The Little Back Room

From Blushes 16

I put her in the small back bedroom, that is where I always put my girls. Perhaps I should restate that, it does sound a little ambiguous. As if I am perhaps in the habit of roaming the streets for girls to bring back here. To have my way with, to work my will on their nubile, taut-fleshed forms.  Put like that it does sound appetising and of course I do have my way with them, but that statement also no doubt calls for some explanation. But they are not girls picked up at random in the streets; one would very soon be the subject of unsavoury comment, and worse, for in these little Welsh towns one must be very careful of one’s respectability. And also I have only had (had?) two girls before. This truly divine Jenny makes three.

Housekeepers, that is perhaps the nearest term one can get, though it does conjure up pictures of ladies somewhat older than what I go for. My two previous girls were 16 and 18 and this new Jenny falls perfectly in between at 17 and two months. Maybe maid/housekeeper might be closer to the mark. My dear wife Elaine is able to manage a little, to give some direction to the girl, but she is (Elaine that is) alas, but also very fortunately, very weak both in body and in spirit these days. Nothing that the doctors seem able to pinpoint but she does spend a great deal of her time in her room in bed. Lying listlessly or reading her Bible.

Perhaps that is her ailment, the Good Book, her constant perusal of its pages sapping the life from her. No, I joke, no doubt in these dark days of war it can offer great consolation. My own spirits of course are sustained, at times sent rapturously soaring, by events in the little back bedroom. Its delicious young occupant…

Sadly it has been without an occupant for some weeks now, after Susan had so regrettably to go off. A very low time for spirits, with them barely kept afloat with fond memories — of Susan, of Margaret — and hopes of the future. The hopes, though, and my most fervent dreams could not have conjured a creature quite as sublime as this Jenny.

Jenny Wilkins. I found her in London, our poor bomb-ravaged capital; a little cockney waif. That is untrue, in every part: she is not a cockney, she has a perfectly respectable accent and she is not a waif, nor is she exactly little. She is the daughter of a friend as it happens, a lady I have known for many years though not seen at all recently; hence I had no thought at all of her, as it turns out, quite divine offspring. But there she suddenly was, serving in her mother’s shop down in Peckham.

A divine creature, as I say, a pretty, perky child who told me she had left school in the summer. Just how divine she was I learnt some few minutes after that introduction. It was not completely fortuitous or as one might say an Act of the Almighty, because I did have in mind at least a look at her legs. I glanced up at the shelves to the side, the top shelf. Something or other, a notebook I think it was I mentioned; nothing that I really wanted of course.

My reasoning was that she would need to get the steps and then I would at least see the lower limbs. Up to the knees at least and up to the knees is something, it is a start, it will give some indication of what lies beyond. But I had certainly not dared to dream of what then happened. For divine Jenny tripped on the penultimate step and everything went flying. And there was Mrs Wilkins’ delectable offspring up-ended on the floor. Skirts everywhere and a truly mouth-watering bottom in the air, or virtually so. The most marvellously succulent rear that I could ever have imagined, let alone seen. Some way ahead of the rears of Susan and Margaret. Or that was definitely the impression gained; it was naturally still clothed, in demure, flesh-hugging navy-blue knickers so it could not quite, as yet, be compared fully to Susan’s or Margaret’s, but nonetheless the lines were there, the knicker-stretching plumpnesses. Oh yes. And as well there were the heavenly thighs, they were quite bare, firm sturdy, like warm silk to the touch.

Because naturally I had to touch. This young Miss could so easily have injured something in that unfortunate, Heaven-sent fall. Oh yes I had to touch. I was touching, while the red-faced and gasping Jenny attempted to get to her feet, when the mother entered. Hot-faced myself, I explained what had happened — for I could see that the situation could easily give a caring mother a nasty fright. Jenny was still more or less on the floor and I was holding her skirt aloft with one hand while with my other… Yes, it could conceivably appear that I had been overcome by some brainstorm, a sudden surge of lust, and was about to attempt full and immediate carnal knowledge of the delectable offspring.

Indeed the hot thought had crossed my mind that a more complete check for possible injury could be made by quickly slipping those navy knickers down. Needless to say that particular thought was shelved on the arrival of Jenny’s mother. I dropped her skirt, and removed my other questing hand. And made my explanations. Fortunately Dorothy Wilkins was a sensible woman and any unfortunate first impressions she may have gained were soon dispelled, with Jenny as well giving credence to my story.

‘It just collapsed or something, mum. Cripes!’

She was, I am sure, very conscious of the show she had given me. That perhaps was her main thought and she could well have been too shocked to be fully conscious of my questing hand. Naturally she was unaware that she had been within a trice of having her knickers taken down right there on the shop floor (though that would have required a little more explaining). And she was also necessarily unaware of what I was now hotly imagining for her in the future… in my cosy little back bedroom. Because there was now but one thought in my head: I had to have this girl.

There was an obvious way — thanks to this dreadful war. Quite a number of girls of Jenny’s age had earlier been evacuated from London — boys too but I am not concerned with boys. I must admit that when the original great evacuation took place the thought did occur that it would be extremely pleasant to get myself one of these girls: but at that time I was very much involved with Susan — obsessed indeed is not too strong a word. She had only recently arrived and we were into her early training. So with such heady delights the thought of an evacuee was only fleeting. In any event it would have been quite impractical; I could not have two girls at once. I like to give my young Miss my whole undivided attention. As I will now give it to this sublime Jenny.

The bombing has abated so those in such places as Peckham can now sleep a little more soundly in their beds. But who can say when the fiendish Hun will not start up again? That was very much the tenor of my argument when a little later, still somewhat agitated from my first and so unexpected touch of Jenny’s silky flesh, I sat with Mrs Wilkins in her back parlour over a very pleasant cup of tea. Young Jenny was out in the shop once more looking after the customers.

Yes, what if the bombing started again next week? Or tomorrow? Stout-hearted Mrs Wilkins might well take an heroic line again and brave it out but could she bear to subject the innocent Jennifer to that ordeal once more? (I assumed Jenny was innocent; that no common companion of the streets — or anyone else — had as yet been ‘up’. That is still something I have to determine.) But surely sweet Jenny should not be kept any longer at risk when I had that so convenient position in my own household. In our quiet little town, where a young lady from faraway London would be completely safe. (Safe from everything, that is, except those things that deep down young ladies do not really wish to be safe from; but naturally my talk with Dorothy Wilkins did not venture into such areas.)

I can I think be quite persuasive when my heart is in it. And no mother would wish to seem to be keeping a loved daughter at risk merely to save a few shillings on counter help. ‘Really if anything did happen to her I don’t think I could live with myself, declared the devoted mother finally. Those excellent sentiments I heard with, I must confess, barely controlled excitement.

That was just a week ago; a week which seemed to go on forever, such has been my impatience. But at last it passed. I travelled up to town this morning, collected my exquisite creature plus her two suitcases, and brought her back on the afternoon express. First Class and not only that but at the cost of an extra crisp ten shilling note in the guard’s palm I got the assurance that we would not be disturbed by any other travellers. I explained that my niece was not feeling too well. ‘Very good, sir; rely on me,’ replied the fellow, eagerly pocketing my note. And then he delivered an outrageous wink — as if to say I could rest assured I would not be disturbed if I wished to give my pretty young ‘niece’ a sound fucking en route.

As it happens, though she is not of course my niece, Jenny is vaguely related. Her Aunt Maud it seems is some distant relative of Elaine’s. And I have been able to acquire a photograph of that lady to place in the little back bedroom. A nice little touch I thought, a little bit of home as it were. But as for fucking Jenny on the train, as I am convinced went through that coarse fellow’s mind, oh no. Nothing at all like that. I did not intend even to consider taking her knickers down. Though I must admit a bare bottom spanking as we sped out into the west country would have been a marvellous delight.

No, my wish for privacy was so that I could get to know my young charmer a bit better, and to tell her something of her duties. These will not be particularly onerous in terms of domestic employment: a bit of cleaning and tidying, also helping with the meals (we have a woman who comes in to do the cooking). None of that will be at all onerous — not if Jenny shows herself to be compliant and co-operative in her relations with the master of the house. And that especially was a subject I wished to introduce in the privacy of our First Class compartment. Discipline.

Discipline and disciplinary measures. They are of course essential in the upbringing of a teenaged girl. To have had a proper training is really such a tremendous asset to a young woman. So many of these young things nowadays are simply wild creatures with no sense of responsibility or restraint. I wonder they can ever find husbands, certainly no self-respecting man would have them. And the times we live in, this war, does encourage all kinds of wild behaviour.

So a proper training at 16, 17, 18 can be of immeasurable benefit to a girl. And I need not say that the process of imparting such training to a nubile, silkily-fleshed young person of that age can in turn provide sheer, heart-stopping, almost impossible pleasure.

My philosophy in such matters is to be direct; vague allusions and general beating about the bush merely serve to confuse a young creature. Come directly to the point, that is my policy, and it certainly worked well enough with Susan and Margaret. So after putting darling Jennifer at her ease with some general chat I came directly to the matter in hand: I was not an overbearing ogre but I would require obedience and certain standards in her work. If there were failings I would expect her to meekly accept punishment.

The large brown eyes gave me a direct, querying look. I spelled it out. ‘A smacked bottom.’

The eyes opened wide, and a slight flush came to the pretty cheeks. Exquisite! I must confess I felt myself stiffening up; and even more so as I went on to enunciate those thrilling words: ‘A smacked bottom, Jenny, and it will be with your knickers down.’

The cheeks became quite rosy as she took in this alarming information. It was alarming because, as I learnt a little later in questioning her, Jenny had never been spanked before. I should explain that Dorothy Wilkins’ husband had left her some years earlier leaving Jenny to be brought up by her mother alone. A heartless act but it did mean I was getting a quite pristine bottom. There had been no father’s belt across Jenny’s delicious bum and the only thing approaching corporal punishment she had experienced, it seemed, was the odd slap across her legs from her mother. Truly marvellous. My organ was now fully aroused and quite champing at the bit. Clearly it had ideas of doing exactly what that guard at Paddington had assumed I would now be doing. In a word, in the common vernacular, fucking her. I moved my hand as casually as possible onto my lap, to disguise what was going on. I did not wish to overly alarm my young companion — not any more than she was evidently alarmed already at the prospect of my hand on her bare bottom. Anyway I had not yet finished.

‘Smackings and also the cane, Jenny dear. You have not had the cane?’

A tremulous half-whispered negative popped out from between those soft pink lips.

‘Ah well, the cane is another very necessary disciplinary measure. It hurts, naturally, but it is meant to. It is through its sharp sting that a girl learns obedience.’ I placed a hand on her thigh and gave a little squeeze.

She had removed her coat and my hand was on her thigh through the skirt of her dress. Not on the bare thigh itself. It was naturally a temptation, not easy to resist, to get my band on the bare flesh, as indeed I had done a week ago when she tumbled so marvellously spread-limbed onto the floor. But I did resist. It was a considerable exercise in self-control, an exercise of that same discipline that I was about to instil in Jenny. It would have been almost excruciatingly pleasurable to slide my hand up between those silky thighs as we sat ensconced in our cosy secluded carriage. It would have been exquisite — but how much more exquisite to save that first great pleasure for my little back bedroom.

So I controlled those heady urges. I merely stroked the thigh through her, admittedly thin, skirt. She trembled, deliciously, at my stroking hand and at what I had said about the cane. She continued to tremble as I went on to say what I would want when we arrived home. What I would require of her in that very first test of obedience.

‘Do you think you can do that, Jenny dear?’ I softly asked, my hand now halfway up on the full swell of that exquisite limb. ‘Exactly as instructed?’

A little pause and then the words came breathily out. ‘I… I think so, Mr Balfour.’

----//----

It is a pleasant little room, simply but cosily furnished, and against the cool of the late October day I had had Mrs Hughes light a fire which was crackling brightly. That and the afternoon sun slanting in through the window did indeed produce a welcoming atmosphere, and as I have already mentioned there was Aunt Maud smiling out from her frame in the mantelpiece. Jenny seemed delighted with it all when I took her in and deposited her suitcases; though no doubt there was a certain tingle of apprehension as well. The note which I had referred to on the train was there on the mantelpiece with Aunt Maud. Jenny did not know what it said, not until she opened the envelope, but she did know it referred to an early disciplinary exercise. And she had been told of smacked bare bottoms, and my cane.

First though we had to have a quick introduction to Elaine. I helped Jenny off with her coat and took her in to my wife’s room. As she frequently is my dear Elaine was lying listlessly in her bed. She managed a weak word of greeting and then resumed her empty gaze. We exited, I with bounding, soaring spirits. For now…

I told Jenny to go back to her room. She knew what to do? ‘Yes, Mr Balfour.’ I permitted myself a brisk little slap to her bottom. She went in and closed the door. And I… I went to my little place: my walk-in cupboard to which I alone have the key. My cupboard with its secret vantage point, that small hole bored conveniently at eye level which affords the unseen watcher a clear view into the little back bedroom. A view now of the bedroom’s seductive new occupant as, with the door closed behind her, she goes to that envelope.

Naturally I know its contents because I wrote the note. It details exactly what Jenny is now to do in pursuance of her first lesson in obedience. She sits by the fire to read it. I watch, my heart thudding in my chest and my organ rapidly stiffening. Excitement such as this can probably kill a man but there is no way one can help oneself. She has read it now; she knows exactly what I want. Will she…

Her cheeks are flushed; her heart is probably pounding like mine. She gets up and hesitates. She seemed to look straight at me, almost as if… And then she turns and reaches up to the cupboard. It is opened… and there is my cane. In her hand… she holds it, no doubt imagining its stinging kiss across her bare bum… and then places it on the mantelpiece. This is all in the note. And now… and now…?

Yes. She has turned, still in front of the fire, and slowly she does as instructed. Lifts the skirt of that thin blue dress. Lifts it up and bunches it high in front, to reveal the whole of her saucy ripe rump clad in the same or similar clinging navy-blue knickers as when she tumbled so heart-stoppingly to the shop floor back in Peckham. She stands, reflective, pondering no doubt the next move. While I stand, stiff and throbbing, spellbound, drinking her in.

Still with the dress aloft she turns, warming her rapturous bottom and thighs at the fire and presenting me with the equally exquisite front view: the navy material drawn taut over moulded abdomen, swelling pubis. In the sharply slanting sunlight the lyrical thighs show a halo of soft and delicate little hairs. When she makes the next move, if her nerve does not falter, there will be real hair to see. Dark wiry curls I imagine for she is clearly a true brunette.

Slowly, hesitantly, she turns again. One hand still holds the dress high and the other… This now is the key to the whole thing. If a girl has never taken her knickers down for the cane before there is a lot of acquired resistance to overcome. But finally the hand does go to the knickers’ waistband. And slowly… Yes… Sliding down over first one ripe cheek… and then the other. Then right off her bottom. It is without doubt the most heavenly rear one could dream of. A ripe, deep-cleft peach; twin trembling moons… She turns again, to show me her front… the crisply curling bush…

And then the cane is in her hand again… and she is moving the chair… all as in my note. Hanging the cane on the chair-back. And then… bending… presenting those mouth-watering buttocks. That ripely burgeoning flesh; trembling…

As I myself am trembling. My heart violently thudding. It is too much, I fear; my flesh demands immediate satisfaction, release. I have no option. My fingers desperately fumbling. Because if I go in the little back bedroom in this state, with her presenting in that position, bare and ripely waiting, I am afraid I will simply… As that guard had me doing on the train. There will be no way of stopping. And that would be impossible, on this her very first day. So there is nothing for it. I must…

----//----

I enter. She is still bending, silent and submissive. I am somewhat calmer now — for the moment. Though doubtless with this sublime rear thrust up at me I shall soon be in the same state as before. But for the moment I am in control; sufficiently in control to be able to run my hand over its silky surface. The touch is almost electric. And then of course the cane. For that is the object of this first exercise: to give this darling Jenny her first taste of it.

She emits a gasping squeal as the first one lands. I let her properly feel it and then, with the cane transferred to my left hand, I gently comfort her. My hand stroking — her bottom, her thighs. and briefly in between…

And then the cane again: slicing back through the slanting sunshine and then forward… Another gasping yelp. The sweet sound of a teenaged girl beginning her training.

The westering sun continues to flood into our little room and the fire in the grate burns brightly. My shaking hand reaches out again. Intimately caressing. Jenny moans… I wonder… I glance at Aunt Maud but her expression has not changed of course. And it won’t change if I…

----//----

Later

Teatime. Mrs Hughes had got some very nice cream cakes in and some crumpets as well so I was able to produce quite a lavish spread for my new young lady. She is, as I have said, theoretically my housekeeper, maid/housekeeper if you will, but that does not mean she cannot take tea with the master of the house. Certainly not; she is after all here for the master’s pleasure. Perhaps ‘companion’ would actually be a better term. Seventeen-year-old girls I find are very partial to cream cakes in these dark days of shortages and rationing. Even when — or should it be especially when — they are undoubtedly sitting on a very sore bottom.

I did not, I am pleased to say. In the little back bedroom earlier, when I was caning her. My self-control proved sufficient for the task in spite of what I thought for a few moments would be quite irresistible provocation.

She is still my pristine young lady. Of course I do not know that, do I? All I know is that I have not. Not yet. I really must have a little chat, a cosy talk. Nowadays, so I am told, 17-year-old girls in our big cities. and of course in London, can be very forward.

Darling Jenny, though, does have a very virginal bearing, a delicious soft shyness. Though she has now had to bare her gorgeous bottom to me. And she has also had my hand. Caressing.

Yes I have had her bottom and that heavenly item was certainly pristine, virginal, in terms of a man’s spanking hand, in terms of the cane. Yes, I have had that. A supreme, superlative experience — one that I made last a good 20 minutes, with the cane and then having her over my lap for smacking purposes. The truth is that the pleasure was so supreme that I did not really wish the other. Not then, not today. So truthfully perhaps it wasn’t really self-control after all.

I did not desperately hurt her. Enough to make it sting of course, a nice hot tingle, enough to force those anguished ‘Ouch’s’ from the soft pink lips; but nothing more than that. That is not to say that I don’t enjoy giving it to a girl really hot and strong: those cuts that make a sweet young creature wonder if perhaps she has been cut in two by the rattan. I dealt thus with both Susan and Margaret at times and no doubt I shall come to do it with this delicious Jenny too.

But not on her first day in the same way that one should not indulge in that other on her first day. We work up to those more heavy aspects, as we did with sweet Sue and Margaret. The first day is just the introduction — to the master’s hand, to his cane. Although I did for those few moments fear that circumstances would force me to break that rule, that I would not be able to resist taking all my pleasure there and then in one fell swoop. Happily, as I say…

No I didn’t hurt her — although there were undoubted tears sparkling in those deep, dark eyes after the cane had done its business. An excuse for consoling her, that. Folding my arms round that shapely shape. She has a nice pert bust, very choice, though I have not yet had the opportunity to see it au naturel. More accurately I haven’t yet chosen to see it thus: I could have stripped her off but I am saving that for the evening, or the morning, when we set about some ablutions. A nice all-over wash in the tub. Yes, they are sweet and charming ones, no doubt about that, ripening apples, beauty of baths perhaps; but I don’t suppose they can compare with that plum of a bottom. I don’t think that would be possible.

Cakes and crumpets seem to go down very well with my charmer. Just the two of us in the kitchen with a nice fire going. Elaine of course remains upstairs as is her custom. I took her up a cup and she summoned the energy to ask after the new girl. Perhaps, Elaine said, she might get up later. I urged her not to exert herself and assured her Jenny was settling in very well indeed. Elaine wouldn’t have heard me with Jenny earlier for, as I have explained, I was not drawing forth any great cries of distress. But Elaine anyway would accept that a girl must be beaten at times.

I have often wondered if Elaine thinks anything else. If she thinks that girls must also be fucked at times. Elaine herself is well beyond that sort of thing, too weak and listless and certainly with no appetite for it, but I… Does she think that I, strong and vigorous and in my prime, that I need that? And therefore… ‘Fuck’ of course would not be in her mind, that is for train guards and naughty street boys. ‘Carnal knowledge’ perhaps.

Is Elaine, upstairs with her cup of tea, perhaps wondering if even now I am in some quiet comer of the house partaking of carnal knowledge of my delectable Jenny?

I am naturally not but I do permit myself to stroke her thigh under the kitchen table. Even pushing back that pretty blue skirt for the purpose. Having availed myself of full access to her mouth-watering bottom I need not now be reticent about the silky thighs.

I take my hand away to offer her a crumpet. ‘A crumpet, Jenny dear?’ I look into the big brown eyes as I pronounce the word wondering if there might be some flicker, some sign of embarrassment. A word not infrequently used in certain quarters as a synonym for the female private parts. Not a coarse expression but equally not one that a nicely brought up young lady would use. No, there is no flicker of embarrassment, Jenny does not have hot thoughts that I am alluding to what is nestling between those heavenly thighs, what is tightly enclosed in the crotch of those navy-blue knickers.

I wonder what term she does use? Pussy, perhaps? Susan was certainly familiar with the term ‘pussy’. Many nicely brought up young ladies, however, do not like to refer to that part of them at all. Even after they have started using it in its proper God-given fashion.

My hand goes back to Jenny’s thigh as she delicately consumes her crumpet. She seems to accept my hand there now — but then it has now been on her bare bottom. It also earlier fleetingly felt her crumpet. Her pussy. Twice. When she was bent over the chair-back for the cane. That was undoubtedly a shock, a reaction a bit like a scalded cat. Yes, we have lessons to learn. My fingers would very much like to start on a lesson right now. To go again further up and in between. To gently stroke it as now she consumes one of those delicious looking cream cakes. But we will save that lesson, that seductive pleasure for the moment. This evening? In front of the sitting room fire, if I take her on my lap. Take her? Sit her on my lap.

After tea — tea and crumpets and cakes and thigh stroking — we go outside. Jenny is delighted, for Peckham does not have much in the way of gardens. Things are getting autumnal and it is a quiet peaceful scene, a lovely afternoon. Who could imagine, in the peace of this garden, that this dreadful war is going on? The sun is getting lower in the sky but it is still light enough for a little game of croquet. A friendly contest with my charmer. I tell her that if I win, my reward will be to take her knickers down for another spanking of that glorious rear. She flushes, doubtless hotly recalling events earlier in the afternoon. My hand on her bottom… and elsewhere. Jenny, as it happily turns out, has not really played before so that winning and ensuring my reward, is no problem.

Afterwards, after a short but correct game, play degenerates as I introduce innovations that I daresay would scandalise the purists. Horseplay in fact. Most stimulating. And in the course of this I manage another fleeting fondle of what my fingers were itching to get at at tea time. An ‘accidental’ grasp of course. And it is now that I observe there are sky-blue knickers rather than the navy-blue ones earlier. Jenny must have changed them when I came down from her room to see about the tea. Hmmm.

It is now quite dark and the croquet mallets have to be abandoned. More of this exhilarating sport tomorrow perhaps. But there are other sports, indoor ones, that can be looked forward to in the longish autumn evening ahead. Sports by the fireside on my cosy sofa where before I have sported with Susan and with Margaret. First of all, though, it is one’s patriotic duty to carefully check the black-out. There is no reason to suppose that the Hun will be interested in this little town but one must observe the regulations, we must all stick together, shoulder to shoulder, as Winston tells us.

I check the black-out and then I check that Elaine is settled and not likely to bother me. She is reading the Good Book, which is a good sign. I creep out. Downstairs Jenny is waiting, with a somewhat anxious look. What now? her expression inquires. Because out on the lawn I had said…

Yes I did. Knickers down for a smacked bottom. No doubt a little hopeful thought flicks through that pretty head that I might have been joking. ‘Hopeful’ because there is not much doubt that at this stage the prospect of knickers down is not at all attractive. But I was not joking. Naturally. As she soon finds out.

Sitting on the sofa in front of a well-banked fire I tell her. ‘My croquet prize, Jenny. Your knickers. Slip them down, if you please.’

No, she is not happy. But obviously I must insist: a man is master in his own house and a housekeeper, a maid, even a companion must quickly learn this fact.

‘Down, Jenny. Or it might not be just my hand, it might be that nasty cane. And hard this time.’

Now they come down quite quickly.

‘That’s much more like it. Now come here.’

I tug them down a little further before getting her over my lap. Ah the heady solid weight of her — squarely over my, I am afraid, stiff member. Those thoughts, those temptations, come flooding back — redoubling as I slide her skirt up, round her waist. But the answer when one is beset like this is to dive wholeheartedly into another pleasure; the pleasure for which I anyway have her bare bottom over my lap. My hand after some preliminary fondling starts splatting vigorously down. Significantly harder, I should say, than earlier for this is not her introduction and we have to progress. It is extremely rousing stuff — sufficiently so that though I remain in a highly aroused and stimulated state I am able to contain the urge to attempt any other physical release.

Yes, I get her nice and redly glowing and then… well, as I have said one has to progress. My hand strokes the thighs… and then pushes in between. The gasped ‘Aaooww!’s and Ouuch!’s change sharply to more frantic squeals. I choose to ignore them: it is all part of her training, part indeed of growing up.

By the time I have finished she is glowing all right. Hot-faced, hot-bodied, squirming and wailing. Shocked no doubt at what she is feeling. When I let her go she tumbles in a heap on the floor, very like that occasion when she fell off the steps in her mother’s shop. Only now of course her knickers are down round her knees. It takes a little while before she can sort herself out. Some moments before she starts weakly dragging up the sky-blue knickers.

‘Did you like that?’ I ask.

Wide-eyed, red-faced, struggling to her feet, she doesn’t answer.

----//----

I went into her quite early. Eight o’clock. I went into her room, that is, to wake her. But I rather fancy she was already awake, lying straight and still on her back in the little bed. Lying awake and thinking, no doubt. She blinked as the light came on.

I say a ‘Good Morning’ and sit on the side of the bed. ‘Good Morning, Mr Balfour,’ pops out. Her eyes are wide and I daresay all sorts of thoughts are racing about behind them.

My hand comes out to stroke a sleep-warm cheek. And then it slides down under the snug sheet to find one of the ripening beauties. Warm bare flesh under the thin nightie. In my palm the nipple stiffens. Her breath becomes a little agitated but otherwise she lies still. My hand slips over to give the other some attention and its nipple reacts in like manner. They are very choice and really a very good size for 17. And they are clearly responsive. What I wonder is she thinking as my fingers play?

‘Time to get up,’ I tell her. ‘And time for a nice wash. Perhaps I’ll light the fire. We don’t want you catching cold with no clothes on, do we?’

Biting her lip she shakes her head. One could argue perhaps that a maid should be lighting her own fire rather than the master of the house, but during these early stages one must be conscious of a girl’s sensitivities.

My hand leaves her aroused bosom and slides on down. Right down and then up. Taking with it the hem of the white cotton nightie. ‘No… please…’ pops out but not in tones that seem to really mean it — or indeed that really expect me to take note. My hand encloses crisp curls… and then… shortly she begins moaning.

----//----

I light the fire while she lies silent, big eyes watching. And then I bring up steaming pails of water. Nice hot water in a cosily warm room can be very calming, soothing. Soothing those perhaps alarmed and frightened thoughts. But perhaps they are not so alarmed. For while the big brown eyes might conceivably be registering anxiety the ripe, plum-bottomed body does convey a different message. As certain parts stiffen up. And another gets decidedly damp.

I bathe her myself of course. An intimate rite, my hands everywhere on the warm and slippery flesh. She does not demur or resist. I think now… When I have dried her I decide on a little friendly spanking. Another intimate rite. The cane marks of yesterday have quite disappeared. She will be getting some that don’t go that quickly, I fear. But not yet… Not today. Today…

That cosy bed does look inviting. A warm cosy bed in a snug warm room. Yes, It is only her second day but… I really do think… she is ready. Was it the end of the first week with Susan? But this is Jenny, not Susan.

She does not demur when I suggest she gets back between the sheets. And I then join her.