The Misadventures of Miss Cherri Bottom – Episode One

From Februs 16, the first episode of a serial by Anthony Vallance beautifully illustrated by Paula Meadows

Cherri sat on the edge of her chair as her new employer, Mr Victor J. Smedley, pored over her references and papers. His gruff, self-made features showed no signs of being impressed, the stony expression on his face was pure Yorkshire granite. Finally he looked up, thick grey eyebrows gathered up on his furrowed brow. ‘Book learning,’ he stated, his voice nothing but contempt.

‘But I graduated first on my course,’ Cherri started to explain, suddenly hurt that her achievements were being dismissed so lightly.

‘Aye, that’s right, you came top in your class, so you’re good at book learning,’ he conceded, ‘but it’s books all the same.’

‘Yes, Mr Smedley,’ she agreed, sighing resignedly.

‘When I were a lad,’ Mr Smedley told her, standing up and walking over to the window, ‘things were different.’

‘Yes, Mr Smedley,’ Cherri murmured softly.

‘There were no book learning for us then,’ he continued, arms behind his back, chin jutting forward. ‘If you wanted t’work on papers you started at the bottom and worked your way up. Making tea and delivering the post was ‘ow I start-ed… Aye, those were the days, down in t’mail room where Mrs Slocombe ruled wi’ a rod of iron. Any lip from us and it’d be trousers down and six strokes of the tawse…,’ he continued wistfully, staring into the past sadly.

‘Oh,’ Cherri exclaimed, ‘what’s a tawse?’

Mr Smedley seemed suddenly to wake up. ‘A tawse, lass? Why it’s a… it’s an old printing term, not something you’d learn from your books.’

‘And why was it stroked on you?’

Mr Smedley sighed once more. ‘It’s the old ways, Miss Bottom,’ he explained. ‘Think of it as like an initiation ceremony, the print world’s still good at those. Aye, things were different in the old days. Well, lass, here at the Courier I still like to do things in the old way,’ he told her. ‘And that means my staff start at t’bottom, Miss… er… Bottom.’

‘I understand,’ she agreed readily.

‘Do you know what the key to a successful paper is?’

‘Accurate reporting?’ she guessed.

He shook his head sadly. ‘No, lass, it’s good distribution. If t’paper don’t get out the door who’s going to read it? And if a paper’s got no readers then it’s going to have nowt advertising.’

She nodded. ‘I see what you mean, Mr Smedley, I hadn’t thought of that.’

There was a momentary softening of his features. ‘Happen you didn’t, lass.’

‘I’m sure you’re right, Mr Smedley,’ she agreed brightly, ‘which is why I’m so keen to learn everything you can teach me.’

‘Right, lass, distribution’s the thing. I want you t’go downstairs and have a chat with Albie, our distribution manager, he’ll sort you out.’

Cherri smiled her thanks. ‘I won’t disappoint you, Mr Smedley,’ she promised, ‘I’m going to prove to you just what an asset I can be to the Courier.’

‘Aye, I’ll say you will, lass,’ Mr Smedley murmured, ‘but just remember, Miss Bottom, that you’ve got a long way to go.’

----//----

Albie was a cheery, red-faced cockney who regaled Cherri with endless stories and anecdotes about life on Fleet Street, and then lapsed into sentimental nostalgia about the death of the old ways and the horrors of new technology. Between telling his stories he explained in detail the distribution network, the circulation wars with the local free sheets and other matters dear to his heart. He spoke at ten to the dozen and it was hard for Cherri to keep up, especially as he often interspersed his comments to her with barked orders to his distribution staff.

Albie’s idea was for Cherri to go out the next morning – very early the next morning – to see how the Courier was distributed. Cherri agreed readily, excited by the opportunity to do her best. Dress smart but practical was what she had been told – so at the crack of dawn the next morning she was ready. Smart but practical meant a short black skirt, a white blouse and smart black jacket and matching high heels. Cherri looked at herself in the mirror as she applied glossy scarlet lipstick to her mouth. The black jacket and skirt perfectly offset her shoulder-length blonde hair, and the glossy lipstick added an air of smart sophistication – she hoped.

Arriving at the print works almost caused a minor riot as the drivers and printers scurried around to get a good look at her. Albie was furious and called her into his office immediately.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he demanded, slamming the door behind her.

‘Sorry?’ she asked brightly, unable to understand why he was so angry.

‘I said dress smart and practical, not dress up ready for the disco.’

Cherri giggled. ‘I’m not dressed for the disco,’ she exclaimed, beaming him a happy smile.

‘No? Well you’re not dressed to go out with one of the drivers either,’ he fumed. ‘Honestly, what do you think you’re doing?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Cherri pouted miserably.

‘That’s not good enough. I’ve a good mind to put you across my knee young lady,’ he told her darkly.

‘Why ever would you want to do that?’ she giggled.

Albie looked at her, his ruddy cheeks suddenly burning redder and his pale blue eyes widening considerably. He pulled his chair from behind the desk and plonked it down in the middle of the room. ‘There’s a time and a place for everything, young lady,’ he told her. ‘And this is the time that you learn why bad girls go across the knee.’

‘Oh,’ Cherri exclaimed, looking rather surprised by the whole thing. ‘Is this like an initiation ceremony?’

‘What?’ Albie demanded.

‘Is this what happens to all new members of staff?’

‘That’s right, girl,’ Albie assured her. ‘Now, across my lap please.’

Cherri shrugged and went across his lap, strangely excited by the odd request. She had heard that the newspaper world was the last resort of old ways of working but had never imagined this. Albie steadied her across his lap and she realised that her skirt really was too short. Her bottom was almost uncovered, and he finished the job by lifting it over her waist completely.

‘Next time you’ll do better,’ he told her sternly.

She yelped as he brought his hand down sharply on her shapely behind. The loud slap resounded around the room, followed closely by her squeal of surprise. ‘That hurts!’ she whimpered.

Albie ignored her complaint and proceeded to beat a dozen hard strokes onto her rounded bottom, infusing a warm red glow that seemed to touch her in all sorts of intimate places. His hand came down with a hard, steady rhythm that made her kick and cry each time.

‘Now then,’ he concluded, stroking her bottom cheeks with the flat of his hand as though enjoying the warmth they gave off, ‘I hope this is a lesson to you.’

‘It is,’ she assured him, sighing softly as his fingers worked across her reddened bottom cheeks.

‘Right, I’m sending you out to see Terry Baker, one of the best clients we’ve got. He’s a bit of a mean old sod,’ Albie added, ‘but you can learn a lot from Terry. There’s not a lot he doesn’t know about the sharp end, I’ll tell you that for nothing.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ Cherri assured him, smoothing her skirt down as she stood up.

‘Good, then just do as Terry tells you and you’ll get on like a house on fire,’ he said, opening the office door. ‘Dave! Dave! Take this lovely young lady out with you, drop her off at Terry Baker’s,’ Albie shouted to one of the many drivers hanging around while their vans were loaded. ‘And keep your ‘ands off ‘er you dirty sod!’

----//----

She had expected an office, or perhaps another distribution centre, anything in fact but the sad looking newsagents in front of her. The logo of the Courier was plastered above the shop, and there, in tiny print, it announced that Terry Baker was the proprietor. A newsagent. She sighed, feeling disappointed once more, and then pushed the door open and walked into the darkened shop.

‘Sorry, love, we ain’t opened yet,’ came a voice from the back of the shop.

‘Mr Baker?’ she asked, venturing further into the shop.

‘That’s right.’ Terry Baker emerged from the back of the shop and took his place behind the counter. A middle aged man, greying at the temples, tall, strong and with dark eyes that seemed to see everything with only one glance. ‘You must be the new girl at the Courier,’ he concluded.

‘Cherri Bottom,’ she announced with a bright smile.

‘Albie told me he was sending someone round this morning, though I expected some pimply youth with long hair and dirty jeans.’

‘Sorry to disappoint you,’ Cherri giggled, ‘but will I do?’

‘A pair of clean jeans and trainers wouldn’t have been amiss this morning,’ he admitted, ‘but I’m sure you can improvise.’

‘Improvise?’

Terry smiled. ‘Your Mr Smedley’s given you his welcoming talk about starting at the bottom, Miss… er… Bottom. Well this is where the bottom starts, if you see what I mean.’

Cherri shook her head. ‘I don’t understand,’ she admitted. ‘I thought I was here to learn all about the distribution of newspapers, specifically the Surrey Courier.’

‘Exactly right. Now, see those papers that Dave’s just lugged in,’ Terry pointed to a tightly-bound pile of newspapers, ‘they’ve got to be sorted for distribution. Take out twenty for display, set aside another twenty for stock and then sort the rest out for delivery. The book’s over there, it shouldn’t be too hard to get right.’

‘You mean I’ve got to sort out the newspapers for the delivery boy?’ Cherri asked, her visions of high-level distribution sinking fast.

‘That’s right. And no slip-ups mind, customers get very irate if the wrong paper lands on the doormat.’

Cherri sighed and grabbed the heavy ledger with all the newspaper delivery details and sat down to sort out the bundles of newspaper. Terry watched her for a moment as she began to sort the papers out, adding copies of the national dailies to copies of the Courier, pencilling in the addresses and then putting them to one side. She was on hands and knees and grateful that she hadn’t decided to wear stockings that morning.

After a while Terry disappeared into the back of the shop and left her to it. Her skirt had ridden up and she could feel the cool morning breeze high on her bare thighs and easing the tingle of redness where Albie had spanked her bottom. In the background she could hear Terry on the phone, arguing with suppliers and arranging deliveries, his voice growing louder with frustration as the light began to filter through so that it became recognisably morning.

Cherri was almost finished when he came back out to the front of the shop bearing a couple of mugs of hot coffee. He watched her finish off the sorting, and when she stood up she realised that her skirt had risen so high that he’d had a good view of her lacy black panties. Her face blushed a furious red as he handed her a coffee, and for a moment she hardly dared look at him.

‘I’ve got some more bad news for you,’ he told her, smiling as he watched her squirming with embarrassment.

‘What’s that?’ she asked, cupping her hands around the hot mug of coffee.

‘One of my delivery boys has gone down with the flu,’ he told her.

‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ she sighed sympathetically.

‘It is,’ he agreed, ‘because I’ve got no idea how you’re going to do his round in them stilettos.’

----//----

This really was newspaper distribution at the sharp end, Cherri thought: gates that fought back as she tried to get through, nettles in gardens that resembled Amazonian rain forests, the ever present threat of canine fangs.

‘What are you doing here?’ demanded one man as she struggled to push the newspaper through the letterbox of his house. He was a tall distinguished looking gentleman, upright in the military manner and with a voice to match.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you,’ Cherri apologised, offering him the crumpled wodge of newspaper.

 ’You’re not the normal boy,’ he announced. ‘You’re not any sort of boy in fact. What’s going on?’

‘The paper boy had the flu, Mr Baker suggested I do the round instead.’

‘Did he now, well if he can afford to have dolly birds delivering his newspapers he must be doing better than he lets on,’ the man decided.

Cherri laughed. ‘No, it’s not like that,’ she explained. ‘I actually work for the Surrey Courier, I’m doing this to find out more about our clients and readers.’

He looked distinctly suspicious. ‘You work for the Courier, you say?’

‘Yes. Mister?’

‘Mister? Major Daventry, I’ll have you know young lady. So, you work for Smedley do you?’

Cherri nodded. ‘Yes, sir, I’m a journalist in fact.’

The Major’s eyes widened. ‘Are you now’ he said, making a face. ‘Perhaps you’d care to step inside for a moment?’

Cherri looked back towards the street, she still had a few newspapers to be delivered and she didn’t want to be back too late in case Mr Baker was angry. On the other hand this was her first real Courier reader, and part of her task was to find out about them as well… The Major was waiting impatiently, she could see it in the twitch of his moustache.

‘Just for a few moments,’ she agreed.

The Major showed her into the front room, barked an order for her to wait and then disappeared. She put the sack down, glad to be relieved of the burden if only for a moment. The walls were full of faded photographs, all with a distinctly military connection: regimental photos, pictures from foreign postings, mascots, more regimental photos.

‘Well, what do you say to this?’ the Major demanded, handing over a faded copy of the Courier.

The front page had a picture of the Major’s house, with the Major himself standing in the doorway looking very angry. The headline spoke for itself: ‘Noisy Neighbour Rapped’, and the story that followed described how neighbours had signed a petition complaining about his habit of listening to marching bands at full volume early in the morning. There was even a quote of him denouncing his neighbours for being unpatriotic in not wanting to listen to the band of the Coldstream Guards at 6.00 am every morning.

‘Well?’ the Major demanded.

‘That was a tricky situation wasn’t it?’ she exclaimed innocently.

‘Tricky? There was nothing tricky about it young lady,’ he boomed indignantly. ‘And where was the Courier in all of this? Siding with those namby-pamby neighbours that’s where! Why didn’t Smedley put pen to paper and stand up for my rights as an ex-soldier to listen to the grand sound of a marching band?’

‘That’s a very good question,’ Cherri agreed, trying on a shy smile in the hope of appeasing an increasingly angry Major.

‘Good, well now that you’re here, as a representative of the Courier no less, it’s time I taught you all a lesson!’

Cherri giggled nervously. ‘What a sort of lesson?’ she asked, glancing towards the door.

‘Six of the best of course,’ he told her forthrightly. ‘Across my lap, the way it ought to be done.’

Cherri began to edge towards the door, smiling all the time in the hope that the Major wouldn’t notice. ‘Huh! Just as I thought,’ he snorted derisively. ‘No backbone, none of you. Well, you can tell Smedley that I’m finally cancelling my subscription, I’ve had enough.’

‘But… but… there’s no need to go that far,’ Cherri responded.

‘No buts young lady, an old soldier never forgets, never!’

Cherri looked towards the door and then back at the Major, now sitting on a dusty old armchair. ‘Six of the best?’ she asked softly, looking hopefully at the Major in case he suddenly relented.

‘Across the knee,’ he informed her, his voice as hard as steel.

Cherri shrugged, there was nothing else she could do. It was only her second day on the job but already she felt a sense of loyalty to her paper. She stepped towards the Major, her face reddening at the prospect of her punishment.

‘On your knees young lady,’ he snapped, barking out an order as though it were entirely natural. She obeyed and knelt down in front of him, biting her lip with apprehension. He took her by the arm and pulled her across his knees, positioning her so that her legs stuck out one way and her arms the other. Her short skirt barely concealed the firm roundness of her backside, which was positioned directly in front of him.

‘Will it hurt?’ she asked, her voice a tremor of anticipation and disquiet. Did her bottom still carry the faint redness from her earlier spanking she wondered?

‘Of course, what sort of punishment doesn’t hurt?’ he demanded. He flipped her skirt over her waist and was treated to the sight of her pretty lace panties pressed tight between her bulging bottom cheeks, the dark lace in contrast to the creamy whiteness of her skin. Her face was bright red but there was nothing she could do. Next he hooked his thumbs under her panties and pulled them down slowly, making her squeal with surprise as her bottom was exposed completely to his cool gaze.

She watched him lift his hand high, hold it there for a second and then swing it down forcefully. It landed with a loud smack and she jerked forward as the sharp pain bit into her soft skin. It hurt terribly, like a fire on her flesh. He pulled her back into place and then dealt a second stroke, attacking her left buttock to match the hard stroke on the right. It hurt just as much and she squealed again.

‘One more cry like that one and I’ll make it a dozen strokes,’ the Major warned.

‘Yes, sir,’ she whimpered, ‘I’ll do my best not to cry.’

The third stroke was as hard as the first two, she could feel the fire spreading on her behind, his fingermarks like daggers of fire. She bit her lip and smothered the cry of pain. A fourth stroke, hard and efficient, she kicked and tensed as the pain rained down. Her pussy was pressed against his knee and each time she moved or jerked forward she felt the fire spread there too. A fifth stroke, his heavy hand marking her tender flesh once more.

‘Last one,’ he promised, ‘and perhaps the Courier will think twice next time.’

‘Yes… Argh!’ Cherri screamed despite herself. The stroke landed firmly between her reddened bottom cheeks, the force of impact landing directly against the dark bud of her behind. The pain had been intense and unexpected, and now she knew it was too late.

’Another six strokes,’ the Major told her, allowing himself a smile.

Strokes seven and eight were at the top of her thighs, nine and ten directed between her thighs, the fire tonguing her pussy lips.

‘Please… please… Major anything but this…’ she begged as stroke eleven landed with a crack that made the windows shake.

‘Anything?’

‘Anything,’ she agreed.

The Major smiled and pushed her carefully off his knees, the cool floor soothed the smarting heat that had spread across her bottom cheeks, across the top of her thighs and between her pussy lips. She looked up, a faint look of surprise in her eyes as the Major began to unbutton his trousers. The hard pole that had been pushed against her side was aching to be released… She rubbed her bottom, easing the heat away as she realised that there was still so very much for her to learn.