Colour Coded Girls

A story bearing the hallmarks of R.T. Mason, from Blushes 30

Girls’ skirts were colour-coded: royal blue for 18-year-olds, a deep plum red for 19-year-olds and a bottle green for those aged 20. The skirts were very short and pleated, reaching just about to mid-thigh: top-of-stocking height. Stockings (white ones) were in fact worn on more formal occasions together with white high heels; otherwise it would be white knee-socks and sneakers. A white blouse went with all three colours of skirt. On top of this could be worn, if the weather warranted it, a grey cardigan or, in winter, a straight grey top-coat. The latter of course meant that it was necessary to open a girl’s coat to check her age group. There had been some talk of introducing a colour-coded top-coat or perhaps a badge or belt of an identifying colour, but as yet no firm decision on this had been made.

But anyway, those with an interest, i.e. male citizens over the age of 30, did not seem greatly to object to the slight inconvenience of having to open a girl’s coat. In any case it was necessary to turn up her skirt for her name and ID number, these being sewn inside the hem at the front — upside down for convenience.

The girl George Billings had come across in the town centre was called Angela Green — unless she was wearing someone else’s skirt and there was not much chance of that. A royal blue skirt and as it was a warm and sunny Spring afternoon no cardigan or coat. Wearing a coat when the weather did not demand it was of course sufficient reason for a concerned citizen to query matters. But so also was hanging about in the town centre for no apparent reason. ‘Loitering’ as it could be termed. Angela had pleaded that she wasn’t loitering, she was waiting for her mother — which happened to be the truth. But George, public-minded citizen that he was, decided that he would anyway take matters further.

And so after noting her name and ID number he had instructed Angela to present herself at his house the next morning. Which Angela naturally had done. A girl of that age group did not question her elders. Certainly not male elders. That was merely inviting much more serious trouble.

Angela had told her mother who had made a face and said ‘Oh dear’ but there was not a lot else you could do. This man, Mr Billings, was within his rights if he had found Angela hanging about in the street. Girls of 18 to 20, between leaving school and the age at which they were allowed to marry, were an especial concern of the state. That was why they had to wear those identifying skirts at all times. Marcia Green should have thought, and taken Angela in with her to her dressmaker. But she hadn’t been expecting to be long. She hadn’t been long. Long enough, though, to find Angela looking decidedly unhappy when she returned.

Angela’s mother had done what she could. Found Mr Billings in the phone book and rung him up. Apologising for Angela, explaining that it was really her own fault. George Billings had listened, but said he still thought Angela should come round and see him. Eighteen-year-old girls did need keeping up to the mark, didn’t they? And Angela was an especially attractive 18-year-old. (He didn’t say that to her mother of course.)

10 o’clock Mr Billings had said and Angela was on time. Just. On the way to Mr Billings’ house a bus ride and then a short walk she had been stopped by another concerned citizen, out walking his dog, who wanted to know what she was doing. Was she loitering? The man reluctantly let her go — Angela was after all walking briskly and not hanging about — and contented himself with lifting the back of her skirt and sharply smacking the seat of her tight, brief knickers. Naturally this encounter, and the smack, had done nothing to improve the way Angela was feeling. Well…

‘Well, well, well.’ Mr Billings with a smug look on his rather large face. The face of a man who had made a nice catch. A concerned citizen who had caught a particularly juicy 18-year-old girl. Blonde and well fleshed out: undoubtedly the sort of girl especially at risk from the various temptations of the modern world. A girl who needed something.

Angela standing shakily in front of Mr Billings in his lounge could see it. She had seen it right away when she had clattered nervously in on her high heels. A cane. On the table at the side. She had been thinking about the cane of course. Unavoidably in the circumstances. It had been a prime possibility ever since that moment yesterday afternoon when Mr Billings had crossed the street to where she was standing in the sunshine idly looking in that shop window. ‘Not loitering, young lady?’ Ever since that moment. The cane. An 18-year-old girl in her brief royal blue skirt, brief enough to show the tops of her stockings, could get the cane all right. From a concerned citizen.

‘Come here. Closer.’

Mr Billings had sat down in an armchair and was indicating the spot at his side. ‘That’s better. Now then, young lady.’

His hand took hold of the back of her knee. ‘Your mother called me up as I expect you know. She confirmed that you were waiting for her. Yes.’ The hand slid smoothly up, to the soft bare flesh above Angela’s stocking. ‘But she also agreed with me that at your present age you needed… ah… guidance now and then. Mmm?’

Angela didn’t answer. Had her mother said that? Mr Billings’ hand had reached the tight, brief, seat of her knickers. There was that and there was the cane on the table. The two were horribly related.

‘Guidance, Angela. And we know how guidance should be given to a pretty 18-year-old girl who is otherwise liable to fall prey to all sorts of temptation. Don’t we?’

That cane. He meant… His hand was squeezing and jiggling her bottom in a way that was making her whimper. But the cane…

‘The cane, Angela. I am speaking of the cane. As I expect you know. Have you had a taste of it recently?’

She shook her head and then thought that perhaps she should have said yes. But it wouldn’t make any difference. He was going to do it anyway. She hadn’t had it for some weeks — a month. When it had been a situation very like this. ‘Loitering.’

‘You haven’t, Angela? Then very clearly we do need it, don’t we? A girl of your age needs keeping up to the mark.’ The hand pinched her bottom.

‘So. I think we must ask you to slip your knickers down, young lady.’

She had known it would be this. Ever since that awful moment yesterday when she realised he was crossing the street towards her. Well, not known it then but the thought immediately shooting into her head. And known it when he said she had better come round to his house. The cane. It was something you were continually liable to, until you were 21 and no longer had to wear the age group skirts. And even then unmarried girls weren’t necessarily free from it. If it was decided you weren’t behaving properly you could be made to wear a short skirt again, for a certain period. A pink one. And a girl in a short pink skirt could be caned just like one in a royal blue or plum red or bottle green skirt. The thing to do was to get married right away at 21, then you were safe from it. But when you were just 18 that could be an awful lot of canings away.

There was no point arguing (certainly not that) or even pleading. This Mr Billings hadn’t brought her here to be persuaded out of it; she was here so that he could enjoy caning her. Men did enjoy caning girls, although of course they pretended it was merely a matter of duty. But you knew it wasn’t just that, you could see it in their faces. If it was a duty it was one they enjoyed and were always on the look-out for. Like that man with the dog. And of course… this Mr Billings.

Doing it. Her hands up under the short blue skirt. Sliding her knickers down. Trying not to think of that cane. She hated the cane and she knew, she could tell, that this Mr Billings was going to do it hard. Make it really hurt. So that you didn’t know where you were, what you were doing.

‘Lift your skirt up.’

The brief white knickers down round the tops of the white stockings and the pleated royal blue skirt held high round her waist. Slim straps of the lacy white suspender belt spanning rounded pale flesh to tautly fasten the stretched stocking rims. You bought it all at that special outfitters in the Market Place. Young women’s outfits: approved government wear. A window display: the various coloured skirts; the white blouse, stockings, knickers, etc.; the grey top coat and cardigan. You went there with your mother but she had to wait in the main shop while the proprietor took you into the little back fitting room. And in that little back fitting room a girl usually got her first caning: the outfitter’s privilege. The first because girls weren’t caned at school. Only when they reached the age of 18.

Mr Billings staring at what Angela was forced to display. ‘When did you have it last, young woman?’

‘F… four weeks.’

His hand came out. She whimpered as it touched her. Took hold. ‘Four weeks? Much too long.’ His fingers… ‘A girl needs it more often than that. Eh?’

Biting her lip. He wasn’t supposed to do this of course. You could complain. In theory. In fact complaining would probably only get you more canings.

The hand at last came away. Mr Billings’ voice tense sounding. ‘Right. Shall we do it then. Get over the table.’

The table where the cane was. But Mr Billings was picking up the cane. And pushing her down. Face down across the top. His hand fondling her bare, out-thrust bottom. But any moment now it would be something else. The hand came away. Any second now… Grit your teeth…

‘Aaaaiiieeehhh!’

----//----

‘All right, Angela?’ Her mother’s voice anxious. ‘Was it all right?’

It was a silly thing to ask. Of course it wasn’t all right. The cane six times across a girl’s bare bottom and each one applied with considerable force could not ever be ‘all right’. Marcia Green put an arm round her daughter. ‘Never mind. It’s over. I’ll make some coffee.’

Yes it was over. Until the next time. And the next time would be tomorrow. The man with the dog. He had stopped her again on the way back. Said she seemed to be out on the street a lot without a chaperone. So maybe she should come round to his house tomorrow morning. When they could discuss it further.