The Whippet Club

An epic account of Sir Humphrey’s favourite pastime in the halls of Whitehall, from Blushes 39

On the top of the three or four transit envelopes that the messenger had delivered was one sealed CONFIDENTIAL with also pinned to it a red IMMEDIATE tag. She picked it up and opened it. Reading the contained note she chewed a ripe lower lip while at the same time a slight but unmistakeable flush came to her pretty cheeks. She glanced towards the door to the inner office which bore a polished brass plate stating: Mr VJM Browne. Private. Long lashes fluttered nervously upon the big violet-blue eyes as she went to the door. High heels made only a muffled sound on the grey carpet while above them full, firm haunches surged strongly in the tight black skirt. A discreet knock and she entered.

Vincent Browne, Under Secretary of State, looked up, his eyes taking in the familiar but always attractive sight of his Personal Secretary. He watched breasts and hips as, the door quietly closed, she came over to him. To place on his pad the sheet of A5 minute paper.

‘It came in a red, Mr Browne. From Mr Finford.’

Mr Browne scanned the note. The message which had caused the beauteous Pamela Marton’s heart to flutter would have been, to the man in the street, cryptic to say the least.

Dear Vincent,

Pistols at dawn no but whippets in the afternoon yes. Next week? I suggest the 14th. To the victor the spoils, to the loser’s whippet a most severe whippeting. Plus naturally anything else that the victor may wish to enjoy or indulge in. You and your whippet have been warned: I have mine in absolutely tip-top condition. Revenge will be sweet indeed. So shall we say a side wager of five hundred GF.

Vincent Browne breathed, ‘Five hundred!’ Not exactly awestruck but certainly impressed. ‘George is evidently feeling high. Has he got a new girl?’

Pamela Marton shifted her weight from one stiletto and shapely nylon-clad leg and thigh to the other. She shook her head, her bell of short-cut ash-blonde hair swinging. ‘I… don’t know. Not that I know… ‘

Mr Browne put the note down. ‘I wonder. He’s a canny one, is George Finford. And doesn’t enjoy being bested of course. Last time, Pamela, you were in really splendid form.’ He got to his feet to perch on the edge of his beautiful rosewood desk. His arm which beneath the exquisitely tailored sleeve of his suit showed the cuff of a Jermyn Street shirt reached out to Pamela. Taking her arm and pulling her closer.

‘He sounds awfully upbeat, Pammy. I’d hate to have him beat me. A real blow to a man’s pride — not to mention the five hundred. And also my treasured Pammy. He will want to do something pretty beastly to you, my dear. There’s no question about that. No doubt a whole lot of pretty beastly things.

Mr Browne’s hand had now left his secretary’s arm and was gently fingering a lightly-clad and trembling mammary gland. His voice dropped to a concerned whisper. ‘That George Finford could be pretty beastly, Pam. If he had you at his mercy.’

It wasn’t only Pamela Marton’s boob that was trembling, she was trembling all over. She did not doubt what Mr Browne said. Mr Finford would be beastly. He would probably feel quite entitled to be. Mr Browne had been extremely beastly to Mr Finford’s girl, Marcia. His whippet. When Pamela had beaten her. She knew because she had been present for at least part of the time. Mr Browne had insisted, making Pamela hold Marcia, to make it even more beastly for her. It in fact had been beastly for Pamela too, having to do that; she didn’t like that kind of thing at all. And of course if Mr Browne hadn’t done it, those things, to Marcia, Mr Finford quite possibly wouldn’t now be saying this. Revenge is sweet…

‘You’re keeping in good shape, Pam?’ Mr Browne’s voice as he worked at the nipple under the silk blouse had a slightly anxious edge. ‘Regular work-outs? Every day?’

‘Yes.’ The word breathed out on a gaspy exhalation of air. Because of what Mr Browne was doing and also because she was scared. Mr Finford could have got another girl. Another whippet. There was no rule to say he had to stick with the same one, there wasn’t even a rule to say she had to be on Mr Finford’s staff. He could theoretically get anyone. And there had to be girls around, probably lots of them if you went looking, who could beat Pamela in a whippet race.

Mr Browne’s mind was no doubt working along similar lines as, possibly without him actually thinking too much about what he was doing, his fingers began unbuttoning Pamela’s blouse. ‘It would certainly be quite against the spirit of the thing to put up just any girl. She should be in his employ. I mean that’s understood even if the rules don’t actually say so. Anything else would not be cricket. And you can certainly beat any girl they’ve got over there.’

Pamela’s blouse was now open. She gave a quick little glance over at the door. But of course no one was going to come bursting in, not into Mr Browne’s room. Not an Under Secretary of State. Mr Browne was reaching round inside to unfasten her bra. The big violet eyes were wide with apprehension. Even if no one would come in Pamela wished he wouldn’t do this sort of thing, not here in the middle of the day. And there was the whippet business.

‘He… could have got a new girl. I mean recruited someone.’ She added unhappily, ‘Just because she was a runner.’

Yes, you wouldn’t be able to complain about that. It would be quite above board A man could legitimately hire an international athlete as a personal secretary, or a clerical officer. And then…

Mr Browne had Pam’s boobs bare now. They were no more than medium size but marvellously firm, like ripening apples. This came from her training schedule: daily work-outs when she really pushed herself — or perhaps more accurately her trainer pushed her. That sort of thing left no surplus fat on a girl. Thus the splendidly firm tits, their rose-pink nipples now stiffening, and also the haunches too: the latter not small but under the rounding surface layers all finely tuned muscle.

This finely tuned body had been too much for Marcia Greenberry in the last whippet contest and there had been one before with the same result. Marcia vanquished — and forced to submit to Mr Browne on each occasion. Humiliating and beastly, and humiliating for Mr Finford too. But with his cocky, confident challenge was Mr Finford about to reverse things? Pam shivered. Being beaten didn’t bear thinking about. Not when it would mean being handed over to Mr Finford…

Another little shudder. At that awful prospect or possibly a result of what Mr Browne was doing. Perhaps both. She hated the whole thing; this whole beastly game of theirs. Whippets. Even if you didn’t lose the contest itself, the whippet race, was utterly beastly. Very humiliating.

‘Slip your skirt off, Pam,’ Mr Browne said quietly. ‘Let me have a look at you.’

Pam emitted a squeaky sort of sound. He couldn’t mean that. Not here in the middle of the afternoon. But Mr Browne did. ‘Come on. And your knickers. Let me see those muscles. The gluteus maximi. Where a whippet gets her motive force from.’

Yes Mr Browne meant it. Also something else when Pamela had reluctantly removed the tight black skirt and diaphanous pale mauve knickers. He wanted her up on his desk. On her back. Cycling her legs in the air. Mr Browne wanted to check that his whippet was in proper race-fit shape. Pam had to do it: upside-down on his desk, her long legs in the sheer seamed nylons, the stiletto-heeled courts still on, her shapely thighs crossed by the taut straps of the black suspender belt which with the stockings and shoes was all she had on below her waist. Or more correctly, in this dreadful position, above her legs cycling in the air. It was no doubt an amusing diversion for Mr Browne, looking keen-eyed at everything on show. But a bit of upside-down cycling, flashing her bare pussy, did not mean that Pam was going to be able to cope with whatever Mr Finford evidently now had up his sleeve.

THE SPORT OF WHIPPET RACING

Whippet racing could take place in various locations: in the grounds of a private house; in the corridor of a Ministry building; even out in the country in some deserted spot. The only strict requirement was that the location be private or at least away from eyes not privileged to observe. (A Ministry location could therefore only be employed when the building was otherwise vacated, at a weekend say). A whippet race was a very private and esoteric business, to be observed and enjoyed only by the gentlemen actually running the whippets plus any favoured intimates invited along.

When whippets were being raced they wore a silk blouse of a distinctive colour: the owner’s colours. These colours would be specified in the challenge documents that were exchanged between rival owners before a race, together with the whippet’s statistics (measurements, weight, age, hair colour, etc). It was customary for a whippet’s measurements to be checked by her opponent’s owner before a race. Not that there were any limits as to measurements; it was simply a formality to be enjoyed by the opposing gentlemen. Generally speaking the blouse was all a whippet wore in a race, together with a pair of trainers of course. This made measurements more accurate and of course the taking of them more enjoyable. The silk blouse would be unbuttoned and held high by the whippet herself for her thoracic circumference to be checked.

There were those, though, one or two, who were not happy racing a whippet bare-bottomed and wished to have their girl in a pair of knickers in addition to the blouse. This attitude was very much frowned on by the true whippet-racing fraternity: it after all defeated the object of the exercise to a certain extent. These gentlemen, not true sportsmen clearly, were also unlikely to want to hand over a defeated whippet to the victor for 24 hours, two days, or whatever period was agreed. Such poor sports were viewed with disfavour but a challenge might nonetheless be accepted with naturally one’s own whippet wearing knickers as well. And at the very least such an owner would have to agree to a defeated girl being caned on the spot if she wasn’t to be handed over. In such circumstances the caning would be just about as hard as could be managed. As a lesson to the watching whippet’s owner, not to mention of course a lesson to the whippet herself.

Knickers were not a part of true whippet racing because of that most notable characteristic of the sport, of a whippet race: ‘presenting’. At the start, at agreed points on the course, and again at the finish the whippets were required to ‘present’: that is, get down on all fours in front of owners and whatever other spectators were present, get their bottoms well up and ‘present’ their hindquarters to the onlookers. And it was argued by true whippet fanciers that a whippet could not properly ‘present’ her hindquarters if she had any covering at all on them.

Vincent Browne had chosen the famous light blue of Cambridge as his colours. It was a pleasing reminder of his university days and also a shade he thought went very well on a blonde. Vincent Browne preferred blondes. Before Pamela Marton he had had another blonde whippet, a Clerical Officer in his Department called Alison. Alison however had been beaten in quite a big race and when she was returned to Mr Browne after the two days, as agreed, spent with the victorious whippet’s owner Alison was found to have all her pussy hair shaved off. Clean as a baby’s bottom.

That had rather started a fashion for shaving of beaten whippets’ pussy hair. It was an exquisite humiliation of course, in terms of both whippet and master. A shaved whippet was an abject and defeated creature and a man would clearly not be able to bring himself to race her in this demeaning state. He would have to wait until it grew to form a decent bush again, or alternatively he would have to find another whippet. Vincent Browne had found Pamela Marton. Not exactly found her because she was already his Personal Secretary, but the thought had suddenly come when Pamela, unfortunately for her perhaps, happened to mention that she did a big of jogging.

So Pamela had been initiated into the mysteries of the Whippet Club which naturally, being what it was, a girl would know nothing about until she found herself, whether she liked it or not, a member.

Quite a shock when it finally dawned on you what it was all about. When you were taken to see your first race (not a participant the first time of course). The country residence of another very senior civil servant and all a bit like a dream for surely this could not really be happening. Mr Browne and these other gentlemen out on the lawn after drinks in the drawing room. Pamela the lone female observer as the other two females present none too happily remove their coats. One wore a green silk blouse and the other blue-and-gold striped. Apart from the blouses and ankle socks and trainers the girls were nude. Mr Browne had told Pamela without telling her this particular detail. That whippets were virtually nude.

And then the rest. The girls unbuttoning the blouses to be measured. Refastening the blouses and getting down on hands and knees in front of the little group of men. Some of the men were making bets on them. The two with the tape measures stepping forward. Openly fondling the two raised, starkly nude female rears. And then at the sudden, shocking BANG!… of a starting pistol the two girls springing athletically forward, no doubt desperately relieved to get away from the groping hands, the intent male eyes.

But they had to return four times to this same spot. The fourth occasion marked the end of the race. By this time one girl had dropped some way behind. When she did gaspingly finish she was grabbed by enthusiastic hands. To be held down over a garden seat. The one who had measured her now had a cane. And a look of gloating enjoyment on his pink face.

Pam and the other girl, also gasping but with relief no doubt, looked apprehensively on…

EX-SERGEANT JENKS

It was an awful, awful shock, that first whippet race. You couldn’t say no to Mr Browne, though. Well, she had tried but it hadn’t got Pam anywhere. Mr Browne’s answer was to give her a sharp lecture regarding obedience and loyalty. And to reinforce this with a caning — just like the loser in the race had got on that immaculate lawn. Pamela wasn’t in front of a group of grinning men but it was a caning all right and with her skirt off and her knickers down. It was the first time Mr Browne had done this and it was another awful shock. ‘A touch of discipline, Pamela,’ he told her. ‘That is what girls need and it is certainly what you’ll need if I’m going to run you as a whippet.’

He finished the caning with a fourth stinging CRACK! across Pam’s splendid bare nates which were thrust out over the arm of the settee in Mr Browne’s London flat. He stroked his hand over the smarting flesh. ‘But don’t worry, I’ve got just the man for you. Mr Jenks. Ex-Army PT Sergeant. He’ll get you in good enough shape to beat anybody.’

Mr Jenks! Ex-Sergeant Arthur Jenks was the third awful shock. A hard-eyed man of 45 or so, fit and muscular with large hands that could no doubt break a girl’s body in two if the fancy took him. As Mr Jenks warmed to his task with evident enthusiasm it would frequently seem that the fancy had taken him to snap Pam’s dishy body in two, or to squeeze or pinch or pummel the life out of it. Sgt Jenks gave her a foretaste of what he was going to be like on that very first afternoon at his house. When after the introductions he straightaway told Pam to take her clothes off.

It was the day after Mr Browne had so shockingly caned her, and two days after the shock of that first whippet race. Up to this point in her three months with Mr Browne, life for Pamela had been pleasantly uneventful. Well, he did like to fondle her bottom, sliding his hand gently over it when the occasion presented itself; and her tits too. But these actions were done in a discreet and gentlemanly manner and were no more than a girl might expect working in an office situation and certainly a very small price to pay for getting this super and glamorous job as Personal Secretary to an Under Secretary of State. There had been no nasty shocks, but now…

This Sergeant Jenks was the third in rapid succession. Three hammer blows. In this room that was his gym he was telling her to take her clothes off. All of them. And he wasn’t messing about. At Pam’s stunned look he seized her arm in a grip that threatened to crack the bone and brusquely ordered her to jump to it or he would do it. The hand left her aching arm and in a second vice-like action took hold of a handful of her bottom.

‘We’ve got to have action, Miss. Mr Browne said he wanted you super fit. That other one, that Alison, got bested it seems. Mr Browne doesn’t want that. So we’ll have to really work you. So get these things off. Let’s see what we’ve got here.’

In a sort of nightmare Pam’s clothes came off. Until she was left in only her stockings. Mr Jenks’s fierce voice telling her to take her hands away from there (her brown-bushed groin and the firm, high tits). Pam complied, and stood squirming before him, with Mr Jenks’s fierce eyes on her. And then those hands too. Turning her, this way and that. Sizing her body up like a dubious specimen of horse-flesh that had been sent to him to do something with. Which of course was precisely what she was. At the end of his scrutiny Mr Jenks turned her to face him again — and without ceremony closed one of those large hands over the bulge of Pam’s groin.

She let out a shocked squeal. But Mr Jenks’s hand wasn’t letting go. A harsh laugh. ‘We don’t want this all shaved off, do we? Like that Alison. Bare as a baby’s bum.’

The words didn’t mean anything. In particular as Pam’s mind was fully concentrated on the clutching hand. But she anyway at this stage knew nothing of what had been done to poor Alison with shaving soap and razor.

Mr Jenks enlightened Pam. A little later after he had had her doing ten minutes hard running on the spot and then had her spread out on his massage table. His hand going back to that same dark-blonde bush, now slick with perspiration. ‘We don’t want it shaved off, do we, Pam? What would your boyfriend think of that?’ And this time Pamela heard, in rather basic Army vernacular, what fate Alison had suffered as a result of losing her race. Mr Jenks, more loquacious now, was prepared, keen in fact, to provide further details of what he knew of whippet racing. Of what could happen to girls who, like Alison, finished up on the losing end. ‘The gent who’s won can do just what he likes with her,’ Mr Jenks stated.

As if to lend weight to this statement, Mr Jenks’s broad middle finger thrust up into the heavily breathing Pamela who, on her new trainer’s orders, was lying with her thighs spread obligingly apart so as to accommodate what he had now done. She yelled out. And snapped her legs closed. Also grabbed automatically at the invading hand. Mr Jenks firmly told her to stop all these things. He was testing her self-discipline and control, he told her. That was half the battle in achieving fitness. She had an awful lot to do to get properly fit and it was going to take a high degree of self-discipline. So lie quite still… and keep her hands at her sides on the table…

While Mr Jenks… was just doing it. Not one finger now but two. First and second held stiffly and thrustingly together. Fully in… and then sliding out… and in again… while his thumb… Pam somehow doing what she had been told. Lying back with her legs open and letting it happen. Making gaspy little sounds. Squealy sounds. Sounds of a girl who is not in control and is less and less in control by the second. The sounds getting more desperate… urgent… until… a high-pitched long-drawn-out squeal…

In the middle of this squeal Mr Jenks stopped. Grabbed the recumbent girl’s arm and abruptly pulled her up off the table. Sharply smacking the ripe bottom.

‘Control, Miss! Where’s that self-control? Did I say you could come? Right: let’s have some more running on the spot. Hard this time. Half an hour shall we say? Come on, snap to it!’

CRACK!…

‘Aaarrgghhhh!’

From somewhere Mr Jenks had produced a cane. Which he had belted in across Pam’s bare bottom. ‘Come on! Knees up!’

VIRGIN WHIPPET

Her first race. With Mr Browne in his car and her feeling quite unwell. He was gently stroking her leg. ‘Jenks tells me he’s got you in lovely shape, Pammy dear. Tip-top condition. So I’m planning to bet a hundred pounds on you.’

Pam shivered. She was dressed for her race that was in two hours’ time. Like those other girls: a light coat and underneath it her silk blouse which was Mr Browne’s Cambridge blue. That was all apart from trainers and white ankle socks. She felt really sick. Nauseous. She was fit, Mr Jenks had almost killed her in two months of training — but what if this other girl was just as fit, or fitter? She could have been training for three months. Three years.

‘Please… ‘ She put her hand on Mr Browne’s hand.

‘Nervous?’ he asked.

‘I’m dead scared,’ she breathed. ‘What if I lose… ?’

‘If you lose you’ll be handed over to Mr Finford for two days. You know that, Pammy dear. And to whoever else he wants to have some fun with you as well. That’s the rule of the sport.’ Mr Browne’s hand was pushing more insistently up between her legs. ‘But you’re not going to lose. You’ll be too much for Mr Finford’s whippet. So I shall have her. Now let me… do something about all that nervous tension… that excess adrenalin…’

The driver was Mr Jenks and there was a glass partition separating them from him. Would Mr Jenks be watching the race? As she had to ‘present’ at the beginning, and at the other times? Mr Jenks had seen her a ready, seen everything, done just about everything in that dreadful gym. But the others. Mr Finford and whoever else had been invited, to see Mr Browne’s new whippet’s first race. Pamela Marton made a strangled sort of sound. She had better tell Mr Browne she was going to be sick. Mr Browne whose hand was now…

It was the same place as before: that splendid country house secluded in its equally splendid grounds deep in the heart of leafy Sussex. Pam was still feeling sick as Mr Jenks drove them in through the gates but somehow she hadn’t actually reached the critical point as regards throwing up. Mr Browne had stopped what he had been doing and he had brought her to the critical point as regards that. He seemed to treat it as a purely functional thing: bringing her off in order to relieve excessive over-excitement. But then there were big stakes involved. Not so much his £100 as the possibility of having his whippet — and his Personal Secretary — abused and humiliated by his opponent. Rather than having the sweet pleasure of enjoying (and humiliating) his opponent’s whippet. Oh yes, Vincent Browne was feeling a certain tension himself. Pamela was untried, a virgin whippet. Jenks said she was good, but if she had an attack of nerves say?

The other girl was called Marcia. A pretty brunette with a glossy ponytail tied back in a pink ribbon, she was a couple of inches shorter than Pam who stood 5’7” in her trainers. The two girls greeted each other with wan smiles. Marcia had raced before a couple of times so was not a virgin whippet like Pam. Marcia was seen to have a full, luxuriant bush of pubic hair when, in the drawing room this time rather than outside as before, the girls were told to take off their coats. But of course shaving off of pussy hair was only a recent development; this intact luxuriant bush was not necessarily an indication that Marcia was an undefeated whippet, although she had in fact won both of those earlier races.

‘She’ll look really cute without this,’ Vincent Browne joked, cupping his hand over it.

Someone else said, ‘Your girl would look rather cute too, Vincent.’ And another added, ‘Why don’t we shave both of them before the race. I mean less wind resistance and all that.’

It was only a joke, there was no chance of either Mr Browne or Mr Finford countenancing that. There were four or five other men here in the drawing room sipping drinks, all looking with keen interest at the two girls who were now nude apart from the blouses and socks and trainers. Mr Jenks was not one of them, not invited into the drawing room, but Pam was too traumatised standing there with nothing on in front of all these men to notice. She could just about take in that her opponent, in a pink blouse matching her hair ribbon, was well rounded with a fuller bottom and larger tits than herself. Stronger, fitter perhaps? And she had won two races. Oh dear God, I’m going to lose, jangled around in her head. But for the moment there was the more immediate trauma of this man, Mr Finford, with his tape measure. Putting it — and his hands — everywhere. Because he was free to take however many, and whatever measurements he liked. I am going to be sick, she told herself, for the umpteenth time today.

Outside at least there was the fresh air. It was a cool day, overcast, and the girls for the moment had their coats draped round them again. Mr Jenks has reappeared when they came out of the drawing room and suggested, in view of the cool weather, a preliminary warming up. So under her coat Pam was at least warm, sweating just a little — but perhaps from fright as much as the running on the spot and jumping up and down performed in the conservatory. The coats now had to come off again. Everything was ready. And now came that sickening business that as much as anything had been giving Pamela nightmares. ‘Presenting.’

Try and think it’s not real, it’s only a bad dream, she told herself. It was not really happening. As with Marcia she had to get down on hands and knees on the grass. ‘Get those bottoms up some more,’ someone said. It’s not happening. Pam tried frantically to repeat to herself. But somehow it was no good. She knew it was happening. She was kneeling here in front of these awful men, her knees apart and her bottom thrust out. With a little later Mr Finford stroking and fondling her bare bottom — as Mr Browne was also doing to Marcia. Mr Finford’s hand slid down… between her legs… to fondle her there… This went on… for an eternity? while the others shouted out things. Until at last the man with the pistol barked, ‘Are you both ready then?’ And seconds later the explosion was reverberating in her ears.

Split seconds for it to get through to her, and Pam was springing forward. Running for her life, gasping in lungfuls of air. Marcia at her side doing the same. Their faces straining as bare legs came up and down. Behind them bare bottoms wobbling muscularly with intense effort. The men’s shouts ringing in their ears. Four times out to the big cedar and back, and at each return they must get down on hands and knees to ‘present’ before setting off once more. If this was not performed properly the whippet could be called back, or disqualified.

At the first return ‘present’ they were together. But by the second Pam was some yards ahead. Further by the third, her lungs were bursting, her head spinning from the effort, but she forced herself to do a proper ‘present’, fearful that she could be disqualified. No, it was all right as she set off again. She was going to win. If her desperate legs could carry her this last 200 metres. Somehow they did. Pam finished a good half minute before Marcia.

Her lungs were searing, as if a sharp knife was in there somewhere. But she had won. ‘Present’, someone shouted. Almost gratefully Pam got down on hands and knees once more, gasping for air. ‘Get it stuck out,’ a voice rapped. Yes, she had won.

Marcia was in tears. Sobbing. The superhuman effort she had made was to no avail. And now… the reward for losing. Hands were grabbing her. Lifting her up, carrying her over to the garden seat. It was Mr Browne who had the cane of course, an exultant look on his face. Pamela for the moment was forgotten. Except by Mr Jenks. ‘Not bad,’ he murmured. His hand came round Pam as she stood with her head going round and round. She felt a bit like crying herself. Mr Jenks’s hand slid down to her quivering, sweat-slick bottom. Over at the garden seat there were desperate yells from Marcia.

But now Mr Finford had a new girl. She was a new girl, Mr Browne had heard on the grapevine. She was likely to be anyway, Mr Finford would not want to race that Marcia again, not now she had been shaved; but Mr Browne had had it confirmed. New and an unknown quantity. And with the way Mr Finford had sounded in his challenge he was feeling very confident.

Oh dear God…

Discreet enquiries were made but to no avail. The rival camp had put down a tight security screen. Not that it would make any difference: the challenge had been accepted and Pam would have to race her even if she was an England track champion. It would be better to know, though. Or would it?

Mr Jenks said, ‘She won’t be that good.’ But he didn’t sound too convincing. The truth was he didn’t know. All he could do was get Pamela into lung-searing, peak condition. And hope…

This race, for a change, would be held in the Ministry building. There was a long straight corridor, some 80 metres in length and quite wide so that with its fire-doors fixed open two whippets could race along it without obstruction. There would be ten times up and down so the total distance would be something like a mile. And there would be all those ‘presents’, one at each return, a total of 11. That alone would make it a whole lot worse than before.

‘It’s all good harmless fun,’ Mr Browne told Pam in his office the day before the race. ‘But you’d better make sure you win, hadn’t you?’

How could she make sure? Pam was going up the wall, out of her mind. ‘Jenks says he’s got you in excellent shape,’ he added.

Mr Jenks had been killing her with his training schedule. Long killing runs in the early morning streets and then back to his house to do further desperate things to Pam’s exhausted body. Flexibility and stretching exercises when her nude form would be pulled and stretched into impossible contortions. More running on the spot or upside down on the floor cycling her legs in the air. And after all that Mr Jenks would get Pam up on the massage table.

To finish up Mr Jenks wanted to screw her. It was much the best way to finish off a hard exercise session, he told her. All top girl athletes had it done to them by their trainers: it provided natural relaxation for the muscles. At first Pam wouldn’t agree to it. Whether what he was saying was true or not. Mr Jenks tried to persuade her but didn’t actually insist. But he kept up the pressure, after each daily session. It would provide that extra little benefit to her training session. And finally, with the thought and fear of this unknown opponent looming ever larger in her mind…

Did Mr Browne know? Would he approve of Mr Jenks doing… that thing? But of course if she lost the race there wouldn’t just be Mr Jenks. Mr Finford could pass her round to a hundred of his friends… and she was going to lose, she knew she was.

Unfortunately this time Pam’s fears were well founded. Mr Finford was not going to be beaten a third time; not if he could avoid it. So he had done exactly what had been feared: sent his contacts out searching for a girl who was a bona fide club runner who could be recruited as a Clerical Officer or similar in his Department. For the right girl certain extra and quite illegal payments could be offered and she could also be promised plenty of time off for training. They had found someone. Her name was Lisa Carberry.

Of course this Lisa was not told about whippet racing until she was properly recruited as a C.O. and had signed the Official Secrets Act etc. Only then was it explained that there was this little sporting sideline which Lisa was expected to participate in; and with the various things she had signed she had better kept quiet about it and toe the line. There was no problem, she was assured: this girl she was to race was not a proper runner and Lisa would have no trouble beating her if she was in reasonable shape. This girl of Mr Browne’s called Pamela Marton.

They assembled in the Ministry building on Sunday morning, a time when it would be otherwise deserted. Pam, as nervous as a cat, in her Cambridge blue blouse and this new girl in the pink of Mr Finford. She looked nervous too, the newcomer, as perhaps might be expected. She also looked lean and fit: a blonde as tall as Pam but with a slim and muscular body. A true racing whippet in fact. As in both her other races Pam felt sick, but there was this time the feeling that now she had reason to feel sick. This time it was going to happen. She was going to lose.

It was a feeling that Mr Browne and Mr Jenks shared (the feeling that their whippet was going to lose, they weren’t necessarily feeling sick about it). They didn’t give voice to their fear, they made confident noises, but looking at Lisa you got the impression that here was a pretty good runner. And Pamela, in spite of being in her very best shape, in spite of all those early morning runs and what subsequently took place in Mr Jenks’s gym, was probably going to come off second best.

And that was what happened. Pam was behind after the first leg. After that she simply fell further and further behind. Lisa Carberry was much too good for her. Pam was sobbing when it was at last over, as she stumbled down into the final ‘present’ position. Yes, the unthinkable had happened.

Exultant faces as eager hands grabbed her, pulling her to her feet. She glimpsed Mr Browne wryly shaking his head… and then Pam was being lifted off the ground, hands holding her legs and arms, carrying her spread-eagled into an adjoining room.

Vincent Browne had to follow of course. He had to go in and watch and take it like a gentleman. Poor Pam. They had her over a table now. Her upper body spread face-down over the top of a table and her ripe rump jutting nicely over the edge. It would be a caning first. A losing whippet always got a caning first. There were plenty of willing helpers: one holding Pam’s arms outstretched across the table top, while another was arranging her legs. Placing her feet wide apart and away from the table. Mr Finford himself had the cane in his hand and a look of supreme satisfaction on his face, as if he had just won the Derby perhaps. And why not? He had twice suffered humiliating defeat by this girl and revenge was going to be indescribably sweet.

A glance flashed over at Vincent Browne and he aimed the cane and brought it zipping down. A staccato CRACK!, as whippy bamboo sank into bare, flinching flesh. An agonized shriek from the spread-legged girl. Vincent Browne’s eyes rounded slightly. Poor Pamela. Her stricken bottom jerking desperately; the rest of her was held firmly in place with hands at wrists and ankles. The cane arced up again and down, gathering momentum. To come once more to that shudderingly abrupt halt, momentarily sinking in. Vincent Browne’s eyebrows arching up again as Pam’s shriek reverberated round the office.

He turned slightly, not away as if he couldn’t bear to see what was happening, but to the side. Stepping over to where with a stunned expression the winning whippet was standing. it was her first race of course and this aftermath naturally brought a girl’s heart up into her mouth when seen for the first time. It was bad enough that it was happening to her opponent — but there was the even more heart-stopping thought that it could easily be herself over that table. If not now then next time?

‘Not a good idea to lose, is it, my dear?’ Mr Browne urbanely observed.

The girl shook her head. He smiled, as a third CRACK! sang out from the direction of Pam’s defenceless bottom. He patted Lisa’s bare flank. ‘But next time, my dear, I expect it to be you over the table. Do you think perhaps you’ll make more noise than my Pamela?’

Lisa didn’t answer. There was instead another shrill cry from Pam as Mr Finford’s cane once more sliced down.

When he had finished it was of course the turn of the others present. Custom dictated that all spectators were given a turn and George Finford was not about to deny them this. First of all he handed the cane to Vincent Browne, as in the earlier encounters Mr Browne had handed it to him. The loser’s owner had to demonstrate what he was made of, show that he could accept the misfortune of losing. Vincent Browne naturally was equal to this test.

A zippy cracker of a shot across the full curve of Pam’s now desperate nates, decorated as they were with half a dozen bright pink stripes. As she screamed out and renewed her frantic writhing and jerking he carefully placed a second virtually on top of the line of the first. More urgent squeals. Mr Browne smiled gently at his opponent. ‘Shall I give her a third for luck?’

He did… and then it was time for the others. Five other gentlemen in turn and then the two trainers who were both present: Lisa’s trainer and finally Arthur Jenks. That was it. Or rather that was it for this first round of caning. There were of course other matters, other possibilities. The suggestion that Pam be shaved there and then, for one. At least one gentleman it seemed had had the foresight to bring shaving soap and razor in anticipation of this. There were naturally other ideas too. One in particular.

Mr Finford smiled. He would he said follow the excellent example set previously by his opponent. He thought that had struck a fair and generous balance for all concerned. (Though he might not have thought so at the time.) So Pam would not be shaved here, in public. ‘That is really something a man likes to keep for himself,’ he told them. ‘But… ah…’ Yes. As regards that other item that several were clamouring for, he would follow Mr Browne in that. Two of them, and lots would be drawn as before.

The room next door. The lucky gentleman, the first winner, called Mr Lanman, closed the door after them. Grinned at Pam. ‘Sting still, does it?’ Pam’s bottom and the backs of her thighs were freely decorated with darkening red stripes, each one humming like a little furnace, but it wasn’t that which concerned her now. She glanced quickly round the room. A desk and a side table. Chairs. And of course the carpet. ‘Please…’ she whispered.

Mr Lanman, closing in, slid his hand over Pam’s humming backside. ‘I’ve got just the antidote for a sore bum on a girl. Something to make her forget all about it. Come on. Let’s have you up on the table.’

Pam squealed ‘No!’ but of course that wasn’t going to help. She was in here for that very purpose; and perhaps she should think herself lucky that it wasn’t going to be done in front of all the others — or that all the others weren’t going to do it as well. It would only be Mr Lanman and then the other one, Mr Parsing. That was all. That was all…

‘No… please…’ Pam gasped again but Mr Lanman was helping her up on the table. On her back with her hips at the edge. Her thighs parted. Mr Lanman’s hand stroking her exposed and opened pussy. ‘I hope I’ll get a look at it when it’s been shaved,’ he laughed. And then it wasn’t Mr Lanman’s hand there. Something else. Pam tried to close her mind, shutting her eyes. As she had done when Mr Jenks had done this same thing. In order, he had claimed, to produce that extra little fraction of fitness. It hadn’t done that of course, or certainly not to make any impression on that super-fast Lisa. But then Pam had known that Mr Jenks was really only doing it for his own pleasure. As without doubt Mr Lanman was now. His hands underneath her hot buttocks and thrusting right in, right up, and then… in again. And when he had finished there would be Mr Parsing. And after that…

ON YOUR BIKE!

‘What we need,’ pronounced George Finford, ‘is more variety of competition. Different sorts of whippet races. Different contests.’

They are in a secluded corner of their club smoking room: George and Vincent Browne and three or four other whippet fanciers. It is here that they usually assemble on Thursday nights to have a convivial drink or two while discussing whippets, considering challenges, etc. Thursday night is Whippet Night.

‘What sort of contest?’ asks Vincent Browne putting down his glass. ‘What’s wrong with whippet racing as we know it?’

It is a week after Pamela’s devastating defeat by Lisa Carberry. Mr Browne’s lovely Personal Secretary has been returned to him now: all in one piece as it were but in a somewhat shell-shocked state. A certain part of Pam’s anatomy has been shaved clean so strictly speaking perhaps she is not all in one piece. Poor Pamela!

‘Nothing wrong with whippet racing,’ says George. ‘Nothing at all. It’s just, well, one could think of other contests that would be equally enjoyable. How’s that girl of yours? Pamela. A lovely girl; a real peach. Going to be racing her again? I should have put a return clause in the challenge.’

Vincent Browne produces a little smile. There is a dig here of course, a reminder that George Finford has enjoyed Pamela, and no doubt allowed a number of his friends to enjoy her too. Vincent Browne does not wish to be reminded of that, or of his defeat. Poor Pamela is still going round like a zombie. He hasn’t enquired beyond a general query whether she was OK, he doesn’t want to know the details, but Pam would have got the full treatment in her 48 hours with George Finford. It wasn’t surprising she didn’t have a lot to say for herself at the moment.

‘We could have losers’ contests,’ suggested Clive Lanman. ‘All whippets who’ve lost during a certain period — three months or six months or whatever — are raced together. They all have to be freshly shaved before the race. We could make a thing of the shaving. A proper ritual. Bring in a barber to do it and have them upside down in a chair one by one. They wouldn’t like that, not with a crowd of chaps watching. Then the winner of the race gets let off but the others have to go through it all again a week later say. Shaving them again to take off any fuzz that’s grown in the meantime. And so on.’

Hmmm. Clive Lanman’s proposal is applauded by one or two but not all. It is pleasant enough to think of other people’s girls in this contest but not necessarily one’s own. ‘Shaving’s not everything,’ declares Vincent Browne. ‘It seems to me to be becoming something of a fixation.’ He is thinking of his own unhappily denuded Pam. At the moment there is an unsightly scant fuzz, rather like a two-day growth of beard on a man’s face. It will be weeks before she has grown a proper bush again.

‘What about cycle racing?’ suggests Henry Parsing. ‘With no knickers and riding on those hard little racing saddles — which are generously coated with, say, vaseline.’

The others consider this new idea, picturing in their heads what Henry has come up with. ‘Those really narrow racing saddles?’ echoes George Finford. ‘All slippery and greasy. So that…’

It is an idea all right. But where would they race? And how would the observer observe the no doubt splendid action if the bare-crotched whippets merely cycle off into the distance?

‘Exercise bikes!’ says Henry Parsing extending his original idea. ‘But with those racing saddles of course. Exercise bikes with the handlebars really low down and the saddles as high as they’ll go.’

Oh yes, this is more like it. That way the competing whippets will be ‘presenting’ throughout the contest… while balancing their essential parts on those narrow, greased-up, leather pommels. ‘Marvellous! But what exactly is the contest?’ queries someone. Is it possible to have a race on stationary bikes? Yes. Or a contest at least. ‘They have to keep the things going at a certain speed,’ Henry says. ‘On the dial. Then it’s stamina: the loser is the first to drop out or slow down.’

‘Because she’s whacked out or because she’s come,’ laughs George, picturing the scene. ‘Have you seen some of those racing saddles? Well greased up it’ll work its way right inside a girl.’

Oh yes, this idea of Henry’s is quite splendid. Even those not keen on change accept it as a stunning innovation. A first contest then. And Lisa Carberry, the present champion whippet, will she be the one to take someone on?

‘Certainly,’ agreed George Finford who was the one originally suggesting the possibility of change. ‘Yes, she’ll go. And what about that Pamela, Vincent? Are you prepared to put her on one of these bikes?’

Vincent Browne isn’t. Pam requires a little rest and recuperation. ‘The trauma of defeat,’ he says. It is more correctly the trauma of what was done to her afterwards, by George Finford and others, but a man doesn’t like to say that. There is also the fact of her present non-existent bush to remind everyone of that defeat. No, Pamela certainly needs to be rested. But anyway Henry Parsing, originator of this new sport, says he has a girl he will put up. ‘And that girl of yours may not be so hot on a bike,’ he tells George Finford. ‘Have you thought of that?’

No. Mr Finford, still flushed with his victory, has not thought of this, but it is true. Runners are not necessarily great bike riders; it is a different sport with different demands. Not least in this particular case the demands of coping with that hard leather object pressing insistently on — and inside — girl’s most intimate particulars.

This is certainly the line Lisa Carberry takes when informed of what she is now in for. (Informed of the bikes but not yet of the added hazard of the saddles.) ‘I can’t race on a bike. No way. I can hardly ride a bike.’

There is of course no problem with riding an exercise bike; one does not have to balance it. But nonetheless… ‘Don’t be silly, Lisa.’ Mr Finford gives Lisa’s arm a sharp pinch. ‘Of course you can. And you’re such a fit athlete, you’ll have no trouble with this girl, whoever she is.’

They are in Mr Finford’s office which, like that of Vincent Browne, is a most splendid room, as befits a very senior civil servant. There is among other items a splendidly large teak desk. Mr Finford glances at this thoughtfully. ‘Clear those things off, will you, Lisa.’ He himself goes over to the door beyond which, in his outer office, sits his Personal Secretary, a pretty girl called Jane who always resolutely denies any sporting ability whatsoever. Mr Finford tells her that he does not wish to be disturbed for the moment. And closes the door again.

Lisa, not too sure what is required, has piled papers up at one end of the desk. Mr Finford looks. ‘I want that end quite clear, Lisa. Then I want you up on it. We’ll have a look at your style. Get your skirt and your knickers off and then get up there on your back. Cycling your legs. Let’s see how you shape up.’

TRIAL RUNS

‘Are you any good on a bike?’ Mr Browne asks Pam, rather out of the blue.

She blinks. They are in his office, a week after that dreadful Sunday. Vincent Browne’s meaning is perhaps not crystal clear. ‘I mean are you a cyclist, Pammy. Would you be any good in a cycle race?’

This time Pamela vigorously shakes her head. It is partly a reflex reaction, to the word ‘race’. Any sort of race can only mean more of what she went through starting on that awful Sunday — and of course in this Pam is pretty much correct. Mr Browne goes on to explain. The new exercise bike contests, the first of which is scheduled to be held next weekend.

‘But they’re special bikes,’ he tells her. ‘Or rather there are these special saddles. Have you seen the saddles on men’s racing cycles? Hard leather and very narrow. Certainly not intended as a comfortable seat. But now they’re talking of cutting the saddles away to make them even narrower. And naturally the whippets won’t be wearing anything. Not where it counts at least. Just the blouse and trainers as in the regular races.’

Pam has gradually got a picture of what Mr Browne is talking about, and her face has gone distinctly pale. How can they think up these dreadful things?

‘Would you like to have a go?’ Mr Browne asks. ‘I mean in a couple of weeks. When your whatsit’s grown out a bit.’

‘No!’ she squeals. The possibility of being made to race again has been in and out of Pam’s mind ever since getting back from Mr Finford. The thought is too horrendous to even contemplate — though if Mr Browne were to say she had to… And now this cycling thing that sounds a whole lot worse — if that is possible.

‘There was a suggestion of all losing whippets racing together,’ Mr Browne says. ‘In the normal sort of whippet race. All freshly shaved was the idea. I was not too keen on that — and rather felt you would not be either, Pam.’

Mr Browne pats Pam’s bottom. She is standing close at the side of his desk, where she has been told to stand. ‘I was right about that, wasn’t I?’

‘Yes,’ comes stutteringly out from the soft ripe lips. Pam has that nauseous feeling in her stomach again.

‘Yes. But this other thing should be an amusing diversion. I’m sure you could handle it. And quite possibly that girl of George Finford’s won’t be nearly so hot on a bicycle.’

Pam protests again, her voice a little frantic. Mr Browne pinches her bottom. It won’t be right away, he says. Lisa is having the first race at the weekend against a girl of Mr Parsing, but after that he, Mr Browne, rather fancies challenging the winner. ‘You’ll be looking presentable again by that time, Pam.’

Pamela knows what her boss means but she would rather not think about it. She doesn’t want to think about any of this dreadful whippet business. She has done two awful races for Mr Browne and in that last one suffered the very worst consequences. Can’t he… please… find another girl?

Vincent Browne doesn’t want to hear this almost tearful pleading. ‘Don’t be silly. Mr Jenks will get you in proper shape on one of these bikes. I’m quite sure you’ll beat whoever it is. Now let me have a look. Slip your knickers down. Let me see if it’s sprouting out again. Come on. Slip them down… and get your skirt up.’

----//----

Lisa has by now learnt the full awfulness of what is involved. Her trainer, Mr Radway, already had an exercise bike in the room he uses as a gym and he has fitted it with a saddle of the approved type. Also as advised by Mr Finford he has dropped the handlebars as far as they will go and likewise raised the saddle. To complete the simulation of race conditions the saddle is liberally greased with vaseline. Mr Finford is naturally present to observe the first test run.

Lisa coming in from the little changing room is wearing a running top and shorts, the outfit she normally trains in. Mr Finford is quick to point out that in the contest the competing whippets will be wearing their usual racing rig: i.e., they will be nude below the waist.

‘Withstanding the… ah… inevitable stimulation and keeping going nonetheless will of course be half the battle. So… ah… we shall need to reproduce those conditions in training. Otherwise it will come as a big shock and you’ll be beaten before you start.’

It certainly comes as a big shock to Lisa now as she sees for the first time this saddle: its size and shape and moreover the fact that it is smeared with grease. Mr Finford has not earlier mentioned any details beyond the general fact of an exercise bike. Her face has flushed bright red. She glances horror-struck from the saddle to the two watching men. Is it some kind of joke? She shakes her head.

Mr Finford brusquely tells her to get started. Get her shorts and knickers off and get on the bike. ‘You don’t want to lose, do you, Lisa?’ Mr Radway adds, ‘This girl of Mr Parsing, she may be red hot on a bike.’

The thought of getting on that narrow greasy saddle with nothing on and in front of the two men is quite sickening — but so is the thought of losing a whippet race, for Lisa now has a pretty good idea of what happens to losers. She forces herself to slide down the running shorts… and then the little athletic briefs underneath. She looks again at the truly dreadful prospect. She can’t get on it. But…

Mr Finford’s hand snakes out and sharply smacks her bare bottom. ‘Get on it, Lisa.’

Lisa does: or at least gets astride with her feet on the pedals. But she is standing on them, unable to let that thing touch…

‘Sit on it, Miss. And start pedalling. Good gracious! Do you want me to fetch a cane?’

Finally persuaded by Mr Finford’s exasperation, Lisa does it. Lowers herself the few inches necessary for the fulcrum of her thighs to come into contact with the dreadful saddle. An involuntary squeal. As her weight comes down the greased leather simply slides into her. Her outer lips are pushed apart and all that super-sensitive business inside is there in mind-boggling intimate contact with the slippery saddle. She gives another gurgling squeal.

‘Pedal, Miss,’ Mr Finford urges. ‘Hard!’

Oh God! Each turn of the pedals serves to thrust her into even more intimate contact with the saddle. It is like… It is like nothing else Lisa has ever experienced. It is mortifying… yet highly stimulating at the same time She groans again above the now purring bicycle gear. Lisa has got it rolling, her thighs pumping, her nude buttocks tightening and relaxing. While all the time…

The two men are standing close at the rear, with a full view of the intimate action. The way the handlebars and saddle are set Lisa’s body is at the angle of a racing cyclist going full pelt: head down, bottom right up. From behind there is indeed a very splendid view.

‘How does it feel?’ queries George Finford. ‘Nice?’

Lisa has no answer. Only a gurgling, gasping sound.

He comes round to the side. ‘Stop a moment.’ Mr Finford’s hand comes out onto her thrusting thigh which gradually slows to a stop. Lisa is bright red in the face and it is not only due to the muscular effort.

‘How is it?’ her boss asks. ‘Is it going to make you come?’

Lisa bites her lip. Her breathing is agitated. ‘P… Probably,’ she mutters.

‘Well if you do you just keep going. Keep pedalling no matter what. OK?’

Lisa gives him a despairing look. Mr Finford grins. ‘Just think what a lucky girl you are. If it gets out about these things every woman will want ones Those saddles have got to be the greatest thing since vibrators were invented.’

He smacks her bottom. ‘Now get going. A nice long run this time. With lots of effort. And remember what I said.’

Lisa comes, she can’t stop herself, after three or four minutes. When it happens it is unmistakeable: the frantic gasps, the high-pitched squeal. George Finford winks at his trainer. Lisa’s legs falter for just a moment but at Mr Radway’s barked command she keeps them going. Somehow.

A couple of minutes later she comes again. A girl who is being highly stimulated, especially a fit girl, can just keep coming. And of course if the stimulation is intense enough she has no control over it. It just happens. But each succeeding orgasm takes its toll, together of course with the enforced physical effort. The pedalling is becoming more ragged. The despairing gasps and cries are now coming all the time. When Lisa has a fourth orgasm she simply collapses. She can’t go on. She is weeping. The agitated gasps are coming out as sobs.

Mr Radway looks at his watch. Lisa has been riding the bike for barely 10 minutes. Mr Finford shakes his head. ‘We’ll have to do better than this, Lisa. You’re too responsive. Too hot. That other girl can probably keep it up for an hour.’

DOUBLE DEFEAT

At this same time that Lisa is getting her introduction, or the next day to be precise, Pamela Marton is also being introduced to a very similar bicycle. A very similar experience with, for Pam, Mr Browne and Mr Jenks keenly watching. A quite unthinkably awful experience. Pamela doesn’t last as long as Lisa before she collapses face-down on the handlebars. Shattered. Sobbing. She has come a couple of times.

‘She’s clearly going to need some work at this,’ Jenks tells Mr Browne. That gentleman can only agree. It has been quite amazing to watch Pam on the exercise bike, squealing out from the very beginning and with the nude ripe cheeks of her bottom wobbling meatily as her crotch pivots on the greased support. It is simply an amazing sight. As for what it must feel like — well, a man’s mind cannot attempt to imagine it. No doubt, though, with practice she will get more accustomed to it, become less super-sensitive. Pam has lasted less than 10 minutes; Vincent Browne can easily see that Lisa, with training at least, going on for hours.

He smacks the shivering bottom of his exhausted whippet. ‘Yes, she’ll need lots of practice.’ Another crisp smack. ‘You don’t want to lose again, do you, dear?’

With that nasty little reminder Mr Browne departs. Pam is left in the care of Jenks. Arthur Jenks looks thoughtful. Is Pamela perhaps extra sensitive, or is that simply the way any girl is going to react? Including that Lisa. Undoubtedly Mr Browne will not wish to lose again, and it would reflect on him, Jenks. He is just going to have to work Pam to a frazzle. If he keeps her on the bike, makes her keep pedalling… she is bound to reach a point when she no longer keeps coming. Except that she may be so whacked out by that point that she can’t keep up the pedalling anyway. No, she will have to.

First of all though… Arthur Jenks fancies some other form of training for his charge at this point. In a way not completely dissimilar to the session she has just been forced to experience. That tension relieving treatment. It could be argued of course that this is the last thing Pam needs. She has just come two or three times on the bike. But Arthur Jenks is not going to argue that way. The truth is that Pam’s performance astride the greasy saddle has got him going. And a trainer cannot operate at his best if he is feeling tense, over stimulated.

----//----

While Lisa and Pam were getting their introductions to the delights of this new sport so also was Mr Parsing’s girl Charlotte. Charlotte was a sports player — hockey, tennis etc — who also was no stranger to bike riding. This fact had been vaguely in Henry Parsing’s mind when he had initially suggested cycle racing. Charlotte had on occasion ridden a man’s racing bike with one of those saddles that tend to make a girl gasp when she sits on it — though she had naturally not sat on one before with nothing between it and her most intimate person. Nor indeed one which had been liberally coated with vaseline for the express purpose of providing an even more intimate contact.

Mr Parsing had been considering racing Charlotte, a tallish and shapely blonde, in a regular whippet race. Not perhaps against George Finford’s Lisa — Charlotte was athletic and fit and could no doubt be got fitter but she was not going to beat a proper runner in a running race — but there were other girls he could run her against with a good chance of success. But now there was this other contest Charlotte could very well have the edge on anyone.

Charlotte did not like the vaseline saddle and having to get astride it bare bottomed any more than did Lisa and Pam. But echoing Messrs Finford and Browne, Mr Parsing told his girl to get on it and stop arguing. And she had better get used to it because she was going to be in this contest and for her own good it behoved her to make sure she won. ‘How do you feel?’ queried Henry Parsing again echoing those other two gentlemen.

He got the same sort of answer, that is initially no answer except a spluttering, gasping sound of shocked feminine sensitivity. ‘Just remember it’s the same for both of you,’ he counselled. ‘All you have to do is stand it better than the other girl.’

That was all. And that was what Charlotte did. Withstood the diabolical saddle — which seemed intent on getting as far up inside you as was humanly possible — better than Lisa who, in spite of being kept on the exercise bike for long hours of training, never came to terms with the saddle’s mind-boggling presence. In the contest before a select group of whippet fanciers Charlotte was still in good shape and able to continue when Lisa was shattered and finished. Poor Lisa.

And then, a week later, it was poor Pam too. Pamela also had been kept on her bike for what seemed like 24 hours a day. Again to no avail. Having watched the new star Charlotte, Mr Browne and Mr Jenks knew without much doubt what was going to happen. They shook their heads philosophically. You can’t win them all. They of course continued making encouraging sounds to Pam. Keep at it. Keep working. ‘You are improving.’ No she wasn’t. Pam knew that. In the actual contest, in front of all the men, it was a lot worse even than in Mr Jenks’ gym. Pam didn’t last any time at all.

Vincent Browne was a man who could take defeat, though, as he had already proved. He bore it stoically and urbanely as the others, with excited shouts, proceeded to do what you did do to a losing whippet.