating in Charlene’s position. Up on Mr Cranbrook’s polished little table, probably an expensive antique or something, and on her back. With her legs held up in the air, her hands clasping behind her knees. Like this so that Mr Cranbrook could get at Charlene’s bum. Her full. soft and tender and very bare bum.

Because up on the table on her back Charlene was only scantily clothed. Her pink short-sleeved top but not much else, not much that counted at least. A white suspender belt and white lacy nylons and her black high-heeled courts. But that was it, nothing at all covering her bottom. Or for that matter covering her pussy which in this position, upside down and legs in the air and apart, was inevitably in full view. Was it any wonder that Charlene was sweating?

If all this wasn’t enough to make a girl sweat there was also what Mr Cranbrook was doing with that nasty little clothes brush. Whacking her bare bum with it was what he was doing. Stinging it in onto the ripe flesh of Charlene’s upended bottom cheeks. And for good measure now and then bringing it breathtakingly in across the back of one of Charlene’s upraised thighs.

Mr Cranbrook in his very upper-class voice barked: ‘Open the legs a trifle more, would you, young woman.’ With a despairing groan Charlene complied. The brush whistled stingingly in again.

All this torture was supposedly in a good cause of course although Charlene in her present desperate straits found this difficult to appreciate. Disciplinary training which Charlene coming from her rather ordinary comprehensive school lacked. Unlike public school girls who were well trained with the cane and suchlike from an early age and thus were very acceptable to employers in the traditional professions who had very highly prized jobs to offer. Charlene if she could show herself capable of enduring this sort of thing would join their ranks and be able to get one of those jobs herself, in spite of that comprehensive school background and also her unfortunate lack of O levels etc.

Charlene had arrived here at Mr Cranbrook’s after lunch today which was two days after that interview at The Montague Top Girls Agency. Met at the station by his chauffeur and driven in a posh Daimler to his place here out in the country. Really grand it had looked, a bit like one of those stately homes that Charlene had been to once or twice with her mum. Though this was on a rather smaller scale. But Charlene hadn’t actually seen much of this stately house yet. Mostly it seemed she had just been looking at the ceiling of this little study as she lay on her back on this table with her legs up in the air and Mr Cranbrook whacking her bare bottom with his brush.

She had been shown up to her room by that chauffeur. Mr Smith he was called, though perhaps in fact he was more of a general servant as he had shown her to her room. Quite a nice room but there had not been any time to really look at it. Mr Smith had said Mr Cranbrook would like to see her right away.

Grinning he said, ‘I mean if you want to have a pee first, or something, we can wait while you do that.’

Fortunately Charlene hadn’t needed to have a pee because she wouldn’t have wanted to, not with Mr Smith grinning and saying it like that. She said ‘No thanks’ and then before you knew it she was in here with Mr Cranbrook.

He was very tall and very posh and she was scarcely in his room before he was at it. The training. Simply right away making Charlene take off her skirt and her knickers and then saying. ‘Right, get up on the table, Miss.’ As she looked at it he said, ‘Up on that table on your back.’

The thought of that with now no skirt or knickers on made Charlene feel quite sick but Mr Cranbrook meant it all right and he had that nasty clothes brush in his hand to make the message clear. The brush had whacked stingingly across her bare thigh.

‘Get up, my girl!’

So Charlene had no choice but to do it. It was about a hundred times worse than what Mr Montague had done, because of the position. Who could imagine anyone could be so diabolical as to make a girl lie on the table like this. Showing, well, all she’d got.

He kept on with his brush while no doubt having a marvellous look. On and on. Whacking it in. While making Charlene adopt different positions. All awful ones. Charlene’s head was in a flat spin, she hardly knew which end was up. Well, perhaps that wasn’t quite true: she knew which of her ends was up all right, that end which girls are always taught to keep modestly hidden.

At least it seemed he did finally get tired of this dreadful business. Maybe he was tired out with whacking her so much. At last he did stop and told Charlene she could stand up. That was easy enough to say, but as she struggled down off the table and put her rubbery legs to the floor Charlene wondered for a moment if she could.

She had been here about an hour; she was due to stay for a week. It didn’t bear thinking about. Mr Cranbrook came close. ‘How does that feel, Charlene? A little something to get you started, eh?’

What could you say? Mr Cranbrook’s hand squeezed one of Charlene’s big boobs — rather like that Mr Montague had done. Today Charlene had no bra under her tight pink shirt. She didn’t actually need one for support and her mother had said, ‘It won’t do any harm to let that Mr Cranbrook see they’re nice and firm.’ Did Charlene’s mother know she would be standing here now, with no skirt or knickers on, her pussy on show, her pussy which had been really on show up on that bloody table?

‘A nice, big, healthy girl,’ observed Mr Cranbrook. ‘I’m sure Mr Montague will have no trouble at all placing you in an excellent post. Once you’ve had some experience of being whipped, that is. Mr Montague’s clients tend to be rather finicky and like to know that a girl can take it.’

Mr Cranbrook went to ring his wall bell. Almost immediately, before Charlene had time to think, that Mr Smith came in. Before Charlene had time to think that she had very little on. With a yelp, one hand slid down to cover that reddish brown bush on her pussy while her other went behind in an attempt to cover her bright red bum. Well, it was bad enough having to show it all to Mr Cranbrook, but not Mr Smith as well.

‘Take Charlene to her room, Kenneth,’ said Mr Cranbrook. ‘She must be ready for dinner; Mr Ramsdene is coming. Drinks at 7.’

Mr Smith said, ‘Very good, Mr Cranbrook,’ and grabbed Charlene’s skirt and knickers from the chair. Before Charlene could get them. He took hold of her arm, and was directing her out.

‘Give me my things,’ she squealed outside but Mr Smith only grinned. ‘All in good time, young lady.’ His hand grabbed her bare bottom. Charlene squealed again. Mr Smith said hoarsely in her ear, ‘Just be sensible, my girl.’

Upstairs Mr Smith, still hanging on to Charlene’s skirt and knickers, pushed into her room, closing the door after them. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’m Mr Cranbrook’s right-hand man round here, so be sensible. Otherwise I can get you in an awful lot of trouble. I mean being up on that table is nothing. So be sensible, eh? Be friendly.’

Charlene blinked. Could anything be worse than being up on that table? And what did Mr Smith want anyway? She was standing with her bottom against the wall and her hands over her pussy. The hands were trembling. Did this Mr Smith want to…?

‘Don’t you try anything,’ Charlene said, not with a lot of conviction.

‘I want to smack your bum,’ Mr Smith’s eyes were gleaming. ‘There’s plenty there to go round. I want a go at it.’

‘No!’ she squealed and struggled when he grabbed her. But in fact Charlene had imagined something worse than spanking that Mr Smith might want to do to her. So… And spanking didn’t seem quite as bad as whacking it with that brush that Mr Cranbrook had, or a cane like Mr Montague.

Mr Smith sat on her bed and pulled Charlene over his lap. It did hurt in fact because her bum was still very sore from what Mr Cranbrook had done to it. Charlene yelped and struggled but Mr Smith kept on. Then he stopped, stopped spanking that was. But began something else. Charlene let out a shrill squeal. Mr Smith’s hand between her legs. Right there. Where of course Charlene had been known to stroke her hand occasionally, at times of stress and tension, as 17-year-old girls will. But she had never dreamt of having someone else, a man, doing it to her.

She was making these gaspy, squealy noises and jerking her hips about. But Mr Smith with one arm firmly round Charlene’s waist could not be stopped. His hand, his fingers could not be dislodged. And so eventually, Charlene couldn’t help it, she reacted in the way that healthy 17-year-old girls will react in that situation. Increasingly convulsive thrustings of her hips; increasingly desperate sounds. Until finally…

‘There, doesn’t that feel better now? I knew that was what you needed,’ said this truly awful Mr Smith.

Afterwards Charlene tried not to think about it. How could she have done that!! The answer was that she couldn’t help herself. It had been all the dreadful turmoil and awfulness of what Mr Cranbrook had done, leaving her weak and defenceless. And Mr Smith had really known just what to do; exactly where to put his fingers… and rub…

Oh Jesus Christ! To think! Charlene lying on her bed with awful Mr Smith now at least departed, buried her face in the pillow. If it ever got out that she had let Mr Smith — a common servant or chauffeur or whatever he was — do that to her, well she could never possibly get one of those super jobs. They didn’t want girls who allowed that sort of thing, they wanted sweet, virginal girls. Mr Montague had said.

Charlene felt so bad about it, so awful that… After a bit of lying there with her face in the pillow and sort of working her hips about she realised… that she just had to… Shamefacedly Charlene got into the bed, rather than as she had been, lying on top. Because in the bed if someone, Mr Smith or Mr Cranbrook, suddenly came in the room, and there was no lock on the door, they wouldn’t see what she was doing. What Charlene had to do. Because she was feeling so awful that she had to do it again, herself. What Mr Smith had done. But do it under the sheets.

Conveniently Charlene still had only that pink top on — plus suspender belt and nylons of course (shoes kicked off) — so that she could quite conveniently do it. Under the sheets Charlene’s full, womanly hips soon rhythmically rocking again.

Afterwards she really did feel ashamed of herself but, well, she just hadn’t been able to help it.

 She went to have a bath. Soaking in the hot tub Charlene felt a little better. All of this would be worthwhile if at the end of it Mr Montague got her a job. Although a whole week here… Charlene looked apprehensively at the bathroom door. Again there was no lock. But she had her bath and got dried without, as she feared, either Mr Cranbrook or Mr Smith coming in and grabbing her.

Back in her room she considered what to put on. This friend of Mr Cranbrook’s was coming to dinner so hopefully that would mean he wouldn’t try anything awful. Drinks at 7 Mr Cranbrook had said. That sounded OK. She had brought her two best dresses, as well as that pink top and skirt, and she wondered…

The door opened. Mr Smith. Not knocking or anything of course. ‘How’s this hotsy girl,’ he leered. Charlene flushed — and held her dressing gown tight round her. She knew he was referring to that.

‘Mr Cranbrook says you’re to put your pyjamas on.’

That couldn’t be right. She was going down to dinner.

‘I know,’ Mr Smith said with his awful grin. ‘You’re going down to dinner in your pyjamas. That’s how Mr Cranbrook wants you. He’s probably going to make you take your pyjamas off, in the middle of dinner, to entertain his guest I should think.’

Charlene’s stomach felt like it had suddenly turned upside down. Or inside out. She produced a weak half-smile. Perhaps it was Mr Smith’s little joke…

No it wasn’t. Mr Cranbrook had said it all right.

‘This is my young house guest,’ Mr Cranbrook said to this Mr Ramsdene. ‘Seventeen and still growing I daresay, so she has to be in bed sharpish. That is why she’s in her pyjamas for dinner.’

Charlene felt about ten years old — though no doubt Mr Ramsdene, eyeing the way she filled out her pink flowered pyjamas, didn’t think so.

‘Certainly a well-built young lady,’ he observed. He was Mr Cranbrook’s age or thereabouts, with one of those awful posh accents.

‘Yes a strapping girl,’ Mr Cranbrook said, ‘Would you like to see more, Henry? Take the top off, Charlene, would you please?’

Again for a moment Charlene thought it might be a joke — but by now she could have realised that in Mr Cranbrook’s house even the most awful things were really meant. Red-faced, she unbuttoned the pyjama jacket and slipped it off. Three pairs of hot male eyes on her ripe tits. (Three because that Mr Smith was in there as well, pretending to be doing things with the drinks.) Mr Ramsdene was invited to examine the firm, full mammaries. Which he did, handling them like a connoisseur of some ripe and exotic fruit found in the market. Squeezing and palpating. Rubbing and stroking the nipples which duly responded by sticking out like fat stiff pink thumbs.

Charlene had to stay like that, in just her pyjama bottoms, throughout the meal in Mr Cranbrook’s splendid dining room. Sit there with the two men opposite and eat what Mr Smith put in front of her — all the while with her really super tits quite bare. Could her mother have any idea at all, Charlene wondered bemusedly.

It wasn’t over of course. Oh no if anything there was worse to come. After dinner this Mr Ramsdene was invited to spank Charlene’s bottom. ‘It’s all part of her training,’ Mr Cranbrook blandly observed. Take down her pyjama trousers and get over Mr Ramsdene’s lap. This of course was the third time Charlene’s poor bum had been given a going-over that day. How simply unbelievably dreadful!

This Mr Ramsdene went home but then it was Mr Cranbrook’s turn again. Take her pyjama trousers down again. In fact after he had spanked her quite a bit like that, take them right off. And then smack her poor bum some more.

What a day! And it was only the first, and not even a full day. With seven full days altogether to be endured. Up in her room Charlene forced herself to make the effort to write home. She had promised her parents she would. But of course she couldn’t write it all, all that had been happening. How could you? It was a struggle to really write anything, but Charlene did her best. She had just finished her meagre effort when the door opened.

Mr Smith. Grinning as usual. Closing the door carefully behind him.

‘I know what girls need after a tiring day, Charlene. A nice massage.’

Charlene certainly didn’t want a massage, not from Mr Smith. But she couldn’t stop him wrestling her onto the bed. And then… well, it was quite relaxing in the end!