Company Policy

Another story that would appear to be written by R.T. Mason, from Blushes 31. I've no idea why it is called Company Policy, as the story relates to the familiar trope of tuition from an older gentleman.

‘Do you wear anything in bed?’ Mr Vincent asked. ‘Nightdress, pyjamas? Or in the altogether as they say perhaps?’

The pretty cheeks pinkened slightly. Jane had been here perhaps 15 minutes. In Mr Vincent’s house. Perched now a little nervously on his settee in the drawing room. Nyloned knees tight together showing shimmeringly beneath the shortish pink dress. Jane’s white high-heeled courts also neatly together. Her mother had advised wearing them, they looked very smart, though they were not in fact the most practical footwear for a train journey carrying a largish suitcase. Jane had got help though, a gentleman lifting the case up on the rack for her when she got on and another obligingly offering a similar service at her destination, Wastling, the nearest station to here. The latter gentleman had been in the carriage for a while, sitting opposite and offering small talk and gazing admiringly at her knees. Was she going on holiday?

It wasn’t exactly a holiday of course. ‘What Jane needs at her age is to be taken in hand by an older man.’ Jane’s mother’s friend, Angela Mirton had said. ‘It’s what any girl of that age needs. They frequently just don’t know what they want and an older man can soon sort all that out.’ Angela Mirton had smiled at Jane in that knowing, older-woman fashion. Jane had blushed. She blushed rather easily. She had imagined when she was younger, at school, that when she was grown up she would be very assured and confident and wouldn’t do it. But she still did. She had blushed rather badly a couple of times on the train with that man who kept staring at her knees. Things he had said and also of course wondering if he could possibly see anything beyond her knees. That way he kept looking.

Jane’s mother hadn’t seemed to need a lot of persuading, especially as Mrs Mirton said she knew ‘just the man’. Mr Vincent.

‘Uh… nightdress,’ Jane said, aware that she was flushing. She wasn’t at all sure what this visit to Mr Vincent was going to involve. Not really. Her mother had been vague — but then perhaps she wasn’t too sure herself. Taken in hand? Angela Mirton was a rather more worldly woman herself, or seemed to be, and also from a more upper-class background. She herself had been to a finishing school at eighteen. Where perhaps there were gentlemen who ‘took you in hand?’ But why did Mr Vincent want to know…?

‘Nightdress, eh.’ Sitting across from Jane he smiled that charming smile. He was perhaps fifty, and you could say handsome in an older-man sort of way. ‘Good. Well what I’d like you to do is go up to your room and put it on.’

She couldn’t really believe Mr Vincent had said that but he repeated it. In more forceful tones. Not a raised voice but one that an eighteen-year-old girl who blushed easily was not going to argue with. Getting to her feet, pretty knees kept primly together. A nervous smile at Mr Vincent who was still seated. Turning. Presenting the backs of her knees, and her bottom, to the seated gentleman. Her vulnerable bottom. Feeling his eyes on her hindquarters which unavoidably had a certain side-to-side swaying motion as she walked to the door. A sudden thought flashing through her head: what a girl she knew, though not that well, had said when somehow the matter of Mr Vincent had been mentioned. But Priscilla had obviously only been teasing. Hadn’t she?

Forcing the nasty thought out of her mind. It was quite ridiculous. But… why did she have to get her nightdress on now? At four o’clock in the afternoon. Her friend Susan of course had said something else. Jokingly. What Mr Vincent would do to her. Tight-lipped and flushing Jane had given Susan a sharp punch on the arm but Susan, in spite of the punch, had gone on teasing. ‘Why, wouldn’t you like it, Jane? A nice experienced older man!’

In the pretty little room where that short while ago Mr Vincent had put her case but there had not yet been time to unpack it. Opening it now. Her nightdress as it happened was right at the top. White with blue flowers. He had said that? She hadn’t imagined it? No, Mr Vincent had said it all right. Chewing her lip she began. Unzipping her dress. Maybe he thought she needed a rest after the train journey. Yes that must be it. Well, what else — apart from those awful, unthinkable things. Her slip. Nylons and suspender belt. Bra and knickers. Jane’s ripe shape bare in the little room. Full breasts firmly raised as she lifted the nightdress over her head. The flimsy garment sliding down: the full breasts, slim waist, the twin moons of her bottom. Should she get into bed? A glance in the mirror: her face was flushed again. Jane smoothed russet curls. She was here for two weeks with Mr Vincent. There had apparently been no trouble at all when her mother rang him. Yes, he would be delighted to have her stay. So Jane’s mother had said.

‘Don’t be silly, it’ll be a lovely little break,’ Jane had been assured when she demurred. What else had that Mrs Mirton said to her mother? About Mr Vincent?

Jane turned, looking at the bed, conscious of her bare body under the thin cotton. As the door opened. She hadn’t locked it: there wasn’t a lock for one thing and anyway, should you lock your door, a guest in a gentleman’s house? It was Mr Vincent. He was different. He had changed. Or at any rate now had on a dressing gown.

‘Come downstairs, if you’re ready.’

Jane preceded him down the stairs, then she was told to wait in a room at the back of the house. Mr Vincent went away, and she heard him make a telephone call, then through an adjoining door she saw him sit in an armchair and pick up a book. After a while, feeling silly and not a little bewildered at being left standing about in her nightie in the middle of the afternoon, she plucked up courage to go across to the doorway and say ‘Er —’

‘I’m just waiting for your — I’m waiting for a ‘phone call, then I’ll deal with you, Jane.’ He smiled. ‘Meanwhile, you can pull your nightie up ready —’

Ready? For what? But he made her do it, pull her fresh cotton nightdress up and up till she was all bare thighs and bare bottom and — well, that too. Then she was sent back into the other room, to wait, blushing furiously and trembling all over.

The telephone shrilled in the hall. When Mr Vincent returned he said, ‘Well, that’s that confirmed.’ He had a cane in his hand.

Closing the door behind him. Smiling that charming smile. ‘It’s always a good idea to have a little session right away, Jane. It gets a girl in the right state of mind.’

No! He couldn’t cane her.

‘Over the chair, Jane. A quick little session.’

‘No!’ The word gasped out. ‘No! Why…?’

‘Discipline, my dear. A key need for a girl of your age. We have to see that you can accept it.’

‘No! Wha…what for?’

‘For one thing, young lady, a girl has to learn not to question what she is told. Obedience, Jane. Clearly you are in need of a lesson. So shall we try again? Bend over the chair. You are going to get the cane. Across your bare bottom.’

Priscilla had only been teasing but it was happening. The solid reality as Mr Vincent stung his cane across Jane’s bare leg to spur her into action. A feminine shriek reverberating in the little room. A sound it had heard before? Jane with seemingly no choice doing what she was told. However unbelievable it might be. Getting down over the chair. Head pressed firmly down by Mr Vincent. A man as it happened well versed in dealing with young women of a certain age. A man who had developed a very definite philosophy where they were concerned. Which was: treat them very firmly at the outset. Give them a taste of the cane at the very beginning. That way they almost always came to heel, docile and submissive. He pressed down on the pretty, russet head and then in one smooth movement had the nightdress up, over her head and shoulders.

Soft pale flesh. Flinching in the abrupt and shocking exposure. Jane with the nightdress about her lowered face knew she had been bared. Squirming. Her bottom-moons clenching. The thought that Mr Vincent could see. And the thought also of what Priscilla had said, of what Mr Vincent had in his hand. Of what he was undoubtedly going to…

THWACKKK!…

The cane biting agonisingly across those so tender cheeks. A crescendo of unthinkable pain billowing through her. Jane’s mouth wide, breath splurting out in an ear-splitting yell. Hips bucking wildly. If you have never been caned before, that pain can make you think you are going out of your mind. Onto the clenching and writhing buttocks the cane stroked sharply down once more. A nicely judged cut in view of Jane’s wild writhings, catching her on the ripe undercurve. Two inches below that first pair of reddening tramlines. Making the little room reverberate once more to a desperate female shriek.

Six of them altogether. Four more like those first two. All keen breath-stopping cuts. Mr Vincent who prided himself on his skill with a girl liked to produce six quite separate stripes, no criss-crossing, but this was not easy with a first-time girl, one who could not keep her target still. One of his shots (the fifth was it?) had landed in the middle of a particularly sharp convulsive movement and struck across one of the previous ones. That was the only one though, and one out of six was not bad. Not with a first-timer.

‘There. How does that feel?’

No answer. Jane was not in a state for answers. She was having enough trouble gasping breath in and out. Standing now. Sobbing and gasping. Mr Vincent just standing and looking while Jane fumbled with her nightie, which was still over her head. For no apparent reason her hand suddenly pulled behind her back and the cane swished across her bottom again. She squealed; Mr Vincent said, ‘Upstairs, Jane.’

In the bedroom, Mr Vincent, sitting on the bed, lifted her nightdress, for another look at his handiwork. Jane’s bottom positively glowing. His hand gently stroking the shaking girl. And talking softly to her. As one might talk to a young filly that had had its first taste of the bridle. Soft and soothing words. Because whether it is a young filly or a young girl who needs ‘taking in hand’ the first stage, the first taste of the cane or the bridle, is followed by the second stage. The sooner the better some would say. Mr Vincent included. When the mind is so bedazzled, shocked, by the first stage that its automatic reflexes are not operating. She is in the state when she will numbly do, accept, allow.

‘Now a little rest, Jane.’ Mr Vincent standing. Drawing back the cover of the bed. ‘That is what a girl needs now.’

Yes. Numbly she was allowing herself to be helped in between the sheets. Cool crisp linen against her glowing body as her crumpled nightdress slid back. And Mr Vincent? She could see what he was doing. Undoing the belt of that dressing gown. Opening it. Jane could see it but somehow after that awful caning it seemed like in another world. Seeing what else Mr Vincent was doing. His trousers. He was getting in. In the bed with her. It was what Susan had said. Or going to be. ‘Wouldn’t you like it, Jane. A nice experienced older man?’ She had punched Susan’s arm but Susan had kept on. Teasing. Mr Vincent anyway wasn’t nice. He had caned her dreadfully. Those sobs still kept coming now and then. Her poor bottom. He was whispering things. As he took hold of her.

‘Just relax, Janey. I know just what a girl needs now.’ She looked up. She was lying on her back. Mr Vincent’s hand down there. Indicating that she must part her legs. Jane’s legs opened. She could refuse nothing. His hand. Her breath hissing out. It was going to happen. Her body all glowing from his cane. It was going to happen. Mr Vincent. Would she tell Susan it happened?