Girl Training

Story from Blushes 24

‘Quite a few today, Charlotte. And some nice sounding ones. Sussex… Dorset…’

Mrs Woodley pushed the folded copy of The Times across the breakfast table to her daughter. Saturday 16 March 1996. It was open to the Personal columns and under Training (Girls) there was indeed quite a list of entries. Charlotte gave the paper a dismissive glance and pushed it back.

‘Oh Mum…’

Meaning: Oh Mum I don’t want to go. No doubt a familiar moan at breakfast tables throughout the country in households containing 16-year-old girls (or indeed boys for that matter). It would be very nice to spend the whole of the summer in untroubled, carefree pleasures — as 16-year-olds had always done in the past. But no longer. The powers that be had decided to do something about carefree — but also at times ill-disciplined and antisocial — youth.

There was a choice but not much of one. You could do a month’s summer training at a regular State camp — or you could do it with one of the properly accredited private individuals. Those gentlemen who advertised their services in the very proper medium of The Times’ personal columns. The State camps had a rather frightening reputation. As for the gentlemen in The Times, well, they were accredited and they might not be so bad.

‘Do you want to go to camp?’ queried Mrs Woodley and the answer was of course No — or at least an unhappy shake of the pretty blonde head.

‘Well then. Look, Charlotte, you really can’t hang about any longer. If you haven’t any preference I shall just go ahead and fix one up.’

Which she did. Which was how Charlotte Woodley came to be on the train down to Dorset some four months later. The third week of July and the holidays just started. Except that they were not going to be holidays exactly. Charlotte gazed morosely out of the carriage window at pretty sun-kissed fields and hedgerows. Mr Thornton he was called. What would he be like? You heard some awful things from some girls. Some gentlemen it seemed could be worse than the camps. Maybe she should have opted for that. Except that you knew you were going to get it at camp.

Was she going to get it from Mr Thornton? He looked all right when he met her at the station. An older gentleman in a tweed jacket, with a friendly smile. As he looked her up and down. Charlotte hadn’t met him before but she had had to send a photograph. Two photographs in fact; one a full-face photo and one with no clothes on. Asking for this Mr Thornton had said it was for her medical record.

Presumably that was normal. At least Dr Whittaker hadn’t said anything when she went to his office to ask for it. Just gave a little laugh and told her to take her clothes off and then he took the photos in his examination room. In fact he didn’t take just one but several, in various positions. Some of them had made her flush. ‘Send them all; he’ll love them,’ Dr Whittaker had laughed. Not knowing if Dr Whittaker was joking Charlotte had sent them all.

Those photos at least ensured that she was taken on by Mr Thornton and he had replied at once to say he’d have her for the first two weeks of the holiday. Then she would have to do two weeks with someone else to make up her required four. A place in Essex had been arranged for that. But this now on the station in the little town in Dorset was Mr Thornton who had seen those embarrassing nude pictures of her. Greeting him, Charlotte tried not to think about the pictures.

As they walked down the platform Mr Thornton, carrying her suitcase, took hold of Charlotte’s bottom in his free right hand. Cupping the slim left cheek through her cotton skirt. Naturally Charlotte didn’t attempt to squirm away or anything like that. She was with Mr Thornton to be trained in obedience — and anything else he felt like training her in. Submissiveness and discipline were what was required.

‘I liked your photographs, Charlotte. You’re a very pretty girl. And a pretty shape as well. Who took the photos?’

Oh dear! It would have to come up right away. Charlotte shuddered slightly at the thought of those photos and some of the poses that Dr Whittaker had made her assume. She was a pretty girl, blonde with big violet-blue eyes and a soft full mouth. Also a slim but shapely figure at present in her blazer and skirt and top. She told Mr Thornton that Dr Whittaker had taken the photos.

‘Ah your doctor. And has he…?’

That was perhaps not a completely unexpected question although getting it this soon, after only a few minutes, came as a bit of a shock. Charlotte felt herself flushing as she told Mr Thornton that Dr Whittaker had. That was quite common, to have your family doctor do it. Certainly better than having it happen with some eager but thoughtless and inexperienced youth. Charlotte of course, from a nice middle-class family, was not allowed out with boys but nonetheless it was thought a good thing for a girl to lose her virginity at 16. Dr Whittaker had done it the day after her birthday, in his examination room, and then a further two timed in the next week. To make sure everything was all right. That was three months ago. Charlotte hadn’t done it since.

That was what she told Mr Thornton when he asked her that question. He gave a little laugh. ‘No boyfriends?’ Charlotte said no.

‘Mmmm. That is how it should be of course. When one thinks of how young people — girls — were allowed to run virtually wild back in the 60s, 70s and 80s it really boggles the imagination.’

Charlotte said ‘Yes Mr Thornton.’ She knew about those times and it would certainly be strange to have that freedom. A lot of girls said they would love to have lived then but Charlotte wasn’t so sure. A little bit of it would be nice, though. She knew a boy she would like to be able to see and chat with, but of course her mother wouldn’t allow it. No boyfriends until she was 19.

Outside the station Mr Thornton’s car was waiting. Another grope at Charlotte’s rear as he held the door open for her. That part of Charlotte of course was no doubt going to be in for a good deal of treatment during her stay with Mr Thornton. Discipline was primarily applied via a girl’s bottom and that was what she had come to Mr Thornton for, however reluctantly. He drove off, his hand on Charlotte’s thigh. Had she been caned at all yet? Or switched; or the strap?

Charlotte shook her head. Girls usually weren’t given corporal discipline until they were 16. Charlotte had been 16 for three months but she had had no experience of it yet, neither at school where she was a model pupil nor at home where anyway her parents did not believe in dishing it out themselves. But the fact remained that everyone, model pupils included, had to have it. That was what the State now decreed; it was a necessary part of growing up.

Mr Thornton squeezed the thigh. Giving it to a girl who hadn’t had it before was always a special thrill. All for the social good of course, but a thrill nonetheless.

So much so that he really didn’t feel like hanging about, not even until he got her home which was some 30 minutes drive from the station.  Therefore once out in the country he turned off the road, down a lane which conveniently led towards some woods. Arthur Thornton had been here before and for a similar purpose. Some 50 yards from where he stopped the car was a fallen tree trunk, in a pleasant glade in the woods. A trunk of a convenient height for a gentleman to sit on. Mr Thornton sat on it. And smiled at his new house guest.

‘I think we might, er, see how you take it. As you haven’t had it before, Charlotte. Just a spanking right now, to get you into things. Eh?’ He smiled again. ‘So slip your knickers down please.’

Charlotte felt her knees wobble a bit. But maybe she should think herself lucky. A spanking couldn’t be as bad as the cane or a riding crop. And at a State camp everyone got that as soon as they were signed in. A riding crop or cane across the bare bottom from one of those horrendous instructors they had there. Charlotte knew a couple of girls who had been to State camps and had heard the frightening details. With private gentlemen, such as Mr Thornton, you could hear all sorts of stories. Some good and some bad. A spanking couldn’t be that bad. As for taking down her knickers… well, it wasn’t nice but after Dr Whittaker it clearly wasn’t the end of the world. Charlotte’s hands fumbled up under her skirt.

She got herself over Mr Thornton’s flannel-trousered lap. And felt her skirt slid up round her waist. His hand briefly on her bare bum. Then pulling her knickers further down. Back on her bum again… and then…

She gasped out with the sharp, hot pain. It was a whole lot worse than she had imagined, a hot searing SPLAT, knocking the breath out of her. And then another… And another… Charlotte heard herself gasping out, ‘Please Stop… No…’ Not that Mr Thornton was likely to stop before he was ready. This was what she had come here for. This and the cane and the strap. For two weeks. Not to mention… any of that other…

Some while later Mr Thornton was saying, ‘There that wasn’t too bad, was it?’ His voice was a bit breathless but Charlotte could anyway only hear indistinctly. Her head was ringing, her poor bottom was red hot and there were salt tears on her face. Mr Thornton’s hand slid over the glowing globes. And then sliding in between her legs. Charlotte made a gurgling sound. A thoughtful ‘Mmmmm’ from Mr Thornton.

----//----

Mr Thornton’s house was substantial, set in its own grounds at the edge of a pretty village. A pleasant spot — if a girl was in a position to enjoy it. Charlotte as she got out of Mr Thornton’s car was still feeling the mind-zapping effects of that traumatic stop in the wood. That was a nice place too — apart from what had happened there. Charlotte didn’t have any knickers on now. They were in Mr Thornton’s jacket pocket. He smiled benignly, ‘Well here we are. Shall we go in?’

Inside and upstairs to what was to be her room. A pretty chintzy little room looking out onto the garden. Flowered curtains and a matching cover on the bed. A comfortable-looking armchair. A dressing table. And to one side a full-sized rocking horse.

On closer inspection, it was not a rocking horse. It was not on rockers but set firmly on stout legs on the floor. It was a horse, though, painted shiny brown and white with a hair mane and tail and leather saddle and stirrups.

‘He’s called Jack,’ smiled Mr Thornton. ‘He likes to give girls a ride.’

Then Charlotte saw that leaning against Jack’s front leg was a nasty-looking riding crop.

Mr Thornton was feeling that urge coming on very strongly again, as he had before they stopped in the woods. The urge to get into action once more. Being in that room with Jack standing there waiting and his riding crop waiting too always had this effect. Especially at the beginning of a girl’s stay when she was fresh and untried.

‘We’ll have a little ride, shall we? Get your blazer and skirt off. And then get up on Jack.’

Mr Thornton hadn’t said it but he didn’t need to. Charlotte glanced at the crop and looked quickly away. He was going to use it, she knew. On her bare bottom.

She felt a panicky urge to plead, to get down on her knees and beg. She couldn’t take that crop. Not on her bare bottom which was where Charlotte knew she was going to get it. She couldn’t. But… she knew you weren’t supposed to plead and beg. You were supposed to take your disciplining, accept it. Otherwise you could be given a double dose or worse. Girls at State camps who tried pleading their way out of a chastisement were hauled off to a special room and caned all night. So Charlotte’s friend Sarah had told her. And Charlotte had already done that moaning and wailing out in the woods. She pursed her lips and obeyed. Took off her blazer and then her skirt. Her knickers of course were already off, in Mr Thornton’s pocket.

In just her blouse and knee socks and sandals Charlotte grabbed a handful of Jack’s mane and managed to get a foot in the stirrups. They were fastened very high but there was a wooden step at either side of Jack. There was also Mr Thornton with his obliging hand, lifting Charlotte between her legs. She sat down on the leather saddle but Mr Thornton said no, that wasn’t quite right. He needed her bottom up, higher. He had two cushions ready which he put on the saddle between her legs.

She now had her slim buttocks right up, in the air. Arthur Thornton beamed approval. Excellent! His hand patted the firm young rump. Then he reached for his crop. An involuntary yelp of fearful anticipation from the mounted girl as she saw. Desperately she clung on to the mane. It was going to be a killing pain, she knew that. Unbelievable. Her friend Sarah had told her that. ‘A riding crop is unbelievable.’ That spanking had been bad enough, but nothing…

CRACK!!!

Charlotte shot abruptly forward, almost as it were out into orbit. She heard herself scream out. Her bottom was cut in two, it had to be, the crop slicing in underneath, cutting killingly across what ripeness there was in those almost boyish buttocks. ‘Nooooo…’

‘Hang on, young lady!’ Mr Thornton keenly eyeing the already bright red stripe.

CRACK!!

‘Aiiiieeehhh!’

Once again she jolted forward, clutching frantically at the mane like a shipwrecked sailor in raging seas. The pain was unbelievable. There was no way she could take any more. ‘Please… eeassse…’

CRACK!!!

‘Aaaiiieeehhh!’

Six. Six altogether. Mr Thornton liked to give a girl a six to start her off. Not too excessive but just get her going nicely as it were. And then… carefully he put down the crop.

Charlotte was in a state of not really knowing what was happening. Her brain seemed to have left her head and was spinning like some space satellite. Her bottom…. Her poor bottom.

Vaguely, from out there in the spacecraft, she became aware that someone — Mr Thornton? — was holding her bottom. Cupping those frantic cheeks. Was he helping her down? No.

‘Hold on. Just relax. Good.’

She was coming closer back to earth now. Mr Thornton was up on Jack with her, sitting behind Charlotte on the horse’s shiny rump, his feet on those convenient wooden steps. He was easing her back off the cushions. And… Oh.

Right back to earth now, though her bum was still killing her. Mr Thornton… Like Dr Whittaker… Charlotte gave a little yelp. Some gentlemen did and some didn’t. If they did it was simply part of your training. Charlotte hung onto Jack’s mane as Mr Thornton bobbed her up and down.