Fiona’s Pink Knickers

From Blushes 63. If, like me, you were hoping for pink knickers to be featured in the pictures you will be sadly disappointed. Nice story though.

It is an archetypal English scene: a country land bordered by leafy hedges, the verges between these and the lane itself burgeoning with the dense vegetation of high summer: ripening lush grass and cow parsley, not to mention vigorous specimens of nettles, all almost head-high to a man. A man is in fact suitably complementing this verdant scene, with strong and practiced strokes laying low this thrusting growth with a scythe. Not a lot of that about nowadays; it’s mostly all chemicals now. And not a lot of this either — as round the corner comes a very pretty girl on a bike. With long bare legs that seem to go on and on.

The rustic toiler immediately stops work to ensure he will miss nothing of her approach, lose no detail of the rhythmically flexing limbs. Just look… As she approaches she makes a smiling grab at her short, rippling skirt… but not before this keen-eyed artisan has obtained a clear view of skimpy pale pink knickers. ‘Hello!’ she calls good-naturedly as she sails past, though aware from his expression what he has probably seen. He watches her go out of sight round the corner, mutters ‘Bugger me!’ and rubs his crotch. Then gets back to his scything.

He is called Ben Larter, 53, self-employed, a bit of a jack-of-all-trades, taking on jobs for the Parish Council, such as this verge cutting, and for local residents. That what has just sailed by, with those fantastic legs going right up to her you-know-what, snugly enclosed — just about — in those pink knickers, she’s not a local resident though. Certainly not. Something like that would never have been missed by Ban Larter’s sharp eyes which are especially sharp regarding half-decent-looking girls and this was… maybe the best he’s ever seen. How old would she be? 18? 19? Bloody Hell. Those knickers! Ben straightens up, and gives his crotch another appreciative rub. Could of course have come from miles away. On a bike. He happens to glance up the lane — and blinks. The girl. He blinks again. Yes, he’s not imagining it. The girl and the bike. Only now she is pushing it. Ben puts down the scythe and rubs the one-day’s growth on his chin. Has she taken a tumble perhaps? In his head he is seeing the pink knicks again. Christ! He stands watching her approach. She has a sort of embarrassed smile on her face which looks flushed. A real nice-looker all right… and now he can see nice tits as well as the legs. In that short-sleeved white blouse. A really nice bit of stuff. He controls the impulse to rub his crotch again. As she gets closer Ben can see something else. Her front tyre is as flat as a pancake.

‘Hello again,’ she says as she comes up to him. ‘Look, I’ve got this really rotten puncture. Just round that bend. And I’m going to be late.’

Ben Larter grins. ‘I reckon you are at that. Pretty Miss Pink Knickers.’

Her face, flushed from the energetic cycling and perhaps also with annoyance at what has happened, goes a deeper shade of red. She produces an awkward smile. ‘You shouldn’t be looking. I tried to get my skirt down.’ She brushes a strand of blonde hair away from her face. They are both for the moment thinking of the skimpy pink knickers under her short grey skirt. ‘Anyway… What am I going to do? I’ve got to get to Mr Hommell’s.’

Mr Hommell’s place, as Ben Larter knows, is some three miles along the lane. This scrumptious young lady with the pink knickers says she has a temporary job there. She is supposed to start at 9.30. What is she going to do? Ben steps forward and thoughtfully caresses the bike’s saddle. Which is still no doubt warm from intimate contact with the cheeks of this pretty girl’s bottom — not to mention her even more intimate parts. He shakes his head, then walks round behind the bike and forward, so that he is directly behind her.

‘I got a bike,’ he tells her. Ben’s hand comes up to rest lightly on the girl’s upper arms. ‘I could let you borrow that. An’ I could mend your puncture. ‘Ow about that?’ Having delivered this most generous offer, Ben’s right hand leaves the girl’s arm… and moves directly to her bottom. Taking hold of the cheek through the short, full skirt.

She yelps and twists away. Not really away, though, as she’s holding her bike. Half turns, squirming her bottom away. A breathless ‘Hey’. Then, ‘Could I? Because if I don’t get there…’

Ben pushes forward so that he is standing very close. ‘I don’t see why not. I’m always ‘appy to oblige a nice pretty, friendly girl. An’ there ain’t many as pretty as you round these parts. None in fact.’

‘Hey!’ she says again. Once again it is Ben’s hand which is the problem. Wanting to slide round and get at her bottom. ‘Look… please…’

‘No,’ says Ben. ‘Just relax. We’re bein’ friendly, ain’t we? Jus’… for a tick.’ He is turning her and she is reluctantly allowing herself to be turned, so that her back is towards him. So that Ben can…

‘Look…’ she says again. Ben has his hand on her bottom. Squeezing the right cheek again. She is protesting, but not making a serious attempt to stop him. Ben says, ‘I can’t resist a pretty girl’s bum. Not if I get ‘alf a chance.’ And then, ‘Hey! Come on…’ because he is now going for broke., Pulling up the short skirt… to get his hand on those skimpy pink knickers. She yelps, but he has done it, is doing it.

She stands there for some seconds, while the eager hand explores the skin-tight, ultra-thin knickers, not to mention associated areas of bare flesh, and then, more determinedly, twists away. Pulling her skirt down with one hand. Her voice also is firm now. ‘No more.’ Her face is bright red.

Ben Larter’s face is also quite red beneath his tan. He grins. ‘What a scorcher, eh young lady! What’s your name? An’ what’re you doin’ at Mr Hommell’s?’

Her name is Fiona and she has a job cataloguing the books in Mr Hommells’ library. She drops her bike down in the verge, again fending off Ben Larter’s hands. ‘No! No more! I let you and now you’re going to lend me your bike. That was the agreement. Where is it?

Ben’s bike is further along; against the hedge. She runs over to it, short skirt swinging about her delicious rump, Ben has difficulty accepting that he has actually got his hand on it, actually got his hand up on the seat of those scanty knickers like that. He had naturally tried it on, a quick grab at the rear of her skirt, but had never expected to achieve what he had, what she had in fact allowed. For a few long, electric moments. She is pulling the bike out. It is a man’s bike of course, with a cross-bar, and Ben’s saddle is higher. But with those long, long legs Ben reckons she’ll reach the pedals. ‘Want some help?’ he inquires.

He holds the bike… and also takes hold of one thigh. ‘Hey! No!’ she yelps. Then swings her leg up. Ben quickly, and helpfully, puts his hand on the saddle. Palm up. So that when she sits down… ‘Aaaaaehh!’ Fiona’s bottom which has sat down on Ben’s hand rapidly rises up again. ‘Look… Cut it out!’

He takes his hand away but keeps hold of the front of the bike. ‘Bring it back tonight, to my place. OK? I’ll ‘ave yours ready.’ He tells her how to find it, then asks where she is staying. ‘With my aunt, Alice Waterfield. She got me the job. Now I’ve got to go. He’s going to kill me. The one thing he said was that I had to be punctual…’

Ben squeezes her thigh, thinks briefly of possibly squeezing something else, then gives her a push off. She teeters, looks as if she is going to fall off but doesn’t quite, and then is OK. Her sandals just about reach to the full extent of the pedals. Ben watches her go, reflectively rubbing his crotch. He has quite a bulge there now. ‘Bugger me,’ he says. He knows Miss Waterfield of course, a slightly eccentric local. Who’d have thought that old bat would have a niece like this?

----//----

It is almost ten when Fiona turns in to Mr Hommell’s driveway. She has got on all right on Ben’s bike though the saddle, a man’s one naturally, hard leather and narrow, has not been exactly comfortable between her thighs. That grabby man! Mr Larter he said his name was. But he did lend her his bike and without it she’d never have got here. As it is… well hopefully Mr Hommell will listen to her very reasonable excuse. You can’t help getting a puncture. This is her third day at Mr Hommell’s, He’s about 60 or so, friendly enough, but… well, Mr Hommell is also a bit the same as that Mr Larter. Grabby hands that is. And of course it’s difficult if you’re working for him. You can’t very well say: Stop that at once! Not if he’s paying you to do his books and is also a sort of friend of your aunt. Fiona dismounts and proceeds to push the bike up the gravel driveway, not prepared to try riding on it. She parks the bike round the side. He’s not going to give her a rough time, is he?

Mr Hommell is waiting for her in the library, not looking very pleased. Fiona blurts out apologies, and a brief account of what has caused her late arrival: the puncture and the rest. Leaving out that she let Mr Larter put his hands up her skirt and fondle her bottom: maybe she should tell him that, to show to what lengths she has gone to be only half an hour late. Mr Hommell does not sound desperately impressed. ‘Ben Larter?’ he barks. ‘That reprobate! And what did you have to do to borrow the bicycle from him?’

‘N… Nothing,’ she says, not exactly truthfully. ‘He… just said I could have it and he’d fix mine.’

‘And what is he going to want when you take it back, Fiona? Have you thought about that?’

Fiona has thought about it. Mr Larter is probably going to want more of the same but there’s not a lot she can do about it, she’ll have to take back his bike. She gives Mr Hommell a wide-eyed, innocent look. ‘Wh…What…?’ He comes close. Mr Hommell has a sort of friendly-old-uncle look but at the same time… His arm slides round Fiona’s waist. ‘Just that you might find Mr Larter a little bit difficult to handle, my dear girl.’ As she has anticipated the hand slides down. Onto the cheeks of her bottom. Perhaps Mr Hommell doesn’t realise he does this, perhaps his hand has a life of its own, because otherwise how can he talk about Mr Larter? The hand is jiggling Fiona’s bottom-cheeks and she can’t tell him to cut it out, as she has with Mr Larter in the lane. Because of Aunt Alice primarily. Mr Hommell might complain about her and Fiona would never be able to say what he had actually done. So she can only stand and take it. Edging away slightly but that does no good because Mr Hommell simply edges forward. Still keeping his firm grip on her bum.

‘Anyway, Fiona, you were late yesterday as well. Not much I grant you but it’s tending to become a habit. And I want you here on time. So what I intend to do…’

What Mr Hommell intends to do he says is give her a good, smacked bottom. Something that will make her think twice in future.

Smacking Fiona’s bottom is something he has threatened to do before. When she dropped a couple of books on the floor and again when he found spelling mistakes in the list she has to type. ‘Careless girls need their bottoms smacked, Fiona.’ It was an excuse to do some more fondling at her bottom of course. Fiona had to contritely take the fondling and Mr Hommell seemed satisfied with that and his threat. And when he said it again now Fiona at first thought it was the same, a rhetorical threat to accompany his fumbling at her rear cheeks. I’m getting an awful lot of it this morning, she told herself ruefully. But then it became clear that this time Mr Hommell meant business.

‘So go in the morning room and get your knickers off. I’ll be in directly. Oh, and put the socks on.’

He has at least let go of her bum — giving it a dismissive slap. Fiona bites her lip. Does he mean it? That he’s going to give her a spanking with her knickers off. He can’t. The socks of course means the white knee socks that since her first day Mr Hommell has made her put on. That’s just one of his little fancies: he likes her in white knee socks. Maybe Mr Hommell thinks it makes her look young, younger than her 19 years. Fiona doesn’t mind wearing the knee socks, not if it pleases Mr Hommell, it is not a problem like having her bottom fumbled whenever he has the chance. Although she is not too keen to be seen wearing them when he has a visitor come to the house. One of Mr Hommell’s male friends for instance. But… her knickers… off…

Fiona is going red in the face. She flushes rather easily which is annoying when you’re 19. But the prospect of having to take your knickers down and have your bare bottom spanked is perhaps enough to make any 19-year-old girl go red in the face. She shakes her head. ‘Look… Please… It… wasn’t my fault…’

Mr Hommell steps close. Close in front of her and not, as he frequently seems to be, approaching from the rear. ‘Yes Fiona. Maybe that puncture wasn’t your fault but overall, we have reached the stage when you need a little something. So go in the morning room please. Put the socks on and take your knickers off. And if they’re not off when I come in, Miss… well I shall have to remove them myself, won’t I?’

Mr Hommell steps back — just a step. His hand goes to the hem of Fiona’s short. skirt (he told her the first day that was how he wanted her: a short full skirt and a short-sleeved blouse and sandals). Fiona stands straight and still though quivering slightly as Mr Hommell lifts her skirt. He has done this before (‘Stand still, Fiona, I’m only checking. You might… ha-ha… have forgotten to put any on this morning, mightn’t you?’ Although clearly Mr Hommell would already know about that from his fumblings). Fiona’s skirt is coming up. Right up above her waist on the side where Mr Hommell’s finger and thumb have hold of the hem. To reveal all of her lovely bare thighs plus the brief pale pink knickers tightly enclosing, like a second skin, rounded hips and rounded mound.

‘Pink ones!’ observes Mr Hommell. ‘Very charming. I’m surprised that Ben Larter didn’t have them off you. Anyway get them off now.’ He drops the skirt and gives Fiona a beaming smile. Friendly avuncular Mr Hommell. ‘All right, Fiona dear?’

Silently Fiona accepts the pair of white socks that he now holds out. She swallows… and turns towards the morning room. She could refuse. Could she? Mr Hommell said if she didn’t do it smartish he will take them off himself. He is sixtyish and a bit heavy, but seemingly pretty fit. Fiona is quite fit too, tennis, not to mention cycling, but would not like to guarantee coming off best in a struggle. And anyway she can’t get in a struggle with Mr Hommell, Aunt Alice’s friend or close acquaintance at least. Equally, as with the bottom feeling, she can’t go to Aunt Alice and complain. Not when Aunt Alice is putting her up and has gone to the trouble of finding her this job. So really — there’s not a lot of choice. Even though the prospect is pretty sickening.

The morning room has Mr Hommell’s piano in it and also the bright morning sun streaming in through the windows. Outside beyond the lawn Fiona can see Mr Ratger who does Mr Hommell’s garden. She has a sudden awful image of Mr Ratger up close to the window gazing in while Mr Hommell… gets to work on her. That thought is dismissed as being silly — things are going to be quite bad enough without that. What is going to happen is quite impossible. Presumably he means over his lap. Fiona glances at the likeliest site of the action: Mr Hommell’s high-backed chair. She shudders. He can’t. Really.

The socks anyway. Mr Hommell’s socks. She sits down on the chair to unfasten her sandals. Pulling on the sock which she really doesn’t like. Reaching for the sandals… again and then thinking: if she’s got to take them off — her knickers — it is sensible to take them off before she puts the sandals back on. Oh Christ. A moment’s hesitation… and she stands up. Her hands up under the short skirt. The pink knickers come down. Off over her white-socked feet. The sandals slipped back on again. She stands up. Mr Ratger is still over there, not seeming to be doing very much.

Oh Christ. It feels awful with no knickers on. A naked, very vulnerable feeling. Her bottom bare — not to mention bare between her legs. For some reason the thought of Mr Larter’s hard, unyielding saddle comes into her head. Hard and stiff, almost like… The bike is standing out there round the side of the house. Waiting for her to get on it again. Tonight she’s got to take it back to Mr Larter. Mr Hommell seems to know what Mr Larter is like. But what is he like when he’s got a girl in his house? Because he’s not going to let her leave it and go off right away. He’s going to invite her in. Obviously. Unless he’s got a wife there of course. And maybe even that wouldn’t stop him.

Fiona’s thoughts are snapped back to the immediate present by the entrance of her employer. Oh Christ. Maybe she needs to go to the loo. He can’t really…

‘Ah…’ Mr Hommel has immediately observed the pink knickers lying on the piano. Fiona has put them there for want of anywhere else: she had the urge to hide them but there didn’t seem anywhere suitable. Mr Hommell picks up the knickers between finger and thumb, then drops them again. ‘Good, young lady. Right then.’ He is sitting down. On the high-backed chair. ‘Come on then.’

‘Oh… really…’ She squirms, holding her skirt tight down around her thighs. ‘Please… I mean… Mr Ratger’s out there.’

‘Don’t worry about Mr Ratger. Or would you prefer it if I brought him in? He could help hold you if you’re one of those squirmy, wriggly girls, Fiona. Would you prefer that? No? Come here then. Now.’

She stumbles forward. This is sickening. Mr Hommell is guiding her down. As Fiona’s hips come down he slides the skirt up, so that she is bare against his lap. His hand pushes the blonde head down, near the carpet. So that lissom Fiona forms a sort of triangle with its apex her ripe bottom. Which is quite bare now because Mr Hommell has slid her skirt right up over her back.

Mr Hommell’s hand is fondling. Well naturally. When he’s now got Fiona’s marvellous bottom quite bare. How could he resist it? Fondling, stroking his hand over the pneumatic flesh. Fiona groans. Probably Mr Hommell has been planning this ever since she started. Perhaps ever since Aunt Alice said she had a niece at college who was coming for the summer and wanted a job. Asking Aunt Alice: ‘Is she pretty? Has she got a nice bum? Yes I’d very much like to have her.’ That’s silly of course he wouldn’t actually say that. Fiona is feeling light-headed, with her head down and all the blood flowing to it and also with what Mr Hommell is doing to her bum. It is awful but also arousing too in an awful way. Being helplessly bare-bottomed like this, on full view to Mr Hommell with his hand stroking her intimate flesh. He is not actually spanking yet. Just stroking the silky flesh of her bare bum and the backs of her thighs. She had her legs together but he has pushed them apart, so probably he can see everything. Jesus. Fiona can hear herself making whimpering sounds. He’s not going to… put his hand… there, is he? She’ll go off into orbit if he does… She tries to slide her thighs together again — only to have Mr Hommell’s hand firmly push them back open. Even further apart. She makes a gurgling sound and grips the leg of the chair. From above her comes Mr Hommell’s voice. Finally.

‘Well I suppose we’d better get on and smack it, Fiona. Give this lovely bottom what it needs. All right? All set?’

No doubt he is not expecting an answer. Fiona makes another groaning sound and braces herself. The playing about has finished and now it’s finally coming. Mr Hommell hasn’t put his hand between her legs. As she grips again at the chair leg the thought flits into her head that if it was Mr Larter he would do it. Put his hand there. If when she takes the bike back he makes her get over his lap… like this.

‘Aaooohhh…!’

Mr Hommell’s hand has thudded down. A real stinger. Fanciful thoughts of Mr Larter are immediately driven out of her head. Fiona’s bottom jerking.

‘Aaoooooohhh…!’

A second one coming down squarely on the other bottom-cheek. Maybe Mr Hommell’s preliminary messing about has got her bottom in an extra-sensitive state. It was arousing in an awful way having him do that… but now…

‘Oooouch! Aaooowwwhhh…! No… ooo…! No… Please’

----//----

Mr Larter’s place. She has found it without any trouble: a cottage by the river about a mile from Aunt Alice’s house. A mile with Mr Larter’s bike’s unyielding saddle between her thighs. Fiona comes to a halt at the gate and dismounts. No one is in sight and she fumbles behind her. Perhaps it is the saddle but her knickers have worked up into the cleft of her bottom in an unpleasant manner. With the knickers adjusted she opens the gate.

It is half past six. Fiona has been home and had her tea and told Aunt Alice that she has had another nice interesting day with Mr Hommell. ‘Interesting’ is one way to describe a day in which you have had to take your knickers off and been given a bare-bottom spanking over a man’s lap. In fact Mr Hommell came on strong again in the afternoon, after finding a couple more minor typing errors in her list, as if he was going to give her a repeat. Fortunately one of his friends arrived at that point. At least he didn’t propose doing it in front of his friend. But he may well wish to continue with that in the morning. Fiona has the nasty idea that now he has started it could be happening all the time.

She wheels the bike up Mr Larter’s garden path. She is not thinking of Mr Hommell now of course. Fiona is in her same skirt and blouse with, now it’s cooler, a blazer on top. Mr Hommell’s knee socks have been left at his house and she is bare-legged. Under the skirt are the same pink knickers, now somewhat more comfortably arranged after the quick grab at the gate. Mr Larter is not in his garden which is neat and thriving looking. Perhaps he’s out — but Fiona doesn’t think there’s a big chance of that. He said come about this time. Now she can see her bike leaning against a shed. She stands Mr Larter’s next to it. The puncture has been mended. So she could just slip-off with it. But that wouldn’t be polite, would it? And anyway…

She goes to knock at his door. Her heart is thudding, for some reason. Because she’s scared? The door opens after only a few moments. Mr Larter. Grinning. She sees he’s shaved since this morning. ‘Ah. Miss Pretty Pink Knickers,’ he says. ‘Come in then.’

Fiona shakes her head although she knows she will. ‘I can’t really stay. I just brought your bike. And thanks… for mending mine.’

Yes, she is going in, in spite of saying she can’t. ‘I’m making a cup of tea,’ he tells her. ‘Pretty Miss Pink Knickers.’

She laughs. ‘It’s Fiona remember.’ Inside the place is cosy-looking, not awful as you might expect for a bachelor living by himself. She knows this from a discreet questioning of Aunt Alice. Mr Hommell is a bachelor too of course but with a housekeeper to look after things.

‘Fiona Pink Knickers then. If you’ve still got ‘em on that is. If that Mr Hommell ‘asn’t taken ‘em off vou and kept ‘em.’

Fiona can feel she’s blushing but tries to ignore it. ‘How can you say that — especially after what you did right out in the open.’

Mr Larter comes close. He seems to have forgotten he’s making some tea. ‘Cos I ‘appen to know ‘e’s keen on that. Another girl that used to work for ‘im, she told me. Mr Hommell ‘ad ‘er knickers down or off pretty well all the time.’

‘Hey!’ Mr Larter has taken hold of Fiona’s waist, pulling her close.

‘That’s ‘ow I know, Fiona dear. An’ ‘e did do it; didn’t ‘e? Mr Hommell ‘ad ‘em off.’

Fiona protests, tries to ridicule the idea, but she knows it is not sounding convincing. Finally, somehow, she is admitting it. Admitting that Mr Hommell has taken her knickers off and smacked her bottom. Mr Larter still has hold of her, like he did in the road this morning only now there’s not her bike as well. Fiona yelps as one of Mr Larter’s hands which has been round her waist slides down to her bottom. She shouldn’t have admitted it about Mr Hommell of course. Because Mr Larter is now saying he wants to do it too.

Fiona certainly ridicules this idea. Or makes ridiculing sounds. But at the same time… it is something she has thought of… and felt a shiver as she thought of. Though she is trying to ridicule it she has somehow expected this. She struggles… as Mr Larter, laughing, says he is going to. ‘No!…’ she yelps. ‘You’ll rip them…’

He is yanking at her knickers up under her skirt. Then: ‘Aaaaiieee…’ She almost collapses. By accident or design he has got his hand in between her legs.

‘Take ‘em off then.’ Mr Larter’s hand has come out from where it was threatening to blast her off into orbit. He takes Fiona’s hand… and moves it to the front of his trousers. Where there is an enormous throbbing bulge. Fiona is going to collapse. She should be yanking her hand away… but isn’t. Jesus! ’Get ‘em off,’ he hisses again in her ear.

Fiona breaks away. She should definitely be leaving of course. Right away. ‘Wh…What about that tea?’ she stutters. Mr Larter says later. ‘After.’

After he has got her knickers off. And after…

She’s doing it. With shaking hands sliding down her knickers. This can’t really be happening. Not at all. Mr Hommell and Mr Larter. Fiona thinks of Gavin, her boyfriend. She doesn’t seem to have thought of Gavin all day. It’s because she hasn’t seen him for a week now, that’s why she feels all… funny. Hot is another word. That’s why she is taking her knickers down here in Mr Larter’s little parlour when clearly… it is not a good idea.

He takes the pale pink garment. Pulls her close again. His hand is at her bare and it seems red-hot bottom. Like Mr Hommell’s hand only definitely different. Mr Larter is saying something but Fiona doesn’t catch it, her head is in too much of a daze. Then he is sitting down. Pulling her down over his lap. Mr Larter’s hand fondling the hot, quivering cheeks, bringing groans from Fiona’s lips. She knows where his hand is going to go. And when it does… she will go off like a rocket into space.

The hand does go there. Where she is shamelessly wet. And Fiona does rocket off into space. In no time at all. After that, after she’s gone off and then cruised more gently back to earth, there is some spanking. Not a very great deal, though, it seems. Then she is being pushed to her feet. They are going upstairs, Mr Larter says. Fiona can hear herself protesting, that she can’t possibly. Think of Gavin for one thing. But then, Gavin or not, she is, assisted by her host because Fiona’s legs don’t seem much use.

Very shortly she is in Mr Larter’s bed. ‘I shouldn’t,’ she whispers. ‘I really shouldn’t. I don’t.’ She has hold of Mr Larter’s thing. Which is enormous. ‘You won’t tell anyone… Mr Hommell or…’ Jesus! ‘Aunt Alice?’

Mr Larter is getting over on top of her. This can’t really be happening. Because she really doesn’t. Not at all, except with Gavin. Think of Gavin. No, don’t think of Gavin…