Ministry Business

From Blushes 20

Finally out of the frustrations of London’s traffic and onto the M1, the chauffeur breathed an almost audible sigh of relief and put his foot down. Only almost audible because a chauffeur in the Ministry was trained to be silent, virtually invisible. Almost a part of the vehicle itself. And in any case he was separated from the rear seat by a glass partition. The big black Daimler sped north. In the soft leather of that capacious rear seat Mr Strangeway put his papers away with a thoughtful ‘Hmmm’. Then put his hand on the thigh of his young (and female) companion.

‘Bloody bumph, Miss Wareham. But top secret bloody bumph of course. Now then where was it you said you were at? St Monica’s? And then Newley at Oxford?’

The young and female companion said ‘Yes sir.’ Hilary Wareham was 21 and only six months out of Oxford. Six months of basic training in the Ministry and now chosen by Mr Strangeway as his Personal Assistant. Mr Strangeway of course was a Very Important Person and Hilary Wareham, in addition to having a keen brain, was a very personable young female. Quite tall, with good breasts and a womanly sway to her hips; and thick curly auburn hair framing clean attractive features.

Being such an important figure in the Ministry, Mr Strangeway could naturally pick the attractive ones. His hand squeezed the thigh. ‘Good school, St Monica’s. Good traditions. Plenty of sport. Play any sports, Miss Wareham?’

Hilary said, ‘Tennis sir. And hockey at school, sir. And I like to ski as well.’ Mr Strangeway was in his fifties, perhaps slightly overweight, a short grey moustache adorning his pinkish face. She had only just been moved to Mr Strangeway’s office and didn’t know him yet. It was all fearfully exciting.

Mr Strangeway said, ‘Tennis, hockey and skiing eh? Need good strong thighs for all that, I should say.’ And as he spoke his hand went down to the hem of Hilary’s full grey skirt and simply pulled it up.

They were good strong thighs and very attractive ones, in sheer grey nylons, their darker rims at mid-thigh tautly fastened with the clasps of white suspender straps. Hilary, who had gasped when her skirt came up, now gave another gasp as Mr Strangeway’s hand gripped her nearside bare thigh just above the stocking top.

‘Very lovely, Miss Wareham. I like to see good legs on a girl. And a nice firm bottom as well. And I rather think you’ve got that too, eh?’

What could you do, or say? When you were still quite new to the Ministry and Mr Strangeway was Mr Strangeway, a very, very senior person and also your new boss? Nothing, was the answer, except sweat a little bit. And then give a sharp, shrill squeak. Because Mr Strangeway’s hand had slid up Hilary’s warm thighs. Right up, to her knickers. Her lacy-edged, white French knickers. His fingers burrowing down, between the very tops of Hilary’s silky warm thighs.

‘Got a boyfriend, Miss Wareham?’

Hilary’s hand had involuntarily come across to lightly take hold of Mr Strangeway’s hand. What she desperately wanted to do was pull the hand away. Because the fingers of the hand were, incredibly, rubbing along the ultra-sensitive lips of that vertical slit. A girl’s very headquarters. Rubbing firmly up and down. Hilary desperately needed to yank the hand away but…

‘Yessir,’ she gasped weakly. This was really… quite unbelievable.

Mr Strangeway’s fingers continued what they were doing. ‘I mention it, Miss Wareham, because the work we are involved with now is very sensitive. Not a word of anything we are engaged with can be mentioned to a single soul, Miss Wareham.’

Did that include Mr Strangeway rubbing her pussy? Hilary bit her lip. Apart from anything else a girl by the very nature of things was extremely sensitive there. She had to do something. Her hand closed more tightly on Mr Strangeway’s. ‘Please… sir… I can’t… please don’t.’

Her voice urgent but low. Because while all this unbelievable thing was happening they were still speeding up the M1 and the chauffeur, Mr Rutter, was there, his black-suited back, his cap. On the other side of that glass panel, but there was an intercom. And there were his eyes in the mirror.

Mr Strangeway consented to remove his hand. Hilary silently expelled her breath and offered up a little prayer of thanks. She had been getting rather, well, hot, down there. Hot and juicy, some of the more forward girls at school would say. But at school, or indeed at university, no one had thought to instruct you how to deal with a boss who…

And coming from a church background, her father a country vicar, that didn’t help either. Turn the other cheek? Or perhaps simply a stiff British upper lip. A variant of the ‘lie back and think of England’ that, also at school, girls had gigglingly repeated. Hilary’s fleeting thought of St Monica’s was by chance taken up by Mr Strangeway.

‘Yes, excellent school St Monica’s from what I’ve heard. Tell me do they whack girls?’

What? He couldn’t mean…? A little hesitantly, Hilary had now pulled her skirt back down. ‘Uh sorry, sir?’

‘Whacking, Miss Wareham. Or whipping if you prefer. The cane, or a nice little strap. Across a girl’s bottom or the backs of her thighs. Eh?’

Hilary Wareham gave a gasping squeal.

For if Mr Strangeway’s words were not themselves enough to give a girl the shivers, he had accompanied the ‘eh?’ with a hand, that same one, reaching across, as he half-turned to her, to take a firm grip of a breast. Lightly-brassiered under Hilary’s crisp white blouse and nothing else so that the contact between hand and yielding female flesh was close and intimate. Mr Strangeway said ‘Eh?’ again, mounding the breast, hefting its weight and firmness as one might test a melon for ripeness.

‘Uh… no… sir.’ Hilary’s mind darted momentarily out of the cosy but treacherous confines of the Daimler’s back seat, back to St Monica’s. No there certainly had not been anything like that at school. Certainly not any whipping of bottoms or thighs. The Headmistress had had a cane but delivered it across the palm of a girl’s hand. Hilary had had it once, a bit of a rumpus when in the sixth form. Three sharp cuts across the open palm held tremblingly out. The hot pain had been a sickening shock, causing rapid eye blinking, and a few minutes later in the privacy of the loo, the tears to flood. But no, nothing of what Mr Strangeway had so frighteningly suggested.

He gave the full breast another firm squeeze, then removed his hand. ‘Good firm shape, Miss Wareham. That’s what I like to see, must be all that sport, eh?’

His bold unquestioning hand first between her legs and then at her breast. Hilary was feeling just a little shell-shocked. There had been no reason to expect any of this, none at all. Although there was that girl Julie Smilby’s reaction when Hilary had excitedly told her of her new posting. When she had mentioned Mr Strangeway’s name Julie had given a sort of mocking laugh. At the time it had seemed odd.

Mr Strangeway was now reaching forward to the glass which divided them from the chauffeur. Drawing down a blind. ‘I’m not sure that fellow Rutter’s had full security clearance.’ Mr Strangeway settled back in his seat.

The drawn blind meant that now there weren’t those eyes which from time to time had disconcertingly met Hilary’s in the mirror. And also Mr Strangeway did not now have his hand on any part of Hilary’s person. She shivered. It had been just a little… She brushed a lock of auburn hair from a damp forehead. It was distinctly warm in the Daimler in spite of the fact that she was in only blouse and skirt. Hopefully they would soon…

‘Nothing in the line of corporal chastisement at St Monica’s then, eh?’

Hilary focussed her mind on this new conversational gambit. Oh dear. ‘Uh no, sir.’ There was clearly nothing to be gained by mentioning the caning across the hand.

‘Mmmm. In that case…’ Mr Strangeway’s voice was calm, thoughtful. ‘I think we should see how you take it. It’s an excellent test of character, I always think. And really there’s no time like the present. Eh Miss Wareham?’

Hilary had no clear idea what he was talking about. ‘Pardon sir?’

‘I’m not talking about the cane or the strap. Not in here; not the space, is there? But a good bottom warming is certainly on.’ His eyes, rather small and blue, met Hilary’s. ‘I’ve done it a time or two in this vehicle.’

There didn’t seem to be much doubt now. But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t!

‘Over my lap,’ Mr Strangeway said. ‘And let’s have those knickers down, shall we?’

She looked at him, bemused, an idiotic half-smile on her face. Mr Strangeway who had done this ‘a time or two’ before took her arm and pulled her sideways and down. Could you indignantly refuse? Or even quietly but firmly refuse? Struggle? Had any of those other girls tried that? But Mr Strangeway was a very, very important person. A key man in the Ministry. There was no way you could argue with such a person. You would simply get kicked out, and what would Mummy and Daddy and everyone else think of that? Hilary who had got that marvellous job in the Ministry has now unfortunately been kicked out. Yes after only six months.

No you couldn’t contemplate that, so Mr Strangeway was not meeting a lot of resistance as he got Hilary Wareham fully over his lap. And then pulled that full grey skirt up again. The white french knickers tugged brusquely down. To reveal a bottom which was indeed truly splendid. Ripe cheeks like full pale moons. Soft but firm female flesh. Silky soft to the touch. To Mr Strangeway’s touch.

Touching. Stroking. Squeezing as he had squeezed that breast, and the thigh. And then, those preliminaries completed to his satisfaction, his hand rising and sharply falling. Crack! And rising and falling again. Juddering the ripe flesh. Flattening it, though it immediately sprang back to its resiliently rounded shape. The pale flesh bearing first one pristine red hand-print… then two… three… But very soon none because the cheeks of Hilary’s bottom were being rendered all over an even, glowing, rosy red.

Hilary all the while gasping and groaning. Yelping. Cries of pain and shock. Extreme shock for it was an experience she had never in her wildest dreams, or nightmares, contemplated. Perhaps it was a nightmare. Because surely Mr Strangeway couldn’t… in the Ministry’s Daimler… speeding smoothly up the M1…

----//----

In a way it was quite reminiscent of her home down in Hampshire. The rectory at Little Buncombe. This was a lot bigger of course, in extensive grounds surrounded by a high wall and impressive gates. But inside, apart from the fact that it was a bigger house, it did remind Hilary of her home. This was where the meeting was to take place, on Mr Strangeway’s hush-hush business. Frightfully exciting to be actually involved in something like this — except that that drive up the M1 had left Hilary scarcely able to think.

It was so mind-boggling that she could hardly believe it had happened. Over Mr Strangeway’s lap in the Daimler and Mr Strangeway’s hand smacking her bare bottom. There was also that other business before. That very intimate groping, but you could get some of that — ‘feeling up’ girls at school called it — from strangers on buses or the tube. Perhaps not as bad or as blatant as Mr Strangeway had done but, well, the same sort of thing. But your bare bottom unmercifully spanked. That was something quite, quite beyond the ken.

Mr Rutter had taken her bag in for her. A quiet seemingly pleasant man. ‘Nice part of the country, Miss.’ Hilary had agreed it was. Did he know what had happened? Because if he was Mr Strangeway’s regular chauffeur and Mr Strangeway had done it ‘A time or two in this vehicle’? There had been those eyes in the mirror before the blind had been discreetly drawn. The thought of Mr Rutter knowing made her squirm.

A pleasant little room, cosily furnished and looking out over the kitchen garden. Hilary forced her mind back to Ministry business: Mr Strangeway’s meeting. She had a wash and brushed her hair. She had had a quick look at her door and there was a lock. It was silly to think things like that but… Then a brisk little knock at the door.

A younger man, or younger than Mr Strangeway at least, 30 perhaps, in a smart dark suit. ‘Hello. Miss Wareham?’ He came in.

A beaming smile. ‘I’m Jeremy Silton, Head of Q Division.’ So another Very Important Person. He shook Hilary’s hand. ‘I’m afraid there’s been a frightful flap. Bob Strangeway’s had to go back to London right away. Some sort of awful flap that he’s got to deal with.’

So where did that leave the meeting? And Hilary herself? Was she supposed to go back with her boss? Not that the prospect of another drive with him right away was exactly enticing. She looked nonplussed.

Mr Silton came close, to squeeze her arm in a reassuring manner. ‘No, no, you’re to stay here. He’ll probably be back tomorrow. And in the meantime I daresay we can keep you busy.’

Downstairs Mr Silton got two gin-and-tonics and took them into the dining room. There were some other people around but it seemed to be just Hilary he wanted to talk to. He closed the door firmly behind them.

‘Quite new, I believe, Miss Wareham? Bob Strangeway’s new girl.’ He grinned. ‘Of course he always did know how to pick a charming girl.’

Hilary flushed slightly and tried to banish thoughts of that desperate car journey from her head. Mr Silton couldn’t know anything about that sort of thing.

‘I suppose being so new he hasn’t had time to get you trained yet?’

Mr Silton had soft dark eyes and they were looking right into Hilary’s. She swallowed. A ridiculous thought roaming around in her head. ‘Uh, well…’

He was smiling blandly. ‘I understand he likes to have a preliminary go at it when he’s got a girl in his car with him.’

He must mean something else. Hilary took a mouthful of her drink and prayed that he meant something else.

‘Eh Miss Wareham? Knickers down and over his lap on the way up by any chance?’

There should be some dark little corner, a mousehole even, that she could crawl into.

‘Yes, Miss Wareham?’ Her face gave the answer. Bright red with eyes that could not meet his.

Mr Silton was smiling. ‘Ah yes. A girl’s got to have her training, hasn’t she? And I’m sure if our Mr Strangeway were here he would be moving onto the second stage now. The cane, Miss Wareham. But there’s no problem, and we don’t want to delay matters, do we? So I can step into the breach. In fact when you’ve finished that drink I rather think… Well, there’s no time like the present, is there?’

Hilary tried to speak, to protest, but proper words did not seem to want to come out. Only garbled sounds in which possibly ‘Please’ could be identified. Mr Silton did not seem too concerned with trying to decipher words.

‘Just stay here one second, Miss Wareham, whilst I go and fetch my little stick. I’ll take your glass.’

She stood there, somehow unconsciously adopting that old Girl Guide position: legs braced apart, hands behind her back. She shook her head in disbelief.

Mr Silton came quickly back and locked the door. In his hand a dreadful-looking cane. Briskly he made Hilary stand at the table. Bend forward and place her forearms on the polished top. Then legs back, away from the table, so that she had to stand on her toes. Shiny patent leather shoes together. This couldn’t be happening. But she knew it was, Mr Silton now pulling up her skirt. That ripe rump in the pretty, lace-edged french knickers. The knickers that Mr Strangeway in the Daimler had pulled down…

Mr Silton was pulling them down. Working them down off the full swell of the bottom-cheeks. Down below the taut tops of her shimmery nylons. Hilary’s bottom, incredibly, bare again. Bare before a second Very Senior Person in the Ministry. If mummy and daddy back at the rectory in dear old Little Buncombe could ever guess… that their darling Hilary… Or if any of the parishioners could ever guess…

Crack!…

Oh Dear God! Shamed thoughts of family and acquaintances shot abruptly from Hilary’s mind as the cane stung tender flesh. Squarely across the trembling nates at their widest extent. The frightful pain causing her knees to buckle, her torso and head to collapse down on the table top, as Hilary’s whole body curled up in shocked reaction. In that position the second searing stroke cracked down. And then a third.

How many? She didn’t know. She hadn’t been able to count as her mind blanked off, simply saying: No, No, No as each one bit in. She didn’t know how many but it had seemed like… She wiped tears from her cheeks as Mr Silton was easing her upright. She was trembling like a leaf.

Mr Silton smiling his bland smile was saying something. Hilary’s head still not really capable of taking anything in beyond the stinging smart in her poor bottom. What? Her mind at last got a vague idea… No! He couldn’t… be telling her… that.

Mr Silton helping her up. Onto the polished table that really was like the one back at the rectory. Up on her back. Making her hold the edges for support. And then lift her legs in the air. Hilary’s shapely legs with the pretty knickers still down around her nylons. Or up around as it now was. Her bare bottom upside down in the air. On full show. And, as Hilary sweatingly knew, not just her bottom on full show in this position. A girl’s private-most parts as well.

Mr Silton’s urbane voice. ‘Keep the legs nice and high, Miss Wareham.’

And then again the cane.