Ballgirls — A Blushes Inside Story

With Wimbledon starting tomorrow here’s an insight from Uniform Girls 26 as to what goes into the training of the ballgirls.

Scuttling low across the court, scooping up that misplaced ball, the frown of concentration on the players’ faces impatient as they wait for the girl to clear the court. Kneeling, immobile, the ballgirl waits for her next sally onto court. Young, eager, highly trained, the ballgirls at leading tournaments have to deliver the highest standards of behaviour and performance. Practising long hours under demanding tutors, the competition is fierce for a place on court. The rewards are more prestigious than financial, the pleasure of seeing top players at close quarters during international competition deemed of higher value than mere coinage.

Occasionally, a wayward young lady requires training outside the normal parameters of ball work. A young lady such as that pictured here: a sports-mad 18-year-old, still with another three terms at school in preparation for next summer’s Oxbridge exams. Bright, athletic, keen — and a little naive.

BLUSHES gives you the inside story of an actual punishment she received this summer, bringing you the facts behind the candid photographs which conceal more than they reveal. We will draw a discreet veil over the young lady’s embarrassment, and call her Sophie for the purposes of this narrative.

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Dressed in practice leotard of black cotton, short blue tennis skirt, white trainers and socks, one with blue flashes, the other red rings, Sophie perspired gently under the watchful eye of the ballgirl selector and coach, Mr Porasky.

The bright blue handkerchief tied casually round her neck served to mop the sweat coming from her face as she performed a series of strenuous warm-up exercises with two other girls. The red hair was damp, too, as she bobbed upright — down to brush the grass with her fingers — upright — down — up — down — up, the bracelets tinkling on her wrists.

Mr Porasky walked behind, the better to appreciate the firm thighs and the triangle of black cotton revealed as the youngster bent to touch briefly at her toes, and swing up again on his count. The fabric clung at her crotch and swept up in dramatic curves to enclose the rounded cheeks beneath, the crease where thigh meets bottom easily defined outside the cotton. The short skirt rode up still further as the exercise continued, and he admired the three backsides alternately full and fleshy then slimmed and taut as their owners bent and stretched.

Sophie was the eldest of the three by a couple of years or more, but had begged to be allowed in the squad from her school. An appealing girl, she had not been selected in previous years because of academic commitments. Her extra year for Oxbridge gave her the opportunity she needed.

‘All right, girls, you can have a knock-up now,’ Mr Porasky smiled as he watched them trot to the grass courts nearby to join the others. His eyes were particularly drawn to the soft rump beneath Sophie’s short skirt, bouncing insolently above the lightly tanned thighs.

Back at the office, Mr Porasky read the note swiftly before calling to a passing boy: ‘Tell Sophie Jenkinson to come to my office right away, would you. She’s on one of the practice courts.’

It was no more than two minutes before Sophie knocked hesitantly on the half-open door and poked her head round: ‘You wanted me, sir?’

‘Yes, I did. Come in and close the door.’ She caught the tone in his voice and wondered what was up.

‘I won’t beat about the bush, Sophie. All the lockers were checked this afternoon after a boy reported that £25 was missing. It was found, I am disappointed to say, in your locker. What have you got to say?’

Sophie was speechless. She was innocent. She knew that. But he obviously wouldn’t believe her. And she couldn’t prove she hadn’t taken the money.

‘I don’t know how it got there Mr Porasky, honestly.’

‘I see. Well, this means you’re out of the squad, you realise?’

‘But sir!’

‘Frankly, if you were a boy, you’d be bending over right now for six of the best and that would be that. Fortunately for you, you’re not, but you are out of the squad.’

‘But sir! I didn’t take the money, but I can’t prove I didn’t take it.’

‘Very unfortunate.’

Sophie was conscious of the silence in the room, the whirr of the electric fan doing little to disturb the uncomfortable humidity of the day. The faint sound of ball or racquet could be heard from the courts outside, with occasional bellows of protest over disputed calls.

‘Errr… does that mean a boy could stay in the squad if he was punished, sir?’

‘Yes, in circumstances like this, he probably would.’

‘Well that doesn’t seem very fair.’

‘Don’t be insolent, young lady.’

‘I’m not sir, it’s just that… well, couldn’t you treat me like a boy so I could stay in the squad?’

‘Give you a thrashing?’

‘Well yes, sir. I’d be willing to take it to stay in the squad.’

‘I see.’

Sophie’s eyes were on the floor, the significance of what she had said only now dawning on her. But the penalty seemed worthwhile. She wouldn’t get another opportunity like it. Her fingers twisted round each other as she waited for a response.

Mr Porasky, meanwhile, pondered the merits of administering a sound beating to the teenager. It would be an unusual experience to punish a sixth-former, certainly, and probably a most appealing one. The idea of large-sized plimsoll and softly rounded 18-year-old buttocks in sudden impact was most interesting.

He reached a decision. ‘Very well, Sophie. You will sign a disclaimer accepting corporal punishment, and I will administer it here in twenty minutes, when practice has finished. Don’t bother to change.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Off you go.’

The courts deserted in the heat of the later afternoon, though they would fill again when the regular evening players arrived, the changing rooms similarly empty, the last of her school colleagues called out: ‘Staying on, Jenkinson?’

‘Yes, just for a bit.’

‘Crawler!’ an unidentified voice observed, carefully out of sight of the senior girl. Sophie smiled grimly. If only they knew.

The voice was gruff as she knocked once again, the sight of the plimsoll on his desk evidence that business was about to be concluded.

‘Read this, and sign it at the bottom.’

I, Sophie Jenkinson, do hereby agree to submit to such confidential corporal punishment as may be deemed appropriate by the coach, in consideration of serious club disciplinary infringements, and undertake not to initiate or participate in any legal action as a result of such corporal punishment. I have not been placed under any duress to accept the punishment, and accept it freely and willingly.

There was a certain irony in the words ‘freely and willingly’ implying that she had a choice. But then again, she thought, it had been her decision! She scribbled a signature, and added her address, age and date where spaces had been left on the hastily typed document.

‘Now, in the normal course of events you would receive the cane. But in order to save you the embarrassment of explaining the marks that would leave, particularly with your tennis kit or swimsuit on, I propose to use a gym shoe instead.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Have you been beaten before?’

‘Good God no.’

‘Turn round and lift your skirt up.’ Sophie faced away from him and lifted the brief length of bright blue cloth to expose her leotard.

‘As I’m only using a plimsoll, it’s got to be with your bottom bare, so hitch your leotard right up at the back.’ Her fingers manoeuvred the protective cotton between her cheeks and up to the top of her hips, the flesh quivering as she wrestled the leotard into place.

‘Like that sir?’ she asked. The clearly defined delineation between pale cream buttock and light brown thigh was framed most effectively by the black leotard above, and diving for the protection of her crotch.

‘Now go over and stand in the corner until I’m ready to deal with you. It’ll give you a chance to ponder your apparent stupidity.’ The bare teenage globes jiggled tantalisingly as she walked the few steps to the corner.

Mr Porasky left the room for a few moments to check the changing rooms, locking the outer door as a protection against any interruption.

Sophie was still in the corner when he returned: ‘Come and stand in front of the desk.’ He watched her, but she avoided his eyes. ‘Bend over and touch your toes.’

The 18-year-old bent down slowly, her fingertips brushing the toes of her training shoes as they had done so often during exercise out on the field. But the difference this time was that there was no protection between her rounded protuberances and the warm air still moved slowly round the room by the inadequate fan.

She could see his feet as he stepped to pick up the gym shoe, and heard the tapping of the sole on the palm of his hand. Moments later, it was slapping gently against her right buttock as he took aim. Unconsciously, she gritted her teeth and her eyes closed tight. There was an imperceptible disturbance in the air as the slipper descended to impact with her bare bottom. The report was loud, and Sophie reacted with a high-pitched ‘Ooowwwahhhh!’

Her fingers left her toes momentarily as the sting built and built to a crescendo, the temptation to put her hand round to assuage the burning almost too great to suppress.

Slap!… ’Aahhh… gosh, oooww!’ Fingers left toes again, and Sophie half rose. He had decided to spank her really very hard, due to her age, and the effects on her already glowing cheeks were dramatic. The loud report of bottom and thigh-quivering smack followed by an inhalation of breath and instant vocal reaction.

‘Touch your toes!’ he snapped.

‘God, it stings so much, I didn’t realise…’

Four more times, plimsoll and bare bottom cheeks exploded, until the glowing rear end bore respectable evidence to the severe chastisement it had received.

After the sixth stroke, Sophie shot to her feet, rubbing vainly at the target area. And as the smarting subsided, so she looked round sheepishly to see Mr Porasky still holding the plimsoll, tapping it gently against his palm.

‘I didn’t say you could get up, Sophie.’

‘But I’ve had six, sir.’

‘You’re getting eight, my girl. Bend over.’

As she bent obediently, Sophie realised it was pointless to protest. The final two strokes seemed harder than ever, driving her onto her toes with each impact, and eliciting louder yelps.

‘You may stand up now.’

‘Thank you sir!’ The voice was relieved. Her eye caught a sudden movement through the partly open venetian blinds covering the windows. Mr Porasky followed her gaze.

‘Only the groundsman. He won’t say anything, don’t worry!’

Dressed in jeans and blouse, kit in her sports bag, Sophie trotted to the gate, almost colliding with the groundsman as he came from behind a screen of leylandii bushes: ‘Bit sore, are we?’ he asked with a wicked smile.

‘Bloody sore, actually,’ Sophie agreed.

‘Six of the best was it?’

‘Eight, if you must know.’

‘Eight, eh? Well done, then, that’s a record for a ballgirl.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well you don’t imagine you’re the first ballgirl to end up bent over in his office, do you?’

Sophie sighed, and turned away to leave.

‘I suppose not.’ The swine, she thought, the bloody swine.

‘And you won’t be the last, neither, my lass,’ came the parting retort.