Seventeen & a bit

From Blushes Supplement 13

‘Seventeen eh? Well she’s certainly a nice big strapping girl and that’s always a selling point. Yes indeed!’

Charlene, 17 and one month and sitting opposite Mr Montague in his plush office, smiled shyly. Her mother, next to her on the couch, smiled as well. Charlene was a big girl, tall and with a statuesque figure you could say. Nice big tits and enticingly prominent bottom, today attractively displayed in her new smart grey suit. She was also a very good-looking girl, a softly pretty face framed by thick wavy auburn hair. But did all this at 17 get you a job? When you had no ‘O’ levels and only a few not very good CSE’s?

‘But not a lot in the way of qualifications, eh?’ observed Mr Montague, picking up that very subject. Mr Montague of The Montague Agency for Top Girls. ‘Unequalled in placing girls in the very best professional positions’ it had said in the advertisement. Very impressive, as was this office, up on the fifth floor in the heart of the West End of London, with a thick cream carpet on the floor, green potted plants placed here and there and expensive looking paintings on the walls.

Very impressive indeed, Sylvia Hayling thought, and hopefully something could be done for Charlene even with that unfortunate lack of grades. Mr Montague was perhaps 45; that would be some eight years older than Sylvia herself. An attractive looking man too in his smart dark suit. Confident and, well, worldly. Sylvia felt a little tingle of excitement at being here in the glitter of London. She forced her mind back to the subject of Charlene’s qualifications — or lack of them. ‘Yes,’ What could you say? ‘I, uh, can’t really think why. I mean she’s not a stupid girl.’ She glanced at Charlene. ‘Are you, pet?’

Mr Montague smiled a suave smile across at the two ladies. The mother was as attractive as the daughter, in a more mature way of course. His eyes took in the two pairs of shapely nyloned legs. A woman’s legs could be at their best in her thirties. And her bottom as well.

‘Perhaps not concentrating on her work then, Mrs Hayling? Girls at this age can have other things on their minds, I know. Boys — or sex if you wish.’

Charlene flushed — and there was even a slight pinkening of Sylvia Hayling’s complexion under her make-up. The word ‘sex’ was like a little bomb exploding across the coffee table. Charlene had not been doing anything like that, Sylvia had made quite sure. But at the same time she herself, naturally as a married woman… Mr Montague would know that she did it regularly — with her husband of course. Somehow Sylvia suddenly found herself imagining Mr Montague’s erect penis. Nervously she crossed her legs. ‘Uh, no, certainly not,’ she stammered. Referring to Charlene of course.

Mr Montague smiled. ‘I’m glad to hear it. Some girls nowadays are very forward at this age. So Charlene is a virgin, is she, Mrs Hayling? Still quite intact in that regard?’

Charlene went bright red, Sylvia said, ‘Uh, oh yes, certainly.’ Really she had not expected this line of query but at least she could hold her head up, she had brought Charlene up properly.

‘That is excellent and I hope you didn’t mind me inquiring. But a lot of my clients like to know they’re getting a virgin. It may seem old-fashioned with some of today’s attitudes but I assure you there are a lot of old-fashioned gentlemen around in the professions. Yes that is a definite plus, and being a nice big healthy-looking girl as well, and a very pretty one in addition if I may say so, well, I think we can be hopeful in spite of these lacking qualifications. Paper qualifications aren’t everything, even in today’s hurly-burly.’

At this point Mr Montague’s secretary brought in some coffee. It was a little relief after what had transpired. Frankly, Charlene’s mother had not realised that employers concerned themselves with, well, that kind of thing. Though clearly respected firms did not want to employ young tarts. Sylvia observed Mr Montague’s secretary. Was she a virgin? She was a pretty young woman but no prettier than Charlene, and her bust wasn’t as big either. She gave Mr Montague a little smile.

The secretary went silently out. The coffee was delicately sipped by the two visitors, Charlene concentrating on not making any awkward drinking noises. Mr Montague took a large mouthful, in a masculine way.

‘No, paper qualifications, though valuable, are not the be-all and end-all with the more traditional employer. What he wants is a well-turned-out girl, attractive and well-spoken and who is also a well-disciplined young person. This last factor is what we are really talking about. A girl brought up in the traditional manner, that is what these gentlemen are looking for. Do you take my meaning, Mrs Hayling?’

Sylvia wasn’t sure that she did. Charlene put on a look of intelligent inquiry.

‘Charlene I understand attended the local comprehensive school. What was discipline like there, I wonder?’

Sylvia said, ‘Quite good, I should say.’

‘The cane?’ queried Mr Montague, taking another good mouthful of his coffee. Was the cane or a strap in regular use?’

‘Uh well… No…’ Sylvia Hayling had certainly not been thinking in terms of the cane. Nor indeed, it went without saying, had Charlene. The cane! Girls didn’t get caned nowadays.

‘In the positions I place girls in, Mrs Hayling, we have very many applicants from the very best girls’ public schools. In those establishments I can assure you the pupils are routinely subject to the cane. Traditional schools with traditional values. And that is what these employers are looking for. A girl who has been brought up in that manner.’

To both mother and daughter this came as an undoubted shock. Sylvia Hayling bit a red-lipsticked lip. Charlene of course had not been caned. Certainly not. That was not the way Southfield Comprehensive operated and indeed if Sylvia had heard of such a suggestion she would have been over to the school like a shot, demanding to know what they were thinking about. Could it be true what Mr Montague was saying — that Charlene had been brought up in the small-minded thinking of lower-middle-class suburbia?

Mr Montague confirmed his startling picture. ‘What an employer likes to do is deal with his girls in the traditional way. If there is a problem and little problems always arise even with the most exemplary girls, then he wants to make her take her medicine as girls have always taken it in the past. To be prepared to slip her knickers down and take a few sharp cuts of the cane.’

Mr Montague smiled across at two somewhat stunned faces. ‘Is that not how you were dealt with as a girl, Mrs Hayling?’

Blinking, Sylvia managed, ‘Uh, not exactly.’ But then of course she had not gone to a public school either — and had not been employed in one of these positions that Mr Montague was talking of.

‘Did you not even have that delightful bottom smacked?’ Mr Montague grinned, as if he might be imagining doing just that.

Sylvia smiled an embarrassed smile, without answering. Why anyway were they talking about her? ‘Uh Charlene… I’m afraid we hadn’t realised… ‘

‘These matters are not blazoned across the gutter press, Mrs Hayling. Not if anyone can help it at least. Discretion is the keynote. And of course your better public schools do produce a most discreet girl.’

It seemed as if public-school girls won along the line — but what else could you expect in class-ridden England? Sylvia Hayling gave Mr Montague a rueful look.

He held up a finger. ‘Don’t despair, dear lady. That is where the Montague Agency can help and may I say you were very wise to come to us. Yes. We can provide a crash course, as it were, of these essentials. In place of all those extremely expensive years at Roedean or whatever, just a few days with one of my carefully chosen contacts. After that, if she shows herself to be a sensible and cooperative girl, I can virtually guarantee to find her an excellent post.’

That sounded truly marvellous. Clearly they had come to the right place and Sylvia had been right after all. Her friend Monica had counselled against going to a London Agency saying that London was full of crooks and con men. Well here was this Mr Montague promising Charlene a job. Mr Montague was talking again. And getting to his feet.

‘I feel sure Charlene is the sort of girl who can benefit from our course, Mrs Hayling, but I should like as I routinely do, to carry out a little check. And it is much easier for the girl herself if this is done in private, so if perhaps you could excuse us for just a little while…’

Sylvia got smartly to her feet. ‘Oh of course.’ Mr Montague rather excitingly took her arm and led her to the door. ‘My secretary will get you another cup of coffee. Charlene and I will not be long: a few minutes.’

To the secretary Mr Montague said, ‘No interruptions, Celia, please.’

The door was closed. Just Mr Montague and Charlene now. Charlene who had also got to her feet and was chewing nervously at a full lower lip. A check? Mr Montague coming close slid his arm round her waist. ‘Now then, Charlene dear, you’re going to show me how disciplined you can be, aren’t you? First of all though I’d like you to slip that jacket off, so I can get a good look at you.’

That at least didn’t seem an ordeal. Flushing nonetheless, Charlene unbuttoned and removed the tight grey jacket. Underneath was a demure white blouse the front of which bulged impressively out. Mr Montague simply grabbed, in a way that quite took Charlene’s breath away, her big tits. One in each hand. ‘Lovely,’ he breathed. ‘Very lovely. Oh yes these will certainly do.’

And then with Charlene still shaking from this assault Mr Montague was telling her to take her skirt off. She was to imagine she was a sixth-former at one of those posh schools and was up before the headmistress for some offence. ‘Perhaps,’ said Mr Montague, ‘You’ve been letting the school gardener, say, play with these lovelies.’ He grabbed again at Charlene’s tits. So Charlene was in the Head’s study ‘to be dealt with’.

‘This is serious, Charlene,’ Mr Montague added sharply as she looked at him in confused hesitation. ‘I’m sure your mother…’

Charlene unfastened the skirt and slid it down. Underneath white tights through which showed brief pink knickers partially covering her ripe bottom. ‘Ah,’ said Mr Montague, ‘Now here’s our first lesson. Always stockings, not tights. Our traditional gentlemen always require a girl to wear proper stockings. They can get quite upset if they find tights.’

Mr Montague as he spoke was grabbing at Charlene’s ripe bum, as not long before he had been grabbing at her tits. And grabbing down the offending tights. Charlene yelped. She was being propelled. Stumbling on her high heels in the thick carpet, over to Mr Montague’s desk. Pushed down over it. Mr Montague was saying, in a voice that might be meant to be that of a stern headmistress, ‘We certainly cannot have that sort of thing at this school, Miss!’

Charlene’s tights were down, halfway down her thighs, and then the brief pink knicks as well. The splendid rump bare, thrust out over the edge of Mr Montague’s desk. ‘Don’t move!’ he instructed, a feverish gleam in his eyes.

He went away but came quickly back. Now with a long, thin cane in his hand. The quivering pale flesh was a ripely beckoning target. Charlene, face against the polished surface, was making little moaning sounds. It was all so sudden and shocking. And surely he wasn’t actually going to…

Crack…!

Charlene gave a yelp like a stricken banshee. She felt like she had been cut in two. A desperate, unbelievable cut right across the fullest curve of her bare buttocks.

Sylvia Hayling in the secretary’s room looked sharply up. The pistol-like sound immediately followed by what was without doubt her daughter’s agonised cry had carried quite clearly through the closed door. Celia, glancing up also from her typewriter, gave Sylvia a reassuring smile. Sylvia squirmed on her chair, feeling a hot little tingle.

The sounds — that awful Crack…  followed by Charlene’s equally awful yelp of distress — were repeated three more times. Then silence, Sylvia felt even more squirmy and tingly. Eventually, perhaps 10 minutes later, the door opened, Mr Montague, rather pink in the face.

Mr Montague wasn’t the only one with a pinkish face. There was Charlene, not surprisingly perhaps, and also Sylvia herself, with the knowledge of what had been taking place in Mr Montague’s office. But, well, if you had to compete with all those public school girls who it seemed got this sort of thing all the time. Mr Montague said Charlene had done very well. Charlene herself, now fully clothed again of course, didn’t say anything. Her bottom was still killing her.

Mr Montague said he thought perhaps Celia could take Charlene out for a spot of lunch. He wanted to discuss matters with Charlene’s mother. Celia smiled brightly, with could it be a little knowing look…

Back in that plush office it was now just Sylvia and Mr Montague. She felt a little bit weak at the knees. All of this was very new and strange when you came from a small provincial town. Alone with this smart and charming man — who had minutes before been caning her daughter. This man who also not long before had been asking if she herself had ever been caned — or had her bottom spanked. Sylvia felt quite faint. The awful but at the same time in a way thrilling sound of that cane, and her daughter’s distressed cries. She, Sylvia Hayling now here in this room with the door closed. And presumably somewhere… there was that cane…

Mr Montague smiling his charming smile was saying he would send out for some lunch to be sent up. But first of all… He was leading Sylvia over to the couch…

----//----

Mr Cranbrook was very tall and not all that old, not as old as Mr Montague. He was really upper-class with a really, really posh accent, more so even than that Mr Montague and with a really posh house. All of this naturally was a bit scary for Charlene, not used to anything grand — and of course only two days after that interview at Mr Montague’s when Mr Montague had really caned the daylights out of Charlene’s bottom.

But Charlene knew that this stay at Mr Cranbrook’s would provide the training she needed for one of these super jobs that Mr Montague could get and therefore she had to do exactly what Mr Cranbrook said and be strictly obedient and do her very, very best. Mr Cranbrook would be giving her some very strict and hard training and it had to be like this because you had to make up for all the years and years of training that those other girls had had. Mr Montague had told Charlene this and so had her mother.

Charlene’s mother had seemed a bit strange after that visit to Mr Montague’s. But then Charlene had felt strange too — not least her poor bum which had really hurt all the way back home, having to sit on it in the train.

Once Charlene got to Mr Cranbrook’s place she certainly wasn’t worrying about her mother being a bit strange or anything else like that. Because Mr Cranbrook’s training had started right away and it was quite simply mind-boggling.

Skirt off and knickers off. Naturally Charlene had now got herself nylons and suspender belt as Mr Montague had instructed. In just these and her high-heeled courts and her pink top Mr Cranbrook got to work on her. Making Charlene lie on her back. With her legs up in the air; or parted wide. Adopting all sorts of positions in fact. Positions that really made you sweat to think about. And all the time Mr Cranbrook with this nasty little clothes brush. Whack!…  Whack!…  Whack!…

It was unbelievable. Could girls at those posh schools really have to go through this?

Continued in In the Pink!